“I do? What look?” Owain Gawinn tried to rearrange his features into a pleasant smile but could not. He was not fond of smiling. His wife, Sibb, was sitting by him, knitting a scarf from red wool. The needles clacked in her hands. “There,” said his wife. “You’re doing it again.” “Doing what?” “I know that face, Owain,” she said. “That’s the same look you got the day you told me you were leading a troop to Vomaro to hunt for Devnes Elloran. Intent, inscrutable, as solemn as an owl, but there! With a bit of glee glinting in your eyes.” “I do not feel glee, as you put it,” he said, “due to the distress of others, if that’s what you’re saying.” “You know that’s not what I’m saying. All I mean is you enjoy crises.” Sibb softened her words with a smile. “There’s nothing more you love than buckling on your sword and riding out the gates with your soldiers behind you.” “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But if I’m out in the field, cold and tired and bruised, there’s nothing I love more than riding home to you.”
