The wine was brought. Boghaz hesitated and then perforce left them alone.
“Sit down,” said Carse, “and drink.”
Ywain pulled up a low stool and sat with her long legs thrust out before her, slender as a boy in her black mail. She drank and said nothing.
Carse said abruptly, “You doubt me still.”
She started. “No, Lord!”
Carse laughed. “Don’t think to lie to me. A stiff-necked, haughty wench you are, Ywain, and clever. An excellent prince for Sark despite your sex.”
Her mouth twisted rather bitterly. “My father Garach fashioned me as I am. A weakling with no son—someone had to carry the sword while he toyed with the sceptre.”
“I think,” said Carse, “that you have not altogether hated it.”
She smiled. “No. I was never bred for silken cushions.” She continued suddenly, “But let us have no more talk of my doubting, Lord Rhiannon. I have known you before—once in this cabin when you faced S’San and again in the place of the Wise Ones. I know you now.”
“It does not greatly matter whether you doubt or not, Ywain. The barbarian alone overcame you and I think Rhiannon would have no trouble.”