They could well embrace the stranger-lords, who breathed war and violence and, last night, had compelled Cefwyn to be like them. He was not certain he liked them.
They could encompass the servants and the guards, who wished him kept out of sight, out of mischief, out of the way of doing foolish things. Mistakes when he was with Mauryl had threatened his safety and Mauryl’s, so Mauryl had warned him; now he perceived that his mistakes might have caused the deaths of the men up by Emwy village—he was not certain, but something had caused such things to happen, and mischief was (at least it had been so in Ynefel) his fault, of his inexperience.
So he knew that he might have been at fault, and that his continued confinement might well be justified, or even precautionary, because he was foolish, even though for the brief while on the ride to Emwy, and even afterward, he had had the conviction he knew what to do. That absolute conviction had often led him straight to a fall.
So he persuaded himself that Cefwyn did not will him to be miserable. Cefwyn had no wish at all but to give him fine clothes and to see him take his place among skilled and competent men.
And he thought he had done, last night, everything they wanted of him.
Except—he had not at all liked the undertones of anger; or Heryn’s cold defiance of Cefwyn. He had been set aback by Sovrag’s roughness, and by Cevulirn’s coldness. He was not accustomed to meet such contrary behavior. He saw no one 345
to call them to task—except Cefwyn. Or perhaps the King, whom he had never met.
He did not think Cefwyn had been entirely happy when he left the hall. He did not think the evening had been successful in all regards. He knew that Cefwyn did not like Heryn, and he wondered why Cefwyn had asked him there, or why Heryn had been so provocative of Cefwyn’s anger. There were a good many things about the gathering he did not understand, and he hoped that he had, at least for his own part, done what Cefwyn wished.
Defend Cefwyn. Perhaps he should have spoken when Heryn had objected as he had. He thought that he might have been remiss in that. But he had not been certain at the first that Heryn was doing anything amiss. He was always slow to understand such things.
He stood still gazing off into the distance while Uwen was offering him his shirt, and he realized it and pulled it on.
“I don’t like the black,” he said, regarding what Uwen laid out for him on the bed.
Uwen shrugged helplessly. Uwen had a black surcoat that bore the Sihhë arms minuscule in silver. Gray mail was under it, and the old, worn dagger was at Uwen’s belt. Uwen’s person was, if not as immaculate as last night, passably so this morning; his scarred face was close-shaven, his gray hair was clipped and combed.
That transformation he had not expected to last, and he knew Uwen was not comfortable or happy in the new finery. So he accepted the offered clothing—he was ordered to wear his mail shirt constantly, another misery that seemed excessive, particularly since he had no permission to leave his apartment. He sat down to pull on his boots, stopped with one on, and stared into the distance, thinking on Ynefel and his own room, and wondering what had become of the pigeons, and where Owl hunted now, and whether, if he went to that river shore, and the bridge, he could find Owl.
The other boot. Uwen stood waiting. He smelled food. It 346
came unwelcome, arriving with an opening and closing of doors and a clatter of servants in the anteroom.
He thought despondently of sending a direct appeal to Cefwyn, asking to be allowed at least to walk about and see these newcomer lords.
Perhaps they did interesting and lively things.
Perhaps there was someone of the many people who had come in with them who would talk to him.
But he supposed that was exactly what Cefwyn wished him not to do.
Olmern, that name was new to him. But Toj Embrel, Imor, they were Names fraught with curious import in his mind. He recalled the face of the lord of Toj Embrel, the Duke of Ivanor, and wondered if he liked the Duke of Imor—he suspected not, but he had no grounds for that opinion, except Umanon’s generally frowning countenance and disdainful expression.
And the men that Cefwyn had chained outside his door: that also had come with these strangers, this unaccustomed touch of cruelty in Cefwyn, an image which frightened him, and had haunted him to bed last night. He wondered if the men were still standing their post in the hall.
“M’lord, are ye well?”
