“And keep his oath?” Idrys said. “Can you keep an oath, sir wizard?”
“I am no wizard,” Tristen said. “And, yes, sir, I know what it means.”
Cefwyn went to the table, where he dipped pen in ink and wrote something rapidly on parchment. Tristen stood up and walked over to watch as Cefwyn heated sealing-wax over a candle and dripped it onto the parchment. He impressed his seal on it.
“Call Margolis,” he said. “She can keep a matter to herself. And we have not that much time. Tristen has agreed to swear me his allegiance, and you—” he said, looking at Tristen. “You will have a name, hereafter, sir, subject to my father’s confirmation—which I do not think he will withhold. By my grant the lordship of Ynefel and of Althalen is filled. Tristen, Mauryl’s sole and undisputed heir, inherits. Both holdings are within my jurisdiction.
The grant is, subject to the King’s will, lawful.”
“And will the Quinalt stand to bless this?” Idrys asked. “Or had you rather the witch of Emwy?”
“Their little storm will pass, master crow, as all storms do.
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And these Amefin rebels will have a new bone to gnaw; so will the Elwynim. Damn me, but they will!”
“My lord,” Tristen protested, bewildered in this debate of his fortunes and the approval of people he by no means knew; but Cefwyn’s hand closed on his shoulder and Cefwyn hugged him close in a way Mauryl might have done, which quite shocked him, and touched his heart and chased thought from his head.
“You will stand by me,” Cefwyn said. “This is my friend, master crow. Treat him well, Emuin said, and do I not? Lord Warden of Ynefel, Lord High Marshal of Althalen, Tristen aetheling, entitled to the honors and arms and devices thereof.”
“Oh, the Aswydds will be delighted,” Idrys said.
“Be still, crow. Margolis will see to all the details. She’ll work the night through.” A second time Cefwyn pressed his shoulder.
“Tristen, I’ll send such servants as a lord might need. And, Uwen,—”
“M’lord.”
“Have extreme care that they are Guelen servants. None of the Amefin, by any mischance. And no word of what we’ve agreed.
Not to them. Not where you could be overheard by anyone.—And no wandering about without sufficient guard. Certain people will not be pleased by this.—Go, good night, good rest.—Uwen, I release you from your personal oath to me; you’ll stay in my guard; I set you over his household, gods witness he will need you—give your oath to him and gods keep you.—Tristen, keep that medal I gave you about your neck day and night.”
“Yes, m’lord Prince.” Tristen made a bow, on his best manners.
“Thank you.” He went with Uwen, who lingered for a bow of his own, and so to the doors, which Uwen opened, and let them out to the foyer.
The inner doors closed behind Tristen and his man.
The outer doors closed, after that, assuring privacy within the apartment.
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Alone with Idrys, Cefwyn looked in his direction, finding exactly the expression he expected to find—which was no expression at all.
“Well?” Cefwyn asked.
“I do not dispute my lord’s decision,” Idrys said softly.
“Only his wisdom.”
“Not even that, my lord Prince. I find it a clever move. Even a ruthless move. You astonish me. The Aswyddim and the Elwynim set down at one stroke.—Do you give him the bride-offer portrait, too?”
“You heard him. He knows the meaning of a promise. And you saw that he bears me no ill will.”
“I doubt that he knows what an oath is,” Idrys said.
“And is more bound by what he promises than Heryn Aswydd sitting on a heap of holy relics.”
“Oh, indeed, my prince, I’d believe his lightest word above Heryn’s solemn oath, if ever one word he says he has the knowing governance of. Perhaps he will serve you wholly. But he is defenseless now, my lord Prince. Wear him for armor and something will, through him, find your heart. He is still Mauryl’s.
I still advise, wait for Emuin, and do not release Uwen Lewen’s-son. He likes Mauryl’s piece of work too well. This blade will turn in your hand.”
“If Emuin will bestir himself and make haste I shall consult Emuin. But the lords of the south will ask about Tristen’s standing in my company, and soon,—and I have to tell them something.”
