“The Marhanen,” said Idrys, “were not kings then; they were trusted chamberlains to the long line of Sihhë halflings in Althalen. As your grandfather was to Elfwyn. Perhaps our innocent lad would like you to resume that post to him.”
“Push me no further, Idrys. I warn you.”
“I warn you, m’lord Prince. Not so long ago, not so long ago that cursed place sank in ashes: men are still living who remember. Emuin for one. He was at Althalen. Ask him. Mauryl was certainly there to open the gates to your grandfather and make him King; and for that pretty treachery, your grandfather appointed Mauryl only the ruins of Ynefel and banned his arms from civilized precincts. A fine jest, was it not? And for all these years the woods have grown over Althalen and cloaked all the bloody Marhanen sins.”
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Cefwyn looked up sharply. “Speak so freely to my father, Idrys.”
“Murder has been done for far lesser things than thrones. Most dangerous when the possessors of thrones forget how they came by them. Your father, like your grandfather, decreed death for bearing the Sihhë arms or practicing the old arts.”
“Yet employed Emuin!”
“What says the book, my lord Prince?”
“Blast your impudence!”
“It serves you. What says the book, my lord? ”
Cefwyn covered the page with his outspread palm, stayed a moment until the swimming letters became clear again and his breathing steadied.
“I have need of Emuin.”
“Now, now, you are sensible, my lord Prince.”
He whirled on Idrys, making the chair turn. “But likewise you shall wait for his advice, hear me, Idrys. You will lay no hand on Tristen!”
“My lord Prince.” Idrys stood back, implacable. “For your own safety—”
“For yours, do not exceed my orders.”
“Do you know, my lord, why Emuin made such haste to escape Henas’amef? Do you know why he retreated out of Amefel before this Shaping of Mauryl’s asked him too close questions?”
“You make far too sinister a design. He has gone to retreat to consider.”
“To consider what, my prince? Your messages?”
“He will come back, damn you, when he has thought this matter through…”
“My lord, I have thought on this. I have thought long and hard on this: if Mauryl could summon something out of the last hour of Althalen, think you that of the two thousand men who died there, it would have been some humble spitboy out of the kitchens? This Shaping is deadly. Mauryl was no true friend to the Marhanens, nor to the Elwynim, either. He served the Sihhë
until he turned on them, out of some quarrel
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with his fellow wizards. He killed his own king. He locked himself ever after in Ynefel, brooding on gods only know what resentments or what purposes; and dying, sends you this, this Shaping with lordly graces? Ask his name, m’lord. I urge you ask his name.”
“He does not know his name.”
“One can guess.”
Cefwyn pressed his lips together, the sweat started on his brow. He wiped at it. “You suppose. You suppose, Idrys.”
“A Sihhë, my lord. What worse could he send you?”
He had no answer for that.
“No stableboy,” Idrys said. “No scullion.”
“Then why for a halfling king? Why not the first five Sihhë
lords—those of full blood?”
“Why not, indeed, my lord Prince? A good question.”
Cefwyn left the chair in temper and went to look out the window at something less troubling. At pigeons walking on the sill.
“They still burn straw men in this district,” Idrys said. “You see the old symbols on boundary stones, to the priests’ abhorrence.”
“I have seen them. I have had your reports, master crow. I do listen.”
“Read the chronicle, m’lord Prince. The Sihhë were gentle lords. Some of the latest, at least. Barrakkêth’s blood ran thin at the last. They ate no children. They went to straw men and not captives for their observances…”
“They never ate children. That’s a Quinalt story.”
“But were they always straw men, at festival?”
“None of us know. Histories may lie. My grandfather was not immune to the malady, you know.”
“Elfwyn, was, they say, a very gentle sort. Dead at Althalen—as were they all. Last Sihhë king.—Last of the witchlords.”
“Then no hazard to us. A gentle man. You say so.”
“One doubts he even blamed Mauryl for his death. And perhaps he was the only one of that line Mauryl would regret.”
