He didn’t know what he was going to be once he went into the sanctuary of the Quinaltine with the rest of the family. Probably nobody else had thought of it, yet. There was a book there, that the priests wrote names in, when a person was blessed and sealed, whatever that meant. But if they wrote him in the Quinaltine book, what would they write? Otter from Amefel? Not next to Aewyn Marhanen. His father would find it entirely uncomfortable to have a son named Elfwyn or Aswydd, would he not, and he was both, and those fine clothes were trying to say Marhanen— if he was meant to have them.
Oh, he wished he had gone with Paisi when he’d had the chance. He still sat waiting, waiting to gain what Gran had always told him was his for-7 0
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tune . . . and dreading some shout in the hallways: The Amefi n brat’s stolen a horse and lied to the gate wardens . . .
Why, oh, why had he stayed? He had settled into certain appurtenances of this princely life: Aewyn’s comradeship above all; and books, as many as he liked; and bread with no mill sand in it; spiced foods; clean sheets and warm fires and glass windows— all these wonderful things he still looked on with wonder and yet could not imagine now being without. The priests always said wealth could never make anyone happy: but it seemed to him, where he sat, that these things were a reason for great contentment, if he could continue here.
Wealth, and a righteous name that Guelenfolk could say without blanching, if he could only attain it, could do one other thing for them. If he gained a name he could wear comfortably among Guelenfolk, and be in the king’s house, and if he had gold, then he could help Gran and Paisi, and provide for them handsomely to the end of their days. Paisi should not be his servant.
Paisi was Gran’s true grandson, was what, when he himself had had no right to a place under Gran’s roof until Lord Tristen had asked Gran to take him in and keep him away from his mother. Paisi’s real place in the world was to take care of his gran, not him, and to inherit her farm someday, and to have a fine herd of goats and another of pigs and enough money to hire a helper.
Paisi could be a substantial man, with property.
His wealth was their answer. He would get through this. He would do all he could to send Paisi home for good. He would find his own way in this strange place, after making peace with his father. He might be terribly lonely, then, bereft of the family and life he knew.
But there was Aewyn. His absent brother. His friend. His model of what it could be, to be King Cefwyn’s son.
At the moment he dreaded going to Aewyn: he was by no means sure Aewyn would not immediately see that something was wrong, and if Aewyn got the truth out of him too soon, he might take offense at not being told from the start— gods, he was supposed to be helping Aewyn with the apples this morning, and he hadn’t, and now Aewyn was going to ask questions for sure, where he’d been, what he’d done—
Aewyn might be angry with him, and might tell his father, and the soldiers might catch Paisi before he had reached the first way stop.
That was no good. He’d let Aewyn get worried about him, that was the way. He’d tell Aewyn he’d been hiding out and confess the whole truth right after services tomorrow. By then Paisi would be much too far to catch, and Aewyn would have to feel sympathy for him. Likely the clothes were exactly 7 1
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what he was supposed to have, and he would just have to show up for services and not say anything to Aewyn before tomorrow morning.
It was dangerous. Aewyn did have a temper. But that way, if his father did let fly, Aewyn would intercede for him until he had the story, and he could talk his way past Aewyn, after it was too late for a report to do anything to catch Paisi or thwart that— Aewyn might be angry, but he would not likely want to have him sent home, and knowing his father that much better, and being able to say things a bastard son wouldn’t dare say in his own defense, Aewyn could talk his way out of trouble for him— it was going to be unpleasant, but if he knew Aewyn, and he thought he did, the storm would blow over, if he just didn’t have to lie to Aewyn beforehand.
So long as he didn’t lie, everything would be patched up and cobbled together. And Gran’s gifts— those would go on. She needed them.
He’d once thought Lord Crissand was the sole source of the good things that came to them in their cottage, and that of course lords naturally gifted old peasant women with goats and hay and good blankets. When he had learned a few years ago that it was his father the king behind it all— his father the king, and, long ago, Tristen Sihhë—
Surely, whatever else happened in Guelemara, those gifts might continue.
Oh, he wished he knew what to do.
Maybe, please the gods, it was Gran’s Sending that had reached out to him, and he had done the right thing. Gods forfend it should be his mother’s.
Act on a piece of wizardry, cooperate with it ever so little— and it spread and developed branches.
Wasn’t that what Gran had always warned him?
vii
afternoon came, and with afternoon, a patch of blue spread in the sky, while the snow had stopped for the last hour. Whatever Aewyn had done about the stables, Otter was sure Aewyn had done by now, and he might be angry, staying in his room, waiting for him to come and apologize.
He would have to wait. Otter put away the strayed items about the room, dined on more toast and water, while thus far, so far as he could guess, the question of a missing horse and a servant’s mission somehow had not gone beyond the courtyard, nobody had mentioned it to Aewyn, and Aewyn had not come to his room, which meant, probably, that Aewyn was put out with him.
But there was still the likelihood of the stablemaster asking, when Feiny 7 2
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never came back. As the afternoon lengthened, worry wore a deeper spot in his imagination. Otter finally gathered his courage and decided he should go down to the yard to head off questions and prevent any diffi culties from reaching the inner halls and complicating matters with Aewyn and his father.
