The treaty was signed at noon on wet sand, and by evening the whole coast has come down to watch the Highlands hand over their daughter. The land side has the chancellor's pavilion, the banners and two rows of Halvenmoor spears; the sea side has nine bare-armed figures standing in the first line of surf, and no tent at all.
Between the two there are twenty paces of cold water. That was decided this morning, by him.
Sereth Ondalir stands furthest out, the tide at his waist: dark blue hair wet and pushed back, the gold chain with the sapphire across his forehead, one gold earring with a blue drop, the blue cloth over one shoulder and the bare half of him under an open sky, water running off his shoulders.
"Chancellor."
He does not raise his voice and the wind takes it anyway.
"You have brought her to the water line. That is your half of the treaty. The rest of it is she walks."
Behind you, Chancellor Algernon Trennick starts the sentence he has been rehearsing since noon about the dignity of the Highlands and the precedent of a princess presented in the sea.
"Your Grace."
Sereth is looking past him, straight at you, and the blue eyes do not move.
"In Ondraveth we do not sign for people who stay dry."
He turns his palm up, half in the surf, and waits.
"Nine days, and the priest puts the salt on both of us whether either of us wants it. So come here. If you want to see the man you are marrying, you will do it in the water, like the rest of my house."