Fortress in the Eye of Time

CHAPTER 16

Fawn-colored velvet stitched with silver thread, blue hose, a silver chain and a pair of soft brown boots: for tonight, the servants had said, when they laid out the clothing. Tristen was amazed.

Cefwyn had sent it, and the servants, with other clothes and other gifts, including finer clothing for Uwen, all for the expected dinner summons.

“Surely fine feathers for the like of me,” Uwen said with a shake of his head. Uwen had shaved, and a servant had trimmed his silver hair. “Such as,” Uwen said, rubbing the bald spot, “such as there is, mʼlord.” Uwenʼs hair shone pale and silver with the preparations the servants had brought, and they smelled, both, of perfumed oils and bathwater.

It pleased him that Uwen was pleased. He loved the touch and feel of the fine cloth and the softness of the new boots, and he was only a little anxious as they crossed the hall, assured by the servants that it was the proper hour for supper with the Prince, and that the table was waiting for them.

The guards let them in without delay, and they walked into a room fragrant with delicious smells, scented candles, the table set with candlelit gold — a Harper sat in the corner, and began a quiet Music. The Words came to Tristen with the first sounds — and the sounds transfixed him, went through his ears, through his heart, through his bones, so that he stopped still, and stared, and did not move until Idrys came beside him and brushed his arm, directing him to the table.

It was so beautiful. It was so unexpected a thing.

He bowed to Cefwyn before his wits thought to do it — he recovered himself, saw that Cefwynʼs habitual russet velvet had given way to red with gold embroidering. Even Idrysʼ sober black now was velvet picked out with silver. The music washed at his senses, the smells, the glitter of light on gold and beautiful colored glass — hearing, smelling, seeing, remembering to be polite — all flooded in on him.

“Sit,” Cefwyn bade him, taking a chair at one end, while the harper kept playing softly, sound that ran like water, caressed like the harperʼs fingers on the strings.

He sat. Cefwyn bade Uwen and Idrys to table. Annas was there, and servants young and old, who poured them wine and served them food in little dishes made of silver and gold.

Between such servings the harper sang for them, sang in Words, a Song of a shepherd with his sheep, a Song of dawn and evening, a Song of traveling on the river, and of a man far from his home. He was entranced. And after that, Cefwyn talked of horses and how Gery fared, and how he had two horses, Danvy and Kanwy, and how he had Kanwyʼs brother Dys up at another pasture, and they should ride up there someday and see.

It was so much coming at one time, so much to listen to, so much to imagine that he found it hard to eat — taste was another flood into his senses, sweet and bitter, hot and cold: there were so, so many things to listen to and to look at, from the glass on the table to the several colors of the wine, and the sound of the harp, and a rapid conversation in which he only knew how to say, Yes, mʼlord Prince; or, No, mʼlord Prince — foolish, helpless answers to what he was sure were Cefwynʼs efforts to draw more conversation than that from him.

But even Idrys was soft-spoken, even Idrys smiled and laughed and, uneasy as Uwen had looked at the outset, Uwen became willing to laugh, even to speak from time to time. The harper played more songs, these without words, cheerful and bright, and Cefwyn told Annas take the dishes, and bade Idrys and Uwen sit still at table—“Stay,” Cefwyn said. “Tristen and I have matters to discuss. Annas, whatever they might wish. Two soldiers can pass time over a wine pitcher. — Tristen, come over here and share a cup with me.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and, following Cefwyn to a group of chairs remote from the table, sat where Cefwyn bade him sit. Annas came and offered him a cup of wine, different than that he had left at table — but he only sipped it, and poised it in both hands so more wine could not come into it without his noticing: he had learned to be wary of Cefwynʼs generosity.

“So,” Cefwyn said, crossing one ankle over another, in possession of his own cup, which he held in similar fashion, “how does Gery fare?”

“She cut her leg,” Tristen said. “Master Haman says itʼs slight. But I shouldnʼt have ridden her so hard. Iʼm very sorry, sir. Iʼm sorry she was hurt.”

“Iʼm glad you didnʼt break your neck.”

“Yes, sir.” It sounded like one of Maurylʼs sort of utterances, with rebuke directly to follow.

“Do you remember Uwen taking you to his saddle?”

“Not clearly, mʼlord Prince.”

“You seem to have cast your spell over Uwen. The man and your staff had strictest orders to report to me if you waked, and, lo! they go following you about, here and there, upstairs and down, with never a thought of my orders in their heads. Did you bid them do that?”

“I beg you donʼt blame him. It was my fault. He asked me to wait. I disobeyed him. He was trying to catch me. And I knew better, sir. I did know better. Not about your order. But I knew I made him chase me, because I wanted to go outside. I know it was wrong.”