“And will you raise his standard? The arms you’ve granted him cannot be displayed, m’lord Prince, by the King’s law, they cannot be raised—here in Amefel, most particularly.”
“And are, throughout the province.”
“On farmhouses! Not under this roof! Not in the prince’s grant of honors!”
“He is the promised king. He is the King the Elwynim look for, by your own reckoning.”
“He is Sihhë. And mild and good as Elfwyn may have been, not all their line was so civilized: good gods, m’lord Prince, of 298
the five true Sihhë kings of legend, Harosyn flung his father on his mother’s pyre, Sarynan hunted his two brothers like deer through his woods. Barrakkêth immured his enemies alive in Ynefel’s walls, and his son Ashyel added to the collection with half a score of his less pleasing lords, among them an ancestor of the Marhanen line, for no fault but riding before him at the hunt. So they say. I’ve not seen the faces, but Olmern folk swear they exist, and move, at times, and in recent days I hold fewer doubts than ever I brought to this benighted province. I would most gladly see you home to Guelemara, my lord Prince, without an Elwynim bride, without a wizard tutor, most of all without a friend with a claim on the Sihhë throne.”
“Emuin said, Win his love.”
“Master Emuin is not here to advise. Master Emuin is not here to see the imminent result of his advice. Love has not prevented Sihhë excesses.”
“Black silk for Dame Margolis. Black silk and white. Silver thread. I trust there will be such in the Zeide’s ample warehouses.”
“My lord, I agreed to this wild plan. But the arms you grant him cannot be displayed, not without royal dispensation.”
“I give it. I am my father’s voice in this province, if some do forget it.”
“Send to your father before you raise the Sihhë standard at Henas’amef. Even if it were the best of plans, you are not King.
Perhaps he will approve your plan. But you will do far more wisely not to take this on your own advisement. Even with the royal command you hold, you dare not repeal your grandfather’s order.”
“I cannot lose a province, either. Ask which my lord father would countenance.”
“We are not to that, m’lord Prince. We are far from that and have much more resource.”
“Then I will send tonight advising him. I shall say that I have all confidence of his approval—it will secure this border. It will do what my royal father set me here to do, and I know that the Quinalt will buzz about him like an overset hive, and 299
I know that they will be at my father’s ears before my lord father can think through this matter. He gave me to rule this province and to hold it against all threat. I take it that includes levying troops to defend it.”
“I am not so certain it extends to nullifying a royal decree.”
“He will bear the arms of Ynefel.”
“Better you should style him with the phoenix. Do we add the crown?”
“Your wit lacks, sir.”
“It has a point. I still say—do not surprise your father in this matter.”
“Apply to Margolis. Say I have need of this most urgently. Say if she or her maids betray me I’ll marry them to Haman’s louts.
See to it.”
“The message,” Idrys said, “to His Majesty the King, my lord Prince.”
“Master crow, you do try my patience.”
“By your father’s order, m’lord Prince. The letter.”
He went to the table. He wrote, Most Gracious Majesty and dearest father, I have won on Emuin’s advice the allegiance and oath of
fealty of the King for whom the Elwynim have waited, and have granted him rights and lands and the raising of his own standard. I pray you trust me whatever you may have reported to you that I bear you filial affection and all loyalty.
That too he sealed with wax and stamped with his signet.
“For what good you can wring of it. He may not like my success. But there you are, master crow. I may yet disappoint him sorely, and win over my enemies instead of dying here.”
“He is not your enemy, m’lord Prince. He is no fool, to set aside his heir.”
“So you dare say. But I am not his favorite son.” He cast himself into the chair at the table and extended the scrolled message. “By the time this reaches him—I will be right, or most fatally wrong.”
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There was a to-do among the servants and the guards that Uwen was dealing with, and by the darkened window, which showed a very little gray slate beyond the rippled panes of the bedchamber, Tristen stood finding new textures in the glass, new shapes of candle-shadow about the walls.
Servants. Silk and velvet. He thought of the pigeons which, haunting the window on the floor above, on the other side of the building, must have missed the bits of bread days ago. He was sorry for that. He missed them. He hoped they would be clever enough to find this window. He always seemed to be moving on, always seemed to be finding a new bed, a new window, a new arrangement for his life, which unfolded with a swiftness that foiled his ability to plan for anything, do anything, hope for anything.
