It seemed to him urgent, however, to act. His household officers generally had thought it best to tiptoe about the secrets of Amefin disaffection and map all the edges of it before making any move, all for fear of starting something far larger than Heryn from cover—meaning Amefin collusion with their ancient allies the Elwynim—and stirring themselves up a far wider conflict than a bandit or two in Emwy’s bushes.
Disarm the Amefin by night, simply by moving them off watch as they turned in their weapons at the armory. That in itself would provoke outcry and dismay by morning, but it would frighten the Amefin, who had seen Marhanen vengeance in prior generations. And to confound their wildest terrors, the scribe he had assigned to the questioning and registry was far from vengeful—a kindly and grandfatherly old fellow, fine for small details. Mesinis was the absolute soul of patience,…and incapable, one suspected, of taking accurate
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notes long before he became slightly deaf. Moreover, Mesinis did not deal well with Amefin names or the Amefin brogue.
He liked that stroke; he truly did. If one was bound to create consternation among one’s enemies, it seemed, after outright terror was established, best to aim that consternation at small, maddening obstacles like Mesinis, which obscured the more outrageous acts—small, maddening obstacles in which the prince could graciously create exemption and ease the way, making Amefin grateful for Marhanen intervention on their behalf.
Hourly he expected some alarm from the halls, some wild threat from Heryn and his minions, or worse, some rising in the town at large that would invade the halls and tear them all limb from limb.
They were not thoughts on which a man could sleep. But when the hour for the guard change passed without alarm, that matter at least seemed settled. The one patrol was out by now, riding by night, and his messengers would leave that column and spread out to the barons of the adjoining provinces, who in their lordship of their provinces did not directly owe him fealty.
But if His Grace of Amefel were allied with some Elwynim lord slipping his Regent’s leash (as well Amefel had once been, with Elwynor, ruled from Althalen), and general war broke out, then be certain that His Royal Highness Cefwyn Marhanen would bear the lifelong reputation for losing a province, and be certain that his royal father would regain it, to his father’s credit but to his own lifelong disgrace—and lasting trouble in his own reign. His father had set him here to prove himself or fail, with hopes, at least on the part of certain barons in Guelessar, Llymaryn, and elsewhere in the realm, that the elder prince of Ylesuin, known for debauch, might most spectacularly fail in the temptations of Heryn’s court—or die and never sit the Dragon throne.
But those were northern lords who opposed him, while the barons of the more religiously diverse south readily distrusted that coalition of established and orthodox Quinalt interests 259
that had moved into the court at Guelemara during his father’s reign. Even in heretic Amefel, he suspected, many hoped for Good King Log to establish his rule in Ináreddrin’s quieter younger son Efanor.
While if there was any personal advantage he himself had in undertaking this oversight of Amefel, it was the expectation of the southern barons that the Crown Prince, having ruled in the south, supported by the south, might reward the south and send such influences packing. Efanor never saw it. Efanor had lately become piously Quinalt. Efanor, turning to the gods, had no real heart for conspiracy. It was why the northern barons so loved him.
It was the reason he was so desperate as to send those messages.
And twice in the night he roused poor Annas to go inform himself how Tristen fared. Each time the answer was the same: He has not wakened, my lord Prince; and, reliably, His man is with him.
Mauryl’s gift. That cuckoo in the Amefin nest was yet to fledge—and a frightened small portion of his heart wished the wizard-gift might come to nothing, while the greater, the nobler part of him feared losing that gift, whatever it might mean, whatever uncertainties it brought him.
Came a noise somewhere that caught him with his eyes shut and his thoughts drifting. He was not certain he had not dreamed it. The fire in the hearth had burned down; he roused himself to tend it, not troubling Annas, and looked and found gray daylight in the windows.
The noise repeated itself. Thump. The guard was admitting someone to his chambers, and he cast a thought toward his sword. He rubbed his eyes and his face and reassured himself with the remembrance that the guard had changed at least once in the night, and nothing had raised alarms or rung the muster bell.