Cefwynʼs brow lifted. A long moment Cefwyn simply stared at him. “You know that Uwen is at your orders as well as mine.”

“I know, sir.”

“But you obey him, do you?”

“Heʼs my guard, is he not, sir?”

“He is your man.” Cefwyn waved his hand, dismissing the question. “He chose this morning to take his allegiance with you. Therefore I release him to give oath to you, and, for good or for ill, you provide for him. — Racing about just ahead of us, out to the yard and back again to the archive and searching up a book — hardly the place Iʼd seek a young man in a soldierʼs company.”

This was not, then, a casual questioning. He wished himself back in his own room, his old room, not this huge place opposite Cefwynʼs apartment. He perceived he had brought Uwen into difficulty.

“Do I distress you?” Cefwyn asked. “Why did you go to the archive, out of all places you could go? What sent you there, instead of — say — the garden, or anywhere else of your habit?”

“I wished—” He found himself on ground more and more frightening. “I wished to know more about Althalen.”

“Why?”

It was hard to speak. He had not been able to explain to Uwen. He tried, at least to explain it to Cefwyn. “Itʼs a Name, sir. I know it. I asked the archivist was there anything to tell me about Althalen. And he gave me that book. — Was it wrong?”

“Not wrong. Perhaps itʼs not what you wish to find. Itʼs my grandfatherʼs history. Did you know that?”

“No, mʼlord Prince.”

“My name is Cefwyn Marhanen. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, sir.” It did not. “Not except that you have two names.”

“Elfwyn. Do you know that name?”

“I donʼt know that name either, sir.”

“Sihhë.”

“People say that I am Sihhë.”

“Are you?”

“Iʼve read—” He sensed in all these questions that this was purposeful and far more important than Cefwynʼs simple curiosity, and he suspected now that all this evening had been leading to this strange chain of Words and Names. “I read in the book that the Sihhë were cruel wizards. And itʼs a Name, sir, but I donʼt understand it — not — that it makes sense to me. Mauryl was a wizard, but he was never cruel. He said I should be polite, and I should think about othersʼ wishes and not touch what doesnʼt belong to me. I donʼt think that leads to being cruel, sir. So it isnʼt Mauryl, either.”

“No. It doesnʼt seem so.” Cefwyn gazed at him and sipped his wine, and went on looking at him, seeming strangely troubled. “Mauryl brought the Sihhë kings to power. Have you heard that? Do you think that is true?”

“I — donʼt know, sir.”

“But it doesnʼt trouble you.”

“I donʼt see how it should, sir.”

“Do you not remember things? Isnʼt that what you told me — that you hear names and you know them?”

“Thatʼs true. But some Words — time after time they mean nothing to me, and then, on a certain day, in a certain way, they — unfold.”

“Unfold.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And has the word Sihhë unfolded at all to you?”

“It—” It did trouble him. That Word lay out of reach. He knew it was there, that Name, and that he had part of it, but not all. “I think that I might be Sihhë. People in the garden mostly said so.”

“And therefore you believe it?”

“No, mʼlord. I donʼt know what it means. — Can books be wrong?”

“Egregiously wrong. And mislead men — egregiously.”

“Like lying.”

“Or making mistakes.”

“I make mistakes. I make far too many, — Mauryl said. And I still do. Donʼt be angry at Uwen.”

“You say youʼre not a wizard.”

“No, sir. Iʼm not.”

“Then what would you be? If you could choose — what would you be? A prince? A king?”

“On the whole, sir, — I think I had rather be Haman.”

Cefwynʼs chin rested on his hand as he listened. A crook of Cefwynʼs finger came up over his lips, repressing what might be a smile. Almost.

“You are remarkable,” Cefwyn said. “Rather be a stablemaster.”

“Iʼve said something foolish.”

“And honest. — Can you yet read that book of yours? The one Mauryl gave you?”

“No, mʼlord Prince. I canʼt. I tried, this afternoon. But I canʼt.”

“Are you my Friend, Tristen?”

It was a Word, a warm and good one. “Yes, mʼlord Prince, if you like.”

“Had you a name once, besides the one Mauryl gave you?”

“None that I know, sir.” He could hear his heart beating. Suddenly he was tired, very tired, and wanted to sleep, although sleep had been the farthest thing from his mind a short breath before.

“Tristen, tell me, why did you come to Henasʼamef rather than, say, to Emwy?”

“It seemed the right way.”

“Does it still seem so?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You might have lived at Althalen before Mauryl called you forth. I should tell you — you most likely did. Hundreds of the Sihhë died at Althalen. Elfwyn died there. Mauryl and Emuin were there, and they helped my grandfather, Selwyn Marhanen, become King of Ylesuin. They killed Elfwyn and his queen and all the Sihhë they could find for three years after. Does this surprise you?”

