A second child is born, they assign the same name, the chroniclers fail to rectify the account, and someone later attempts to mend matters, further confounding the confounded.”
“Elfwyn’s younger brother was always given, in every account I’ve heard from Emuin and my mother, as Aswyn, no mention of Hasufin.”
“If we for a brief moment assume the Red Chronicle can be reconciled with the Bryalt account, and that this is Elfwyn’s only surviving brother who appears as Aswyn, and that it is also Hasufin—though they give the age as nine, not twelve—at Elfwyn’s coronation, and that it is not a cousin I found also named Aswyn—an Aswyn who is the right age does appear in further record, a prince among princes, and there were dozens 439
honored with the title but remote in the succession. He was a student, as Elfwyn was, of Mauryl Gestaurien, as who in that court under the age of his majority was not a student of Mauryl?—But, but, lest I forget, my lord King, in this prolific confusion of Aswyns and Hasufins—another name of note: an Emuin, called Emuin Udaman in the chronicle, named as Mauryl’s apprentice, aged thirty-four at that time, if the chronicler made no other mistakes. Is that not remarkable? If that were our Emuin, and not a cousin, that would make his age—”
“Over a hundred.”
“One might certainly ask. And dark-haired still in your memory as well as mine. I debated mentioning that. And must.”
He recalled Emuin of the immaculate Teranthine robes—but more the graying man in ink-stained roughspun, making a most unwizardly ascent of a willow in which his king’s son’s first hawk had entangled its jesses and tried to break its wings.
Emuin, skinny legs in evidence, retrieving the wayward bird, which bit his thumb and his ear bloody for the favor.
“You find conspiracy under every leaf, master crow. You cannot doubt Emuin. He’d laugh at you.”
“A man whose ambitions and actions, like Mauryl’s, may be older than the Marhanen reign? I find at least a question in the coincidence and a duty to report it.”
“I find nothing at all sinister in it. He always claimed to have been Mauryl’s student. Why should he not be in the account?
And if we accept that Mauryl was as old as the Amefin believe—as by our experience, he might be—what’s a mere hundred years? Why quibble, if we accept Mauryl saw centuries? If we accept that Tristen is—whatever he is—why, gods, indeed, why balk at anything? Our search through archive is for a dead man!”
“One observation more, my lord. I may yet astound you.
Emuin, most certainly our Emuin, indisputably, paid a visit to the Bryaltines in this very town when he left Mauryl and came seeking service with your grandfather. But, what is not in the Red Chronicle, but in the Bryalt book, he recorded a curious wish among them: that for a sum of gold, provenance 440
unknown, a sign be written on the wall in letters of curious shape, that the Sihhë star be set in silver there, and that candles in certain number be burned day and night.”
“You jest.”
“Certainly not the sort of shrine one could bribe the Quinaltines to establish. And not one even the Teranthines would countenance.”
“Was it done?”
“Oh, it is there, m’lord. The size of a man’s hand, that star, with odd symbols, in a remote corner of the crypt. To this hour the candles, thirty-eight is the specification, burn day and night—tended by someone in constant care. The sum of money must have been considerable. It does go back eighty years, during your grandfather’s reign. Perhaps, too, the Bryaltines are very general in their worships; in the villages, I have observed, Bryaltine priests seem very little distinguishable from hedge wizards.
Most of all, this is Amefel, my lord, and never did I feel it so keenly as standing in that small shrine.”
“Thirty-eight. Why thirty-eight?”
“Why, twice Nineteen, my lord King. A second Nineteen. A return of the old gods? Another ascendancy of wizardry over men?”
“Damn.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“Emuin is Teranthine. A rational man, not a religious. I know him, my teacher, my—”
“The record is there to be read, my lord, in the shrine, if you will I bring it to you.—My lord, granted the Teranthines do shelter him and attest his piety. But they were an obscure sect before he came to them and brought them fame and fortune. As Emuin has grown in favor, in two, now three reigns, so they have prospered in donatives and courtly devotions of lords who would not omit a respectable order, especially now, one favored by the Marhanens. And so blessed, would the Teranthines de-nounce him willingly for his private devotions, to whatever powers? A minor peccadillo, one of those small 441
matters I doubt Emuin told your grandfather—or your father when your father made Emuin your tutor. I know him well. And I doubt Emuin has ever confessed fully his sins to me—or to the Teranthines, who doubtless do not wish to bear the burden thereof, even if they suspected it. I am tolerant, but not where it regards the overthrow of the realm or fealty to dead wizards.”
“Gods,” Cefwyn muttered, and touched his chest where once he had worn a silver circlet, a Teranthine amulet. But he had given the amulet to Tristen. It had been comfort to him as a child afraid of dark places and his grandfather’s nightmares of burning children. It had become a luck-piece when he became a man, if only because Emuin had given it to him. He had seldom thought of the religiousness, only of the friend and counselor.
Now he did think of it. Now, perhaps belatedly, he questioned to whom he had given something he treasured, his personal attachment to Emuin.