“If he were Elfwyn, if he were Elfwyn—”
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“It was Elfwyn’s younger brother Mauryl wanted dead. So did Emuin, and all that circle. So I’m told. They insisted the youngest Sihhë prince was a black wizard, whatever that means, if not a sorcerer. And of course Mauryl and his circle had no wizardly ambitions, themselves, whatever makes wizards ambitious. But the child prince died in the fall of Althalen, and so did Elfwyn and all the Sihhë who could claim the name, since the wizards could come by Marhanen help and arms no less bloodily. Marhanen ambition was satisfied with the crown. The Elwynim councillors drew off to shape a Regency until the Sihhë
should rise from their smoky grave, I suppose, and sit on the throne of Elwynor. I wonder what satisfied Mauryl. A tower in the woods?”
“Who knows what Mauryl wished or wanted?” Cefwyn retorted. “One supposes he got it, since he left us in peace.”
“But, if one believes the Elwynim,—”
“One has no reason to believe the Elwynim.”
“Even for bride-offers?”
“Have I accepted it?”
“Yet the Elwynim claim the Sihhë kings will return. Who do you suppose promised them that?”
“The Elwynim chose to believe it. It gave legitimacy to the lord of Ilefínian, who otherwise had no royal blood, no more than any other Elwynim lord. The lord of Ilefínian chose to call himself Regent because there was nothing else he could call himself—certainly not king—not even aetheling.”
“As of course the Marhanen were royal to the bone.”
“Treason, master crow.”
“Treason for the commons. Loyalty—in an adviser to the Crown. Look at the reasons, m’lord Prince. Mauryl raised up this Shaping. Perhaps the old man was atoning for his crime, bringing back the King he helped to murder—an excess of your grandfather’s zealotry, or his ambition. Perhaps Mauryl did promise the lord of Ilefínian a King to Come.”
“You must have spent hours on this. You’ve kept yourself awake with these fancies, master crow. I suggest a roll in the sheets. ’T will help you sleep.”
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“A prince with two thoughts to his own safety in this rebel province would help me sleep, m’lord. A toadstool tea for this Summoning you take to your bosom would help me rest at night, but you will not take that advice.”
“Have you read this book?”
“I know the history of all claimants and lineages alive, m’lord Prince, who might come into serious question. Now I see I must study the dead ones.”
“And if Mauryl has raised Elfwyn of the Sihhë? What can you say of him, beyond a short reign distinguished only by his calamity?”
“A weak king, who wasted his treasury on shrines and supported scholars and priests of any persuasion at all. He lost three towns to the Chomaggari in his first year of reign and still kept his scholars fat and his army nigh barefoot. If it were not for Mauryl Gestaurien he would have fallen sooner. But then, if it were not for Mauryl Gestaurien, he might not have fallen at all, and the Marhanen would still be lords chamberlain to the Sihhë.
Rebellion wanted an able general. Which your grandfather was.
Unfortunately for the Sihhë king—your grandfather was his general.”
“As you hope to become mine?” Cefwyn asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing Idrys blink. “On the tide of a war on this bo
rder?”
Idrys’ chin lifted. “I trust I serve a wiser lord. The latter-day Sihhë put all their trust in Mauryl, and thereby, my trusting prince, the gates flew open to the Sihhë successors and the Sihhë
died a terrible death along with their king, next Althalen’s burning walls.—You invite—whom?—to your table, my lord Prince?”
“A well-spoken and civil young man, whose converse is pleasant, whose company I find far less self-serving than, for instance, Heryn’s, whose presence you have generally approved.”
“Your grandfather tossed Sihhë babes into the flames,” Idrys said, “hanged the women and impaled the men above the age of twelve in a great ring about Althalen’s walls. And 281
even from the grave, would the Sihhë bear you love, Cefwyn Marhanen? He does not remember these things. He could not remember these things with that clear, innocent look he bears you. Think of this when you trust too much. That account is, I will wager you, in that book, m’lord Prince. That is the chronicle your guest has been reading, and I will wager you he is Sihhë, with all it means.”
“Then what do we do? What do we do, hang his head at the gate? I am not my grandfather! I do not murder children! I have no wish to murder children! Elfwyn in life was a gentle man.
He haunted my grandfather to his dying day. My grandfather on his deathbed swore he heard the children crying. I do not want a death like that. I do not want dreams such as he had or a conscience such as he had. He never slept without holy candles burning in his room.”