He looked up at Uwen’s anxious face. “Well enough.” He rose and let Uwen help him on with the coat, the one from last night, with the Tower and the Star on it. Uwen said they would take off the sleeve and the velvet pauldron with the arms, but they had no plain sleeve ready yet.
He cared nothing for whether or not his sleeve had the Sihhë
arms. It mattered nothing to him what it did and did not bear.
He belted it; he slipped into this belt the silver-hilted dagger that had arrived with the clothing. He stood a moment looking toward the window, until he realized Uwen was still waiting, and that Uwen wanted his own breakfast.
“Have them serve,” he said, weighted with mail, smothered in velvet. He wanted most to go outside and into cool air—perhaps down to archive. They might permit that.
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“Yes, m’lord,” Uwen said solemnly. And winked. “And if ye eat your breakfast proper, His Highness said ye could fly free of tutors and tailors the while. That the garden was safe, and they’ve led Gery up from the pasture. Thought ye might wish to ride down to the east stables, outside the walls. If ye eat your breakfast, m’lord.”
“Do they promise?” he said. He had gotten used to they. His heart had leapt up, all the same.
“Sure as a holy oath,” Uwen said. “You come sit down to breakfast and drink your tea, m’lord. None of this eating standing up like a horse.”
The gate bells pealed out. It was far from noon. Such off-hours ringing had previously marked strangers’ arrivals.
“I thought all the lords were here,” he said.
“I thought they was,” Uwen said. “But you have your breakfast.
No runnin’ off. I have my orders.”
He dutifully sat down and let the servants serve him. “Sit down,” he wished Uwen, too, and Uwen did, gingerly, and not truly comfortable with the notion.
He had morning tea, he had eggs and fresh rolls and honey.
He did not, as Annas had taught him to be careful, spill a drop.
But his thoughts were on the bell, as well as the stables, and seeing if he could find the pigeons later today. He slipped a roll into a napkin, and thought to go down to the garden after he came in from his ride.
But then came the Zeide bell itself, that announced arrivals at the fortress gates. “I’ve finished,” he announced, and went to the window to watch that little space that he could see of the aisle toward the stables, just between the west tower and the stable wall.
He heard the clatter of horses on the cobbles, excited, reckoning when they should pass, that he not blink and miss the foremost. Grooms were running, flinging open the gate. There were well-dressed men, too, from the hall.
“Ain’t no patrol, m’lord,” Uwen murmured. “They don’t make no commotion for that. More visitors is coming.”
He waited, and just when he thought they would, there 348
was a flash of riders passing the gap, red banners flying.
“Guelen,” Uwen exclaimed. “Good me gods, they be Guelen riders coming in, and under the Dragon. ’At’s the King’s men.”
“From Guelemara?” Tristen asked.
“Aye,” Uwen said. “Have to be, someone of the King’s own household at the least.”
“Emuin.”
“It might well be.”
Tristen turned in haste from the window, and hurried for the door.
“Lad!” Uwen called after him.
But he was past the servants taking away the breakfast dishes, past the startled door guards with such speed that the two who were duty-bound to follow him were hardl
y quicker than Uwen to overtake him. He raced down the marble stairs as nimbly as he had run the wooden steps of Ynefel, startling every sentry along the lower hall, but only those at the outer steps moved to bar his way.
“Let me through!” he said, and Uwen and his own guards overtook him just then.
“Let be,” Uwen said to the guards, who gave way in confusion, and while Uwen was negotiating himself and the two house guards past the door guards in different colors, Tristen was down the steps.
It was an astonishing commotion in the yard, the red banners, the fine horses, and the finely dressed men—he had not had leave to be down in the yard when the other lords were arriving.
He was overwhelmed with the color and the movement, and looked for familiar faces, for soldiers he might recognize, most of all for Emuin.
— Emuin, he thought, reaching for him in that gray space.
— Boy? he heard. Boy? Where are you?
But it was instantly clear to him that he was mistaken—Emuin was not near. Emuin was somewhere—by a brook. Under a gray and shadowy willow. Emuin was sitting down and washing his face in water he could not see.