Emuin had been a father to him, more than his own had been; and to lose both his father and Emuin in a matter of days—
Now, he thought angrily, eyes stinging and hazed,—now you have me to yourself, do you not, master crow? My bird of ill omen. My jealous shadow. Now you have discredited even Emuin. And of course you speak against Tristen. Shall I trust only you, hereafter?
“Emuin is at Anwyfar,” Idrys was saying. “I can send the message. I can summon him. If he is not already on his way, on the news of your father’s—”
“Let Emuin be. Let be, Idrys! Gods! You have an excess of zeal for turning stones.”
“My lord is too generous for his own safety’s sake. Go back to the capital, where a King of Ylesuin belongs. Leave your brother this thankless frontier. Above all, I counsel you, do not let Efanor go to Guelemara without you. Far better he stay here in Amefel with you, if you will not go.”
“If Efanor dies here, well-sped? Is that your meaning? Is that what you say?”
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“I am my lord’s man, none else.”
“You do not trust Efanor as my representative? Even absent the chance for my father’s funeral?”
“He is, straight from his devotions in godly Llymaryn, a naïve and believing man. To send him alone among the machinations of your father’s courtiers and the western lords is not wise, my lord king. Hold him here in the place of danger and go yourself back to safety. Hard duty is the lot of superfluous princes, especially if they are contrary-minded. And if Lord Tristen of the Sihhë asks you lend him soldiers to lead, why, give him the Amefin and march them against Ynefel as he wishes. It would please the Amefin commons and most of the lords, who do not mourn Heryn Aswydd or his taxmen or his usurers, and give them common purpose against an enemy not yourself.”
“And if Tristen should succeed, and take Ynefel from this purported enemy—this—Hasufin of various chronicles?”
“Why, good success. I should applaud it, since I cannot counsel you against this Sihhë gift. And if your Lord Warden of Ynefel should instead join with your more numerous enemies across the river—at least your enemies will all be facing you, not standing at your back.”
He drew a deep breath. “And as we spin out this skein of distrust, what should we do with Emuin?”
“Oh, by all means, bring Emuin here. Your Sihhë lord might well need him and his shrine.”
“Idrys,—”<
br />
“I am entirely serious, and I pray you take me so. Any other course may make your reign a short one.”
“Already men of my father’s court think I had a hand in my father’s death.”
“I have not heard that said today.”
“Oh, but it was said often yesterday. It was the reason of Efanor’s coming to Henas’amef, master of all suspicion! Maybe it was an empty court my brother hoped to find, where he could ensconce himself and his Quinalt advisers, while Father caught me consorting with Elwynim and Amefin
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sorcerers. Maybe he was honest in his hope to save me from sorcery and heresy. Killing Heryn did not prevent my enemies from shaping their own belief, nor will it in future. So shall I likewise murder my brother, my black and bloody counselor?
A pious and believing man Efanor may be, but he is no innocent in intrigue. He and I survived my grandfather together, and my uncle is in his grave. Do not talk to me of courtiers besieging Efanor’s sweet innocence! I will not have you of all people fall under his spell!”
“I am not unaware of his abilities, nor blind to his ambitions—nor to his Quinalt supporters. Do what you will. You are King. When you are an old king, none will dare remember it to you.”
“I would remember. And they would write it, after I am dead.”
“What care you then? Likely they will write it anyway.”
“But I would know. I have to sleep of nights. I love my brother, damn you! Is that a fault in me?”
“My lord King, leave this place, leave Amefel and all its influences. There is too much of the Old Kingdom here. You belong eastward, in Guelemara. When you can breathe that air, you will forget all these morose thoughts—and this Sihhë revenant.”
“Are you afraid, Idrys? Have I finally gone where you fear to follow? Have I possibly gotten ahead of you?”
“I am my lord’s man.”
“Your advice to me once had more than retreat in it.”
“Shall I give you the advice I like best? Kill Efanor, kill the Sihhë, and be rid of Emuin all at one stroke. But you would never hear that. Kill Orien Aswydd and her sister. But you will not. Kill Heryn’s four feckless cousins, who will lie down with conspirators and get up with ideas, but you will not.”
“No,” he conceded. “I will not.”
Idrys frowned. “So. Who is to the fore now, m’lord King? I, or you?”
“There is yet,” Cefwyn said, “no news from Sovrag?”
“No, my lord. Nothing.”
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“It is possible, you know, that even Tristen’s fears are born of too much rich dessert and a disposition to dream of that place on uneasy nights. It may be nothing. He may come back on his own, confounding us all.”
“You dismiss all my advice out of hand, then complain I am too timid. What shall I say else? Dream, my King, of a safe and pleasant province.”
“I hear you, Idrys. I warn myself by everything you’ve said.
And hear me, now: I would rather my brother in court with the northern barons about him than to see him command the southern barons in the field. These marchlanders, excluding Amefel, are the most formidable troops in the whole of Ylesuin, and Efanor is far more to Amefel’s liking than I; I know it; Efanor is everywhere better loved than I—”
“How not? He has never had to use the hard edge of authority: he can be fair weather to every man. Prince Efanor simply listens and lets every man shape his own desires about him. A reigning king has no such luxury.”