“He had a peaceful reign. His enemies feared him. Consequently his taxes were lighter than Elfwyn’s or your father’s.
Ylesuin remembers his reign as golden years.”
“Golden on Sihhë gold—consequently his taxes were lighter.”
“And his enemies were all dead or in terror of him.”
“I will not be such a King.”
“M’lord Prince,—what became of the ivory miniature?”
Another of Idrys’ flank attacks. Thwarted on one front, Idrys opened another. And the devil where he was going with it.
“A lovely thing,” Idrys said. “Is it in the chest yonder? Do you still keep it? Or have you sent it to your father for his word on this—Elwynim bride-offer?”
“My father, as you well know, would fling it in the midden.”
“Ah. And therefore you keep it? You temporize with this offer?”
“I do not see what this has to do with my grandfather or my guest.”
“A marriageable daughter, a sonless Elwynim king—ah—re-gent. Uleman of the Elwynim sees the ravens gathering—knows he cannot command his own lords, who are more apt 282
to war with each other over fair Ninévrisë’s hand—so, oh, aye, offer you the daughter, offer the bloody Marhanen the last Sihhë
realm with no more than a wedding and an heir-getting.
Whatever has prevented you from leaping to that offer, m’lord Prince?”
“Nine skulls on my gate is not enough?”
“And, of course, you are the heir of Ylesuin. And wish no witchly get out of a marriage bed.”
“It did somewhat cross my mind.”
“And would cross your father’s. And your brother Efanor’s.
No witchly offspring to sit the Dragon throne. Yet you still keep the ivory.”
“A lovely piece of work. A pretty face. Why not?”
“Still temporizing with the matter. Asking yourself how more cheaply to gain a claim to Elwynor.”
“I do not!”
“You doubt that Uleman countenanced the assassins. You said so yourself. Internal dissent. Angry lords, jealous fellow suitors for the lady’s hand…”
“I am no suitor, for her least of all! And what has this to do with Tristen, pray, master crow? What edifice of fantasies are we now building? Or have you quite forgot the track?”
“‘Tristen,’ is he now, and not ‘Mauryl’s gift’?”
“Insolent crow. Crow flitting about the limits of my tolerance.
What has this business of assassins and Elwynim to do with him?”
“Ah. Mauryl’s motives. That’s our worry.”
“What? A stray piece of work from Mauryl’s tower? Mauryl’s dying maunderings?—Mauryl’s rescue of a Sihhë soul from wherever Sihhë go when they die? Emuin said treat him gently.
I take that for the best advice, and until you have more substantial complaint—”
“Mauryl’s motives. And Uleman King—”
“Not King. As you well know. Find your point.”
“Oh, you have taken it, m’lord Prince. Elwynor has no kings.
Only Regents, a Regent in waiting for a King, like his father before him, and his grandfather. Waiting for what? A 283
King your grandfather murdered. I ask what dealings Uleman had with Mauryl before Mauryl died, or what the promise was that’s kept Elwynor under a Regent for all these years. Not so foolish and stubborn as we thought, if they were waiting for something Mauryl promised them—and now has delivered.”
“Then why send a Sihhë revenant to me, crow? Your logic escapes me.”
“Mistakes are possible. Mauryl dead—perhaps the Shaping went down the wrong road. Or perhaps he did not. Who knows but Mauryl? And perhaps Uleman.”
“Then Uleman’s logic escapes me. Why this proposal to me?”
“Why, because Mauryl had not yet fulfilled his promise. Or if he had, Uleman had no idea of it. He sees his kingdom foundering for want of an heir—and, my lord Prince, if he had such, he needs no marriage with his longstanding enemy. I’m certain he desires no Marhanen in his daughter’s bed. But Uleman is an honest and doting man, as I hear, fond of his wife, fond of his daughter, with his lords chafing at the bit, wanting more than a Regency for some King to Come. Each of his earls seeing, as mortality comes on the third and sonless Regent, that marriage with this—we dare not call her princess, only the Regent’s daughter—would legitimize any of them as an Elwynim King. This is what they see. And—if one believes in wizardly foresight—dare we believe that the third generation is the charm, that old Mauryl laid a sonlessness on the Elwynim Regent so that it would come down to this, just at the time Mauryl should produce a claimant and fulfill his magical promise.”