But Cefwyn had called him his friend tonight. Cefwyn had hugged him, not tentatively like Emuin, but as warmly as Mauryl once had, and he had been afraid no one would ever do that again.
Cefwyn had filled his head with Words and Names and told him what he had to do, as Mauryl had. Cefwyn had placed demands of obedience on him as Mauryl had. In one hour the world seemed to have reeled back to an older, more comfortable night, when the walls were not bright white, casting back the candlelight, when the air had been dank and dusty and. Mauryl’s pen scratched away at the parchments, louder than the crackle of the fire in the hearth, Mauryl telling him. Words until the air hummed with them.
But then, then, Go to bed, lad, Mauryl would tell him; and he would take the candle. Mauryl would send him aloft to light all the candles on the balconies, at which time the faces would seem to move, or to change.
Swear, Cefwyn had said, and named Names that meant nothing to him as yet, but they might, in the way of things that came closer and closer and then unfolded themselves wide around him.
Cefwyn had named Names and said Words until the unshuttered dark of his new room seethed with them.
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A door opened, perhaps the servants going out: the candle wavered, and Shadows crept along the joints of the black-paned window and into the joints of the masonry. He knew no magics such as Mauryl had had to keep them at bay. He was defenseless against them, except for the candles and the window latch.
He had always thought the candles Mauryl had had him light had been his defense. But it had been Mauryl. He knew now that, threaded through every stone of Ynefel, it had been Mauryl’s power keeping him safe and keeping the Shadows out.
And there was none such here. And things were changing so fast.
— Emuin, he said, reaching for that gray place. Emuin. I need
you.
He could see before him a pale spot in the gray, and he tried to go toward it. A weight sat on his shoulders, cold and crushing, and he knew there was something behind him. He knew that Shadows raced along the corners of the room, and sniggered at his mistakes.
— Emuin, Cefwyn calls me his friend. He says I should
defend him. And I would gladly do that. But it always
seems that people have to defend me. I should know how
to do the right things I know to do, master Emuin. And I
don’t know how to make this room safe.
He hoped for an answer. None came. He tried again.
— I answer Cefwyn’s questions with foolish answers,
master Emuin. And I still can’t read the Book. I still don’t
know what Mauryl would have me do. I had Owl for a
guide and I lost him. I do wish you would tell me how to
be wiser.
— Could you not, sir, answer me—just once?
There was attention. He felt it, then. Emuin was far distant and busy at books—an absolute tower of books. Like Mauryl. Like Mauryl, Emuin was searching for something that he had forgotten.
And Emuin had become aware of him.
— Go back, boy! Emuin’s voice said, and something less friendly came faintly through the gray. This is not a safe
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place now. Stay out of dark places. Go no more to the old
palace. His remains are there. And he sees you. He sees
you, boy. Get away!
He fled, as Emuin had said. Shadows poured after him, almost caught him, and a voice not Emuin’s and not Mauryl’s said gently,—There you are. Changed rooms, have you?
He fled the gray place, went careening back to the room and the window.
Something made the latch tremble. It rattled, if ever so slightly.
It stopped, as if his eyes had tricked him.
His heart hammered against his ribs. His face and his arms were clammy with sweat. He heard quiet in the next room, where Uwen had been talking to the newly arrived servants, beyond the open bedroom doors. He started to walk to the other room.
But, feeling dizzy, he sank down into the nearest chair and rested his head in his hands, struggling with that gray light that kept trying to establish itself in his mind.
He heard Uwen’s step. “M’lord,” Uwen said, kneeling by him.
“Are ye ill?”
“I am cold, Uwen.”
“Silk shirts is damnable cold in a draft, m’lord. I think I like linen best. Here, lad.” Uwen rose, and with a gust of cool air, a coverlet from the bed, he supposed, came whisking through the air and landed about his shoulders. Uwen snugged it up close about his chin and set his hand to hold it. “You have this about ye, m’lord. I’ll make down the bed. It don’t take no servants for that.”