He was afraid. He wanted Cefwyn to talk about something else. “Iʼd not heard that, sir, no.”

“There was fire. The hold of Althalen burned. And you smelled the smoke when we rode there. You remembered how to ride. You were most certainly a horseman, and a fine one. Youʼre clearly a scholar, versed in letters and philosophy. You have graces that mark you as well-born. Your speech is liker Amefin than not, but then, you learned it of Mauryl, didnʼt you?”

“Yes, sir,” Tristen said. Surmises flooded at him, too many to think of and still follow Cefwynʼs skipping from point to point.

“My father is King,” Cefwyn said. “I shall be. I by no means know what Mauryl intended in sending you here. Many in this province of Amefel would be pleased to see me dead. Would that please you? More to the point, — would it have pleased Mauryl?”

“No, sir.” He found it hard to breathe. “It would not. I donʼt think so.”

“The medallion I gave you. Do you still wear it?”

“Yes, sir.” Tristen felt it against his skin. “Do you wish it back, mʼlord Prince? I didnʼt know—”

“No, no, wear it. Wear it every day. Let me show you another.” There was a small table beside Cefwynʼs chair, and Cefwyn took from it a white medallion on a gold chain woven with pearls. Cefwyn leaned forward to show it to him. “This is Ninévrisë. Did Mauryl ever mention that name?”

“No, sir. Not at all.” He steadied the medallion slightly with his fingertips. It was a beautiful face. It was no one he knew. But he liked to look at it. “She has a kind face.”

Cefwyn leaned back again, put the medallion again on the table. “Her father is regent of Elwynor. He offers her to me in Marriage.”

Marry. Marriage. Husband. Wife. Bed.

Children.

“Will you Marry her?” he asked.

“I did consider it. That we were attacked at Emwy, that things have gone amiss in that area — might be because certain Elwynim are opposed to it. Or it might be because certain Amefin are opposed to it.”

“Do you wish to marry her?”

Cefwynʼs brows lifted, if only mildly, and he took a sip of wine. “It would certainly set certain teeth on edge. You understand — lords marry not for love but to get heirs. And an heir of both Elwynor and Ylesuin — would be very powerful.”

It was a nest of Words. Of ideas. He listened.

“Equally,” Cefwyn said, “a prince to rule well and long needs a loyal group of lords on whom he can rely. You said, did you not, Tristen, that you would be my friend? You would Defend me from my enemies?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you Swear that in the sight of strangers?”

Swearing was a word about gods, and it fluttered about Truth and Lies and making strong promises. It was wider than that, much wider, and the threads kept running off into the dark, so he knew it was a large idea; but it felt entirely reasonable: of course he should defend Cefwyn, if someone tried to harm him.

“Yes,” he said. And that pleased Cefwyn greatly. Cefwyn looked to have set aside the worry he had had in asking him.

“Do you hear?” Cefwyn asked in a loud voice of Idrys, who had been talking with Uwen over at the table. “Do you hear, Idrys? He will swear to defend Ylesuinʼs heir.”

Idrys left the table. So did Uwen. Tristen stood up, then, as Cefwyn did. He had thought the declaration of no great moment, but Cefwyn thought so, and Idrys frowned and looked not quite so pleased with the matter.

“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 fatherʼs confirmation — which I do not think he will withhold. By my grant the lordship of Ynefel and of Althalen is filled. Tristen, Maurylʼs sole and undisputed heir, inherits. Both holdings are within my jurisdiction. The grant is, subject to the Kingʼs 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. 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 Cefwynʼs 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. Sheʼll work the night through.” A second time Cefwyn pressed his shoulder. “Tristen, Iʼll send such servants as a lord might need. And, Uwen,—”

“Mʼlord.”

“Have extreme care that they are Guelen servants. None of the Amefin, by any mischance. And no word of what weʼve 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; youʼll 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, mʼlord 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.

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 lordʼs 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, Iʼd believe his lightest word above Herynʼs 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 Maurylʼs. I still advise, wait for Emuin, and do not release Uwen Lewenʼs-son. He likes Maurylʼs 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 Tristenʼs standing in my company, and soon, — and I have to tell them something.”

“And will you raise his standard? The arms youʼve granted him cannot be displayed, mʼlord Prince, by the Kingʼs law, they cannot be raised — here in Amefel, most particularly.”

“And are, throughout the province.”

“On farmhouses! Not under this roof! Not in the princeʼs 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, mʼlord Prince, of the five true Sihhë kings of legend, Harosyn flung his father on his motherʼs pyre, Sarynan hunted his two brothers like deer through his woods. Barrakkêth immured his enemies alive in Ynefelʼs 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. Iʼve 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 Zeideʼs 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 fatherʼs voice in this province, if some do forget it.”