He put on his better brown cloak, to look as much like his father’s son as he could, and walked down the hall, this time to the central stairs, keeping a slightly worried eye out for Aewyn or his bodyguard. He saw no one, which indicated Aewyn was somewhere other than his rooms. He went down to the main hall and so on to the stable - court door. Past soldiers busy with their own concerns, he walked out into the crisp air and sunlight of the courtyard, and, descending the steps at an idle stroll, he walked through the yard.
“Your lordship.”
He looked aside. The stablemaster had seen him, and diverted onto his track straightway with the air of a man bent on business.
His heart beat hard. “Sir,” he said respectfully and as innocently as he could manage. The stablemaster had the look of an old soldier, weathered and white - mustached, with no nonsense about him, and Otter’s every desire was to bow and look at the ground— but he had known, coming down there, that he might be caught and might have to try out his story on the stablemaster or the gate warden or worse.
“The boy says ye went out by dawn an’ took Feiny out.”
“I did, sir,” he said, light - headed with fright. “Paisi had to go home.”
The story started to change its order, and its pieces, coming hind end fi rst into the world. “Our gran’s taken ill. He had to go, and with the drifts and all, we couldn’t get down to the pasture. So I sent him on Feiny, with grain enough, and cover from the weather. He’ll be back, Paisi will. With Feiny safe and sound.”
The stablemaster’s brows drew together like a gathering cloud, and the frown deepened. “It’s a hard ride, at best. And that man o’ yours ain’t up to that horse, your lordship, forgive me. The boy’s a fool that didn’t ask what you was about. If we’d ha’ knowt, we’d ha’ provided a gentler horse.”
There it was. The boy had the blame and might take harm for it, and in the face of such bluff goodwill from the old stablemaster, he lost all resolve.
 
; He could scarcely track the story that had fallen out of his mouth already.
“It was my fault,” he said. “It was my fault, Master Kei. But Paisi is much better than I am on a horse. And he’s traveling with merchants.”
“Ha,” the stablemaster grunted, eyebrows lifting at that comforting news. “A message come, was it?”
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“Yes, sir,” he said. The lie fell out of his mouth and took solid form.
“From Amefel.”
“An’ this messenger, did he ride back wi’ your man, wi’ no change of horse?”
“Yes, sir.” It was the quickest way he could think of to dispose of any messenger, to have him go away with Paisi, and be with him, and keeping Feiny safe. “And he’ll be back as soon as he can.”
“Aye, your lordship.” The stablemaster let him go with a doubtful look, and Otter took the chance to escape, knowing that he had not done well.
Now his tale had added a message, a messenger who hadn’t stopped to care for his horse in the Guelesfort stable yard, and no word how the message had gotten upstairs to him without passing the guards who watched everyone come in and out. He hadn’t thought about such details until the words were out of his mouth, and now the lie had more pieces. Which pieces ultimately couldn’t fit. And before too long the gate warden and the stablemaster might have a cup of ale with the Guard officers, and it was all going to break loose before he could talk to his father or Aewyn.
He didn’t know what to do, now, except to go on holding to the lie long enough to let Paisi get as far as possible, because if his father turned out to be angry, he could arrest Paisi, who might try to run, and the gods knew what could happen to him.
Toast and water had worn thin, by now, so very thin that his stomach hurt.
Fast Day was tomorrow, when he had to go without food or drink all day long, and when he would have to face his father and Aewyn and confess everything: he didn’t know if he could face it on bread and water. And he was near the kitchens, where he might not have too many chances to come today. Getting food was Paisi’s chore, but now Otter had to do it if he was to have any food at all; and he had to get himself ready in the morning, and not oversleep, not if he had to sit up all night. If his argument for sending Paisi away was that he was so sure he could manage without him, he had to do for himself and prove it.
So he turned toward the kitchens and climbed that short stair by the scullery, into a hall lit by a steamy little glass window, then into the huge arch of the kitchen.
The air inside was thick with steam and smoke, with the smells of wood fire and bread baking, the bubbling of meats and pies and cabbage, every sort of food one could imagine. A thick - armed maid spied him and fl uttered him away from a floury counter edge, crying, “Oh, young lord, ye’ll have flour on your fine cloak, there. What would be your need?”
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“Bread,” he said, relieved it became so easy. “Brown bread. Cheese and sausage, if you will.”
“Aye, your lordship. Don’t touch nothing, pray. Ye’ll get all fl oury. Stand there an’ I’ll fetch it. Is one loaf enough?”
“One black, one brown,” he said, giddy to find things suddenly falling his way and hoping it was an omen of Gran’s Gift taking care of him again.
He stood in the rush and hurry of the kitchen, avoiding floury and greasy edges for the few moments until the maid came back, bringing him a small basket with a round loaf of crusty dark bread, a long one of brown, a small sausage, and what was likely the cheese wrapped up in oily cloth. “Thank you,” he said fervently, taking his leave, and edged his way back into the little hall and on up to the servants’ stairs, which led to the main fl oor.
