[Firefoot]

Scyld smirked and inclined his head in acknowledgment of Rowenna's riposte. Fairly spoken.

“Perhaps,” he replied, not looking directly at her but across the dance floor at the others there, “my trust has nothing to do with whatever answer you might give to my question.” He paused to let her think on that for a moment, but spoke again before she could reply. “And perhaps, it depends upon what you mean by trust.” He faced her and gestured out at the wider hall. “Who do you trust? Eodwine? Saeryn? Her brother Degas? But do you still keep secrets from them? Or perhaps you do not trust them, though a more generous lot I have never met, because you, like me, know that trust is not cheap. And perhaps, the real question you should be asking is not whether you can trust me, but what you can trust me with, and why you would wish to do so.”

Finally Scyld broke off; he could not remember the last time he had strung so many words together at once, for usually he preferred to listen than speak, to learn others' viewpoints and keep his own counsel. Now, though, intensity burned in his normally cool and distant gaze, and he found that he very much wanted for Rowenna to understand.