The inner door opened, that from the foyer; and it was Idrys, shadow-eyed and unshaven, but fully armored and bearing his sword.
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Idrys bowed with his usual grace. “My lord Prince. Amefel applies to see you. He frets in his disfavor.”
“And my orders?”
“Executed. While the Zeide slept, at the watch change, as you ordered, the Guelen forces took the Zeide gates, the armory, the stables, the storerooms and the kitchens, and stand guard outside Heryn’s and the twins’ rooms. The Amefin guard is disturbed, needless to report, but awaits its orders from Heryn, and Heryn…is awaiting your pleasure, my lord.”
Idrys had rarely looked so pleased with a situation.
“Well done,” Cefwyn said.
“My lord.”
“I think,” Cefwyn began, and nudged the brass kettle and last night’s tea water over last night’s coals to heat. He tossed on a few sticks of wood from the heap beside the hearth, while Idrys took up watch over him, arms folded. “I think that Heryn may seethe in his own juices a time. How long, do you think, is prudent?”
“Enough time to see Your Highness breakfasted and well sated with tea.”
“Perhaps I shall invite him to breakfast.”
“Shall I relay that invitation, Your Highness?”
“Carry it yourself. He fears you.”
“Most gladly, my lord Prince.”
Idrys departed, and Cefwyn thoughtfully investigated the kettle of water, hesitating still, in the weariness of a long night, to call in the clatter and conversation of servants and pages.
But he rang the bell, and when Annas turned up from his bed nearby: “Breakfast,” he ordered, “for myself and Heryn Aswydd.
A guard will escort you, the cook, the pages, with every pot and every cup and source. There is dissent and division afoot.”
“I shall take good care,” the old man murmured, “my lord Prince.”
Cefwyn went back to the wardrobe to revise his selection of clothing while Annas arranged an early cup of tea. Pages 261
arrived, seeking use, and by their grace he bathed, merely an affair of a hot towel: the bath which he had left unused and cold still stood. Over his linen went bezainted leather, nothing approaching the two stones’ weight of the shirt he had worn on the ride to Emwy. It was for lighter weapons, the kind that came from close at hand, and it glittered with suitably decorative but martial effect.
It did sit well, at least, between the Amefin and a Marhanen heart.
The breakfast arrived in the hands of Annas, two senior guards and two pages; the maps were discreetly rolled—except the one for Emwy district, which he deliberately left in plainest view—and he had had the pages move the dining board into the sunlit alcove beneath the windows.
Annas provided them a simple meal and a hot one, easy to eat a quick sufficiency and end the meeting early; or, if he pleased, to linger over the breads and jams. Cefwyn settled into place at the table and waited, sipping at a cup of tea.
Shortly Idrys arrived with Heryn in tow, a sullen and scowling Heryn, who stopped and bowed at formal distance from the table while Idrys continued to the warm window-side, where he took up his station, arms folded, waiting.
Cefwyn rose, bowed, and gestured to the seat at the far end of the table. “Welcome, Your Grace.”
Heryn came to the offered seat, stood with his hands clenched on the back of the chair.
“Your Highness,?
??”
“Sit, sit down, Amefel. No doubt you have questions.”
“With armed guards—”
“You could not protect me, Your Grace. That Amefin patrols were in the area of Emwy I do take your word for, but I do think they would have regarded our displayed standards and my banner. I fear you have been misinformed on the nature of the attack at Emwy, which casts into doubt not you, of course, but certain assumptions. Therefore I’ve moved to
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secure the premises until we learn whether there has been compromise of your informers. Surely your own life is not secure.
Trust my guards. They are honest men.”
The color had utterly fled Heryn’s handsome face.
Cefwyn smiled, lips only, sure that Heryn took his double meaning. “Sit, sit down. I assure you that this apartment is at least as secure as your own.”
Heryn sank into the chair, picked up the cup and carried it almost to his lips as Annas began to serve the breakfast. Heryn stopped in mid-sip with a look at him, guarded, terrified.