“Gods, I should have you my architect, not the Lord Commander of my guard. Such a structure of conjecture and hypo-thesis! Shall we put towers on ’t?”
“And shall we not think that this Shaping of Mauryl’s is a rival for your father’s power? That he is the bridegroom for this bride?
That Uleman will know this, the moment he knows this Shaping exists? Send now to Uleman accepting his
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offer and see whether he sends the bride. I think he would see her wed a dead Sihhë king rather than a live Marhanen.”
Cefwyn drew deliberately slow breaths and leaned his chin on his hand, elbow on the arm of the chair, listening, simply listening, and thinking that, whatever else, Mauryl’s childlike Shaping had least of all the knowledge what to do with a bride, Elwynim or otherwise.
But—but—Tristen had had no knowledge of horses, either, until he climbed into red Gery’s saddle. Tristen rode—a prince could be magnanimous toward such skill—far better than he did, on far less horse. That stung, more, actually, than any prospective rivalry for the Elwynim Regent’s daughter, who was, as an ivory portrait, a matter of mere theoretical and aesthetic interest—
But interest enough to risk a taint of Sihhë blood in the Marhanen line—no. The Quinalt would not accept it. The Quinalt would rise up against the Crown.
“It may be true,” Idrys said, “that Mauryl robbed this Shaping of his wits. But Mauryl gave him a book which I concede may not be Mauryl’s household accounts. This Shaping is, however you reckon his worth, not the feckless boy that came here.”
“Oh, come, would you set Tristen to guard the larder from the kitchen boys? Far less set him to govern a kingdom! And now you fear wizardly curses and prophecies? You were never so credulou
s as that before.”
“My lord Prince,” Idrys said broadly, “I did not believe in such things. I did not believe that the Mauryl Gestaurien who betrayed Elfwyn was that Mauryl who betrayed Galasien after very similar fashion. Now I do take it so.”
“On what evidence?”
“Good gods, m’lord, we talk and sit at table with a Shaping, in broad daylight and by dark. What is more probable? That Mauryl is the same Mauryl—or that you have invited a dead man to your table tonight?”
“It is a question,” he conceded.
“And if Mauryl has robbed him of his wits, still this 285
Tristen is not the young man that came here. That compliant boy is gone, my lord Prince. Look at him carefully tonight. You were far safer dining with Heryn at Heryn’s table. At least you never believed Heryn to the exclusion of your own advisers. If I were a credulous man—and I am fast becoming a believer in more than ever I did—I would say you were bewitched.”
“I and the Elwynim Regent.—So what profits us to wriggle?
We are foredoomed, we cannot stray from our wizard-set actions.
I do not believe that, Idrys! And I have seen a portrait of Elfwyn, likewise in ivory—my father had it from Grandfather and keeps it in a chest with other curiosities of Althalen’s unspendable treasures. I see nothing like our guest in that face, as I recall it.
So what is a Shaping? If the Summoned soul’s the same, then why not the flesh that clothes it?”
“Because the flesh is gone to worms, my lord, and whether a Shaping need resemble the dead it clothes I leave to wizards.
But should the soul not have something to do with Shaping the flesh about it, all the same? I should much doubt he was a Sihhë
princess. A king, well he could be. The King the Elwynim believe will come again. Go, go, accept the Elwynim marriage. I’ll warrant no bride comes across the river.”
“Then why should Mauryl not send him to the Elwynim? And how could a wizard who could raise the sleeping dead so broadly miss his target?”
“Perhaps he didn’t miss.”
“How not?”
“To wreak most havoc, my lord Prince. I’ll warrant worse than happened at Emwy comes by spring, and I’ll warrant bridges are building at least by spring thaw, if not by now, else I would have counseled you more emphatically than I do not to call the border lords in. Let your father the King take this move of yours for foresight—and so it is. But foresight against only one of your enemies, m’lord Prince. The worst one of all you lodge next your own bedchamber. The King who should come again, my lord. Well that you’ve called Emuin.”