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— Emuin, I thought it was you. I’m sorry.
— Boy, what’s happening? Emuin was at once concerned.
Emuin was getting to his feet, batting at insubstantial willow-fronds—his boot was in one hand, his book falling from his lap.
Tristen! Who’s there? Be careful, I say!
One man in the courtyard sat a white horse and was clad all in red and gold—that man leapt off his mount right at the steps, startling him, drawing his attention back to the courtyard.
But before the lord had gone a step, the white horse reared up, and the man turned about and seized both reins and stableboy, separating one from the other and swearing with such invention as even the soldiers failed to match.
It was amazing confusion; Tristen stood staring as Uwen and his other two guards reached him. Master Haman came from the stableyard to reason with the angry lord in red. Haman took personal charge of the beautiful horse, and the lord, graceless and angry, turned and stamped back to the steps, his fair face scowling.
Tristen backed a step and meant to give the man ample room—but the lord stopped on the steps and looked up directly at him with such surprise and anger that Tristen froze where he stood.
“What in hell are you?” the lord asked him. “What manner of sorry joke is this?”
He lost his tongue, facing such rage as had just stormed through the stableyard and frightened even master Haman.
“M’lord,” Uwen prompted him in a low voice and from behind, “this is His Highness Prince Efanor, Prince Cefwyn’s younger brother.”
“My lord Prince,” Tristen began: if this was Cefwyn’s brother, he was willing to like this man well for Cefwyn’s sake.
But Efanor backed up and set a hand on his sword. “Who are you, I say?”
“Tristen, sir. I assure you—”
“Your Highness,” Uwen began, edging past on the steps, offering an empty and an open hand. “If it please Your Highness,—”
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“Emuin’s foundling.” Efanor had eased his posture, but the hand stayed on the hilt and the haughty look and the frown remained. “I would have thought you somewhat younger, by the reports that reached us. Ynefel’s cursed badge I do not find amusing, sir. Whose idea? Whose permission?”
Tristen stood completely confused.
“Your Highness,” Uwen said. “Your Highness, your pardon, he don’t readily understand.”
“But I do understand,” Tristen said, out of fear for Uwen’s safety. “Nothing at all is Uwen’s fault. Cefwyn gave me permission for whatever I do, sir.”
“Do not,” a voice rang out from overhead, higher up the steps.
“Do not vent your spleen on him, brother. I am here. Welcome to you.” Cefwyn came down beside him. “Tristen, go inside.”
“Stay,” said Efanor, a brittle and biting voice, like and unlike Cefwyn’s, as they two were like and unlike in other particulars.
“The man—if it is at all a man—intrigues me. So do these warlike preparations. On whom are we marching? And when? Am I asked to join? Or is this solely a local matter?”
“Ynefel having fallen,” Cefwyn said, “the stability of the province is threatened. These are simply precautions.”
“Precautions,” Efanor said, sweeping a hand at the crowded stables. “No proper room for my horse. Camps about the town, threatening productive orchards and good pastures. You have no patent to raise armies, brother. And this—” He swept the hand toward Tristen. “Amid your army-making, this peculiar precaution.—Is the Sihhë star your new banner—or are you still using the old one?”
“Oh, come, shall we discuss policy in the stableyard? Discourse with the stableboys below? I should have reckoned you would be instant on the road once Heryn’s rumors found you.
You must not have paused day or night. And how fares our royal father?”
“As quickly. Ahead of me, in fact, with Guelen forces in his command, good brother. Which may or may not please you to hear.”
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“What, Father’s coming here? ”
“Does it give you pause?”
“In unsettled conditions, it does, yes, brother. Whence this peculiar notion? Where inspired? Surely not Emuin’s advice.”
“A message of your Amefin host—that said the King might well inquire of the situation on the Lenúalim. That there was serious incursion which you were not able or disposed to contain, at Emwy.”
“At Emwy.” Cefwyn was puzzled; and Tristen also thought that that was not the truth. “At Emwy.”
“Is this not the truth?”