“Your health,” Cefwyn said, still smiling, lifted his cup and drank.
The sweat stood visible on Heryn’s face. And Cefwyn half-turned, looking at Idrys.
“Idrys.”
“Your Highness.”
“Any sign of the horses out of Emwy?”
“Aye, my lord, a few. The dun and three bays made their way back last night. Peasants brought them for reward, knowing the King’s mark.”
“You rewarded them.”
“Amply, my lord.”
“Excellent.” He looked at Heryn and divided up a sausage.
“It’s clear that the general countryside still has reverence for the Crown.”
“I would assure Your Highness so,” Heryn said.
“Our patrols will be searching the country round about very thoroughly. We wish to find that bandit group and question them.”
“I would have thought all your men were on duty here,” Heryn said bitterly, while the sausage went down quite well. “So many in the halls.”
“I assure you, it’s to your own advantage that the Crown should take direct responsibility for my welfare. The cost to the town for losing the Marhanen heir would be bloody and extreme, and—regrettable as it might be, and no matter your 263
efforts—there would be that certain cost to pay. His Majesty and I have quarreled, but the depth of our quarrel is vastly exaggerated. Vastly. Marhanens may quarrel with each other. Attack us—and he is head of our house.”
“I assure Your Highness—”
“Oh, we do believe your efforts might well succeed. But I refuse to put that manner of responsibility on this province and on you, Amefel. The Guelen are seasoned men. They know the extent of their duty, and they’ll stand their posts indefinitely, until we are sure the persons responsible have been hunted out and hanged.—Sausage, Your Grace?”
Annas made a trip to Heryn’s end of the table, but Heryn took only bread.
“Your Highness,” Heryn said, “surely your personal guard will be under hardship. I assure you my own men are sufficient for myself. You might at least relieve the ones at my door—”
“I will not hear of it. The welfare of this province is my special concern. My guards stay.” He filled his mouth with bread and honey and ate, enjoying the breakfast. “Amefin honey. I shall send some to my father with personal recommendation.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Heryn murmured, although he seemed to have difficulty breathing, let alone eating.
“You must not take the issue so to heart. You have done your best to guard me. Now I shall do mine.—Do you not care for the bread, Lord Heryn?”
Heryn gathered up the knife and his knuckles were white on the handle as he dipped into the butter.
“I have,” Idrys said, “set Anwyll to watching Tarien and Sergeant Gedd to Orien’s door.”
Cefwyn smiled grimly. Anwyll was immovable, and Gedd was by his preference immune to Orien and all her servants.
“I’ve made certain promises of liberal reward among the ranks, m’lord Prince,” Idrys added, “once this period of 264
double watch is safely carried. The men are in excellent spirits on that account.”
“Promise it on my authority.” Cefwyn gathered up his sword and buckled it on. “I will see that reward paid.”
“Where are you going, m’lord Prince?”
“To see to our guest.”
Idrys’ frown was instant. Cefwyn started to the doors, and Idrys shadowed him past the guards and into the hall.
“Be rid of this ill-omened guest,” Idrys said. “Send him to Emuin’s retreat. Send him to the Quinalt in Guelessar, if you ask my advice in this matter, m’lord.”
“Not in this.”
“I wish you would wait for Emuin’s arrival.”
“You have mentioned that.” He had glanced at Idrys as he walked out the door of his apartments. He looked back, and stopped in what he purposed to say next. There was but one pair of guards at Tristen’s door. “What’s going on here?” he demanded of those men. “Where are the other two?”
“Gone wi’ him, Your Highness,” said one man. “Wi’ Uwen.”
“He waked.”
“Natural as morning, Your Highness, and ate breakfast and left.”
“I left word to wake me!”
“You had a guest, Your Highness. We was told not to interrupt.”
“Damn.” He was aware of Idrys watching and forbore to scatter blame for what were doubtless contradictory instructions.
“Where did he go?”