“Send to your father before you raise the Sihhë standard at Henasʼamef. 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 grandfatherʼs order.”

“I cannot lose a province, either. Ask which my lord father would countenance.”

“We are not to that, mʼlord 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 I know that they will be at my fatherʼs 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 Iʼll marry them to Hamanʼs 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 fatherʼs order, mʼlord Prince. The letter.”

He went to the table. He wrote, Most Gracious Majesty and dearest father, I have won on Emuinʼs 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, mʼlord 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.”

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. Maurylʼs 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.

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 Maurylʼs 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 donʼt know how to make this room safe.

He hoped for an answer. None came. He tried again.

— I answer Cefwynʼs questions with foolish answers, master Emuin. And I still canʼt read the Book. I still donʼt 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! Emuinʼs voice said, and something less friendly came faintly through the gray. This is not a safe 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 Emuinʼs and not Maurylʼs 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 Uwenʼs step. “Mʼlord,” Uwen said, kneeling by him. “Are ye ill?”

“I am cold, Uwen.”

“Silk shirts is damnable cold in a draft, mʼlord. 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, mʼlord. Iʼll make down the bed. It donʼt take no servants for that.”

“Uwen, — light more candles. I donʼt want it dark.”

“Aye, mʼlord.” 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, mʼlord?”

“Cefwyn has given me Ynefel,” Tristen said. “He calls me his friend. Did you hear?”

Uwenʼs scarred face was frowning. “I suppose His Highness has it to dispose, mʼlord.”

“Uwen, tell me. Is it Ynefel men fear so? Or is it Mauryl? — Or is it me?”

“I donʼt know, mʼlord,” Uwen said. “Ynefel hainʼt 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 Maurylʼs face. Uwen scowled then, spoiling it. “Ainʼt never backed off from no man. And not a good lad like you, mʼlord.”

“You donʼt have to run, Uwen. You can just stand outside with the other guard, no more, no less than they.”

“Ainʼt leaving ye. And enough of foolishness, mʼlord. Yeʼd 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 Iʼm Sihhë.”

“So folk say ye might be.”

“What does that mean, Uwen?”

“Old, mʼlord. And wizards.”

“Iʼm not. I wish I could do what Mauryl could. But Maurylʼs lost, Emuinʼs left me and heʼs 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 Iʼm something he wonʼt like, Uwen?”

Uwenʼs 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 donʼt 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 do it. Cefwyn is mʼlord Prince, and I must do what he wishes, is that not so?”

“Aye, mʼlord,” Uwen whispered. “That it is. But ye donʼt understand what they intends, and Iʼm sure I donʼt. I donʼt think mʼlord Prince has authority of his father the King to do a thing like heʼs 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 Cefwynʼs man, and ʼt is all ye can do. Heʼs a good lord. Ainʼt none better. But ye donʼt cross ʼim. Marhanen blood is fierce, mʼlord. And there ainʼt no living Sihhë. The Marhanen damned the name, and damned the arms that he give you. For that reason, His Majesty ainʼt 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 Cefwynʼs apartment. But I donʼt want you to come to harm, Uwen. I never want you to come to harm.”

“He wonʼt harm me, mʼlord. For his honor, he wonʼt be laying hands on me. I was his before he give me to you. Iʼm still in the guard, and he ainʼt one to dispose his men to trouble. But that ainʼt reckoning His Majesty the King. Iʼve no wish to be watching them set your head at Skull Gate. I donʼt want to see Prince Cefwynʼs there either, after the King learns whatʼs astir here.” He touched lips to the fist that held the medal. “Donʼt repeat none of this. Maybe ye hainʼt no sense of it, mʼlord, but growing up in Ynefel surely taught ye some sort of caution. Donʼt ye cross Cefwyn. Donʼt think of crossing him.”

“I canʼt, I shanʼt, Uwen.”

Uwenʼs hand pressed his. “Lad…mʼlord,…I give ye my oath tʼ be your man, right and true, by the good gods, by their grace. Thatʼs my word on ʼt. But ye be careful. Ye keep the prince and the Lord Commander happy wiʼ ye. For your own sake.”

“I shall. As best I can, I shall, Uwen.”

“Let me get them boots off. Yeʼd do better abed.”

Tristen thrust out his foot and braced himself for Uwenʼs pull on one and the other. He shed his clothing and let Uwen put him to bed. He shivered between the cold sheets.

“Shall I blow out the lights, mʼlord?”

“No. Uwen, please. Let them burn. Let them burn until morning.”

“Aye, mʼlord. If ʼt please ye, Iʼll send for more candles. Weʼll light ʼer like a festival, only soʼs ye sleep.”