“Uwen,—light more candles. I don’t want it dark.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Uwen pulled down the covers on the huge bed, another waft of cool air, made it smooth, then took the sole burning taper from the table and walked about the room, lighting all the candles, making the Shadows retreat.
Then he came back and went down on one knee. “There ye be.—Ye feel any better, m’lord?”
“Cefwyn has given me Ynefel,” Tristen said. “He calls me his friend. Did you hear?”
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Uwen’s scarred face was frowning. “I suppose His Highness has it to dispose, m’lord.”
“Uwen, tell me. Is it Ynefel men fear so? Or is it Mauryl?—Or is it me?”
“I don’t know, m’lord,” Uwen said. “Ynefel hain’t a good reputation. But hereabouts is a superstitious lot.”
“Go,” he said finally. “Uwen, if you fear me, go.”
Uwen looked up, in fear of him, he was sure of it, and with something else, too, that had once touched Mauryl’s face. Uwen scowled then, spoiling it. “Ain’t never backed off from no man.
And not a good lad like you, m’lord.”
“You don’t have to run, Uwen. You can just stand outside with the other guard, no more, no less than they.”
“Ain’t leaving ye. And enough of foolishness, m’lord. Ye’d best get ye to bed.”
“No.” He clenched his hands before his mouth, remembered the little scar and rubbed at it with his thumb, staring into the candlelight. A face like his own came to him, dim and mirrorlike, as if it were reflected in bronze. He shut his eyes the tighter, and opened them, and it left him.
“Uwen, Cefwyn believes I’m Sihhë.”
“So folk say ye might be.”
“What does that mean, Uwen?”
&nb
sp; “Old, m’lord. And wizards.”
“I’m not. I wish I could do what Mauryl could. But Mauryl’s lost, Emuin’s left me and he’s afraid. Uwen, I have no way to ask anyone else. What is Althalen and what does Cefwyn think I am? Why does Idrys think I lie? Why does Cefwyn ask me Names over and over again? Why does he talk about killing and burning? Why does he want me to swear to be his friend and defend him if he thinks I’m something he won’t like, Uwen?”
Uwen’s face was pale. He drew from his shirt an amulet and carried the thing to his lips. “My lord, I fear some mean no good to ye. I don’t say as the prince means ye ill, but others—others ye should watch right carefully.”
“Do you feel so? But I will swear to be his friend. I have to 304
do it. Cefwyn is m’lord Prince, and I must do what he wishes, is that not so?”
“Aye, m’lord,” Uwen whispered. “That it is. But ye don’t understand what they intends, and I’m sure I don’t. I don’t think m’lord Prince has authority of his father the King to do a thing like he’s done. The King will hear, sure enough, and then gods help us.”
“So what should I do, Uwen?”
“Ye do what Prince Cefwyn bids ye. Ye swear and ye become Cefwyn’s man, and ’t is all ye can do. He’s a good lord. Ain’t none better. But ye don’t cross ’im. Marhanen blood is fierce, m’lord. And there ain’t no living Sihhë. The Marhanen damned the name, and damned the arms that he give you. For that reason, His Majesty ain’t apt to be pleased in what His Highness has done.”
He listened. His heart hurt. “Then I shall send you away. You were brave to stay with me, tonight, in Cefwyn’s apartment. But I don’t want you to come to harm, Uwen. I never want you to come to harm.”
“He won’t harm me, m’lord. For his honor, he won’t be laying hands on me. I was his before he give me to you. I’m still in the guard, and he ain’t one to dispose his men to trouble. But that ain’t reckoning His Majesty the King. I’ve no wish to be watching them set your head at Skull Gate. I don’t want to see Prince Cefwyn’s there either, after the King learns what’s astir here.”
He touched lips to the fist that held the medal. “Don’t repeat none of this. Maybe ye hain’t no sense of it, m’lord, but growing up in Ynefel surely taught ye some sort of caution. Don’t ye cross Cefwyn. Don’t think of crossing him.”