“To the stables, Your Highness. Something about his horse.”
Cefwyn swore. “Stand your post,” he ordered, and strode off for the stairway, with Idrys and an anxious pair of the Guelen guard close at his back.
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G uards snapped to attention at the doors, and another pair at the stableyard gate: evidence of Idrys’ efficient arrangements. And at that clash of weapons, old Haman came out in a scatter of stableboys—the man was at his post, to Cefwyn’s mild surprise—but Haman had no frown nor seemed other than cheerful.
“Your Highness.” Haman bowed. Amefin, Haman was a man of the land, not the Amefin court. His politics was the care of his animals and he cared for absolutely nothing else. A Prince could restrain his temper in respect to such a man. And in the replacement of Amefin guards from their posts, both Cook and stablemaster were left unquestioned.
“Haman. My guest, the young man. Where is he at the moment?”
“Come to see to his horse, Your Highness. And gone back inside again.”
Cefwyn bit his lip, refused to turn immediately and acknowledge Idrys’ self-sure stare, which he was certain awaited him.
He drew a slow breath and looked instead toward the stable, where his own Danvy was putting out his head. He walked to that stall door, lingered to give his favorite a pat and an apple from the barrel.
“He’s fit enough, Your Highness,” Haman said. “Throwed a shoe in that affair, no more. Smith’s already seen to him. I’m for putting him out to the far pens for a sennight, by ’r leave, Your Highness.”
“Give him good care, master Haman. I’ve no questions. Pasture it is. And best you give both my horses good exercise. Work the fat off Kanwy.—Did my guest say nothing of his further business this morning?”
“No, Your Highness. Concerned for the horse, he was.
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Wanted to see her before we sent her down to pasture. He walked to the paddocks back there, he brought her some grain with his own hands and he spoke wi’ her a while, and then he and his man, they went back inside again.—He were fearful pale, Your Highness. I thought then of sending word. But his man and your guard was with him all the while, and I thought he was there on proper business.”
“I’m certain he was. Thank you, master Haman.” He turned to go, met Idrys’ eyes by complete accident, and scowled. He brushed past Idrys, stalked across
the yard and heard him and the guard following as he mounted the steps again into the lower hall.
“My lord Prince,” Idrys said as they came into the corridor above, “leave it in my hands. I’ll find him.”
“We will find him.” He cast Idrys a look over his shoulder and found precisely the expression he had thought to find.
“Warm this egg in your bosom, my lord Prince, and you may find it hatches something other than a sparrow. We’ve done quite well with the lord of the Amefin. I advise you confine this fledgling of Mauryl’s. Confine him in whatever comfort you deem suitable, but confine him closely, at least until Emuin is at hand to deal with him. This man will surprise you with some action you will most assuredly regret.”
He glanced away and strode ahead, seeking the windows that had best view of the garden, ignoring Idrys and his advice.
Tristen was not in the garden, either.
In the end he was compelled to stand and wait, chafing while Idrys consulted with a chance-met group of Amefin servants in the hall, who pointed down the hall toward the archive and bowed in frightened confusion, uncertain in what affairs they were involved on this chancy day, with Guelen guards posted everywhere and rumors by now running the halls.
“The library,” Idrys reported, “m’lord Prince. The horse…and the archive.”
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Cefwyn exhaled shortly, relieved, as they walked toward the east wing, to think that it was nothing more sinister than books that drew Tristen…until he began to wonder with what insistence Tristen must have prevailed upon his guards and Uwen, and why, rising from a profound sleep, so unnatural a sleep, he had insisted after fatuous poesies, philosophies…
Books, in these particular hands, were not harmless…which was exactly what Idrys was thinking, he knew it. He could hear it hanging in the air in Idrys’ very tones.
He could see, with the same clarity, Tristen’s unlined and sleeping face yestereve—which Idrys had seen; and he could see that wild-eyed visage at Althalen, that same face with horror all the way to the depths of those uncommon eyes when he overtook him on the road. Idrys had also seen it.