“Where is he?”
“I would gather, farther down the road than I, since he purposed to ride straight through. And, laggard I, I determined to take my leisure and find out the situation here. I had thought you on the border like a good commander.”
“He will come here first.”
“No, I think he purposed to go right on to Emwy itself, and see for himself how things stand.”
“Damn his suspicious nature! He must not go there! Efanor, on my oath, I cannot guarantee my own safety there, let alone his.”
“And should he lodge here? Rebellion in Amefel, Mauryl dead, villages plundered, general lack of order, imminent dissolution of—”
“Heryn? Heryn sent this word? And he believed Heryn Aswydd and not me? ”
“Aye, Heryn Aswydd. The lawful Duke of Amefel. Say Heryn had complaint of you, and Father would see, before coming here. You know our father.—And I, good brother that I am, I thought at least to shake clerkly matters into order here, and cover at least your minor sins, such as I found…”
But Cefwyn was looking elsewhere, as if he heard not a word.
“Oh, gods,” Cefwyn breathed. “O blessed gods. The old road.
To Emwy. Man. Man! ” he shouted, seizing on the sergeant of the guard who had followed him. “Arrest Heryn Aswydd, his cousins, and his sisters. See to it! Now!”
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“Whence comes this?” Efanor demanded. “Blessed gods, Cefwyn—”
Cefwyn started down the steps, caught Efanor’s arm, brushing past Tristen. “How far ahead of you? How far, Efanor?”
“I’ve no notion I should tell you. I expected you to be out on the border. I don’t know what I see here!”
“I live on the border, brother! This is the border! There are no safe places here! What do you think I do here? Heryn Aswydd has asked Father to come to find me at Emwy, on the old road to the border, do you comprehend me in the least, brother?
Yes, there’s trouble there. Sheep-stealing and stone-throwing, most recently. But maybe the building of bridges… my reports are yet to come in. How far ahead, damn you? ”
“I lingered in An’s-ford. I have no idea.—Cefwyn, in the name of the gods, what’s toward? Why should I trust you?”
“Then stay he
re!” Cefwyn snapped, and cast about desperately.
“Guardsman, find Idrys. He’s off about the lower hall somewhere. If you can’t find him,—send an officer!—Master Haman!
Saddle light horses, the fastest, for myself and twenty of my personal guard. Now!”
“Fresh horses!” Efanor shouted suddenly at his men and the stableyard. “We’re for the road again!” He overtook Cefwyn and the two of them went side by side down the steps as Tristen stood aside in confusion. “I’ll trust you, Cefwyn! But if you lead me out there and make me look the fool in front of Father—”
“Nine heads over the south gate witness what’s happening in this province. Heryn lied, lied to cast suspicion on me and draw Father out to the border. Damn the man, I’ll explain on the road, brother. There’s no time. None!—Tristen,—”
“I’ll go with you,” Tristen began.
“No!” Cefwyn said angrily. “Uwen, take him out of here and keep him close, damn you!”
“Stay,” said Efanor. “No, you’ll not keep your sins at home!
I’d have Father see this guest that bides at the heart of this mystery. Let our father judge what you’ve raised here 353
before he rides into your keeping. Heryn’s arrest I abide until I see the truth. But Mauryl’s witchling goes with us, brother, or I swear to you I’ll advise Father to avoid your hospitality until he has the truth from you—as he is already disposed to demand.”
“Brother, I’ve no time for this!”
“I warn you, this man goes with us or my men arrest him where we stand and take him all the same! It’s King’s law he’s broken, with or without your complicity!”
Cefwyn glared, distraught, then turned to shout orders at others of the guards that stood at the gates.
“Bring him!” Cefwyn shouted over his shoulder, which Tristen thought meant himself.
“My lord, m’lord,” Uwen muttered, staying him with a hand.
“Beg off from this. I’ll go with ’em and speak to questions.
There’s great danger, d’ ye not see? You should go back. Cefwyn could keep you back if you plead ill. He’ll not let ’em arrest ye.