He was just setting foot on the first step up that grand stairway when someone hailed him from behind, and not just any voice.
“Nephew?”
He turned back reluctantly, holding the silly basket, caught, plainly caught. The Prince, his father’s brother, who held his offices in the lower hall, had come out to overtake him and clearly meant business.
“Come,” Efanor said. “Can you spare a moment?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He had never spoken two words to this man in all his time here, nor had Efanor ever addressed him. He caught his breath and tried to gather his wits as he made a little bow and followed Prince Efanor back to his writing room, a narrow, book - laden venue he had never entered. Books balanced crazily on the counter, and several, open, overlay the writing desk, sharing the surface with an inkpot and a quill left in it, writing interrupted. The Prince had chased him down on the instant, hunted him to the foot of the stairs, and all he could think was that a report had come in. The gate wardens must have reported to the Guard, and Prince Efanor had heard about it— which was the worst thing he could imagine. Efanor, who went habitually in black, and wore a silver Quinalt sigil as if he were a priest, was always so solemn and royal— Efanor advised Otter’s father, and judged cases, and handled the accounts, besides.
He was as good as a priest, to Otter’s eye, a priest with the very strictest notions of truth and proper doings; and all he could think of now was to confess— to confess every lie, every sin he’d committed or thought of committing before this man could ever accuse him of his misdeeds, and maybe— maybe, because Aewyn had told him Efanor was not in fact as strict as he looked— to fi nd some absolution, some penance, some way to mollify this man before he went to the king.
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“Sit down,” Efanor bade him, and as he was about to sit down, whisked the basket from his hand. “Food for tonight?”
“Yes, sir.” He sat, and Efanor set the damning basket on the edge of the writing desk, behind which Efanor took his seat.
“You’re of the Bryalt faith.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He wished he could sink through the stones of the floor, right on the spot.
“Are you a good Bryaltine?”
“I don’t know, Your Highness. Not as good as I could be.”
“Have you ever attended a Quinalt Festival?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“This is not Henas’amef, and the Quinalt holiday is not a time for frivolity of any sort.”
“Yes, Your Highness. No, Your Highness.”
“Nor a time for leading your younger brother into mischief.”
He was completely taken aback.
“I hope I have never—”
“Not yet. But boys being what they are, and two boys being twice one, it seems worth mentioning in advance of a public occasion.”
“I would never—”
“No, being a clever Otter and hard to catch, you would not. Your half brother is less cautious.” Efanor waved a hand toward the ridiculous basket.
“Palace manners, however— you have a servant. You are not in the country.
Let him carry such things. People note such behaviors as out of the ordinary, and they gossip. People will all too readily note you as out of the ordinary, and gossip about every little item that suggests oddity or scandal. Give them nothing. Be as unremarkable as possible, and be very wary about entraining your half brother in any schemes in public view or out of it. You have none such in mind, I hope.”
“No, sir,” he said faintly, desperately, and knew that he had lied, simply by failing to confess the truth, twice in the same hour. Was not three wizardous, and binding, if wizardry was possibly in question?
“Keep your chin up. Look all men in the eye. You are my nephew, in whatever degree, and my brother’s son. What is that hanging about your neck?”
His heart skipped a beat. He clutched the object in question. “A luck piece, Your Grace. My gran gave it to me.”
Efanor silently held out his hand.
He didn’t want to give it up. It was his luck. It was his tie with home and 7 6
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Gran. But he reluctantly fished it out of his collar and past th
e fastening of his cloak, and lifted the leather cord over his head.
Efanor took it, and looked cursorily at it as he laid the cluster of cord -
bound pennies on his desk. “The queen herself is Bryalt, to be sure, but your gran’s form of the Bryalt faith verges just a wee bit closely on hedge - magic.
You do know that.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” It was no more than a whisper he managed.
“You have been exemplary. I know. You are my brother’s, the result of one night’s youthful indiscretion. You carry Aswydd blood. You are taught by witchery— all these are matters marginally acceptable in Amefel, but I need not warn you, they are anathema in Guelessar. Yet my brother wishes to do you justice, so far as he can, and my nephew has taken to you and become your companion, so far as he can; and this places you under certain constraints of behavior— do you follow me?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“You will be under close public observation. No one can foresee how grievous might be the outcome if you were to be seen to violate propriety in services in the least degree. Do not fidget, do not cough, do not sneeze— and do not above all be seen to wear any charm, particularly to services, particularly within the premises of the Quinaltine.”
“Yes, Your Highness. It’s only a keepsake.”
Efanor gathered up the charm Gran had given him and gave it back to him.
“Tuck it away and do not wear it publicly until the day you cross back into Amefel. There is virtue in the piece, and that will not do, that will not do at all, inside the sanctuary. Most of the clergy is dull as stones, but there are reasons. Trust me in this.”
“Yes, sir,” Otter managed to say, and clenched it fast. Virtue? Could his uncle possibly feel witchery in it?
Efanor asked him, “Do you truly believe as the Bryaltines believe?”
“I studied writing with the brothers.”
“That is not what I asked.”