“So there is no remedy.”
“No, no, no, m’lord King. Give Efanor real authority. Give it too much and too early. Let him fail—save his life. Then he will also appear in your debt.”
“What, fail at the cost of my southern lords? Of this border?
If he did try to general the south, provoked a war with the Elwynim, and decimated the best troops we have,—then where should we be, Idrys, thou and I? In the capital,—with battalions of courtiers?” The leg hurt at a sudden shift of weight; he winced and eased it, and shook his head. “I will not give him the south.”
“Ah, but release the lords home. They’d not answer a second summons this season. It’s coming up harvest-time, and winter.
They will sit in their capitals. Meanwhile let him loose his Quinalt legalists on the Amefin, and he’ll not be the beloved prince by spring. Not in Amefel.”
“Let him loose the Quinalt on the Amefin and I won’t able to hold Amefel.”
“My lord,—”
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“I have made up my mind, Idrys.” He waved a hand at the table. “I have signed orders for levies on the villages and master Tamurin has made you lists, names and ages. I do not invoke them yet, understand. But they are there, against need, and can go out at any hour, as faithful a list as the Aswydds’ taxmen own.—Ah! and speaking of Orien and Tarien—”
“Yes, m’lord King?”
“The ladies Aswydd are mortally penitent, have you heard?
They apply to be freed of arrest.”
“Surely Your Majesty jests.”
“Oh, I am considering it. Better them than their rivals, whose account books we have not discovered.—And the mayor of the town wishes to see me. So do various of the Amefin thanes, earls, lords…whatever they style themselves and however they relate to the Aswydds, who’ve been in every bed in the province.
Likewise the local patriarch of the Quinalt wishes audience—I can guess that matter. I shall make donations for services in the capital. And, no, I’ll not send my father’s body with Efanor when he goes—I stand by my word in council. No funeral until I bring our father home, no chance for Efanor to display his extravagant grief in public show, even unintended, to raise hopes of him and rumors about me, have no fear.—Gods! I find this gruesome.”
“But wise, my lord. Not to remove your father from the province without justice done him—is a good and pious thought.
I did applaud it.”
“I have learned from you.” He moved, and winced. “I do thank you, Idrys, for all your dusty labors. I am warned, regarding Emuin, and I shall not forget—but I look for him, I do look for him. I shall thank you, also, if you advise me at whatever hour he arrives.”
“My lord King could thank me well by taking himself to bed before he lames himself.”
“Take to your own for at least two hours. I need your clear wits, Idrys.”
“Majesty.” Idrys bowed, unsmiling, picked up the lists and the levy orders, and departed.
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Cefwyn wrapped his arms about his ribs, cursed, and then in febrile restlessness, rose up and began to pace the room, cursing his sore hand at every other step with the stick, which took his mind from the ache in his leg and the greater ache in his sensibilities. He wrapped himself in righteousness and anger sufficient to deal with the Aswyddim and the Quinalt conjoined.
Then he went out into the anteroom and opened the door, little caring now for the pride that had kept him from using the stick in view of others. The pain was more. He gazed across the hall, where guards still stood at Tristen’s door, awaiting what—gods alone knew, doing what, the gods alone cared. They were assigned: they were on duty. No matter that there was no one there to guard.
Soldiers, Tristen asked. Soldiers, for the gods’ sake. In so short a time Tristen’s concerns had changed so much.
He remembered the methodical rise and fall of a blade in Tristen’s hands. A dark figure wreaking destruction without pity.
The bowed, sad figure that rode ahead of them homeward, on the tired red mare.
He leaned painfully on the stick and turned, furious with his own pain and faced with the innocent guards at his own door, two Guelen guards, still of the Prince’s Guard, and, part of the lending of trusted men of other commands, two Lanfarnessemen, giving him Guelen of the Dragon Guard and the Prince’s Guard to spare to other posts.
Then, on unremitting duty, there were the two in chains, lordly Erion and the river-brat Denyn, horseman an
d pirate, keeping at least the semblance of peace between themselves—and looking anxious under his close notice.
“How do you fare?” he asked them, fighting the pain, compelling himself to be patient and soft-spoken, when an outcry of rage was boiling behind his teeth.
“Well, Your Majesty,” Erion murmured.
“The wounds are healing?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
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He looked at Denyn. “How do you deal with your companion?”
“Very well, Your Majesty.”
Erion’s right wrist and Denyn’s left were wrapped with leather against the galling chain.
“Do they,” Cefwyn asked the Guelen sergeant, “keep the peace?”
There was a little hesitation, a tense regard from the sergeant.
“Aye, m’lord King.” He did not entirely believe that report, and regarded the pair skeptically and at length, but it was unprecedented that a Guelen sergeant should lie for two miscreant foreigners. He had made matters clear to the fractious barons. What remained was cruel, and a difficult matter for his own guard, and it challenged his own pain. “Free them of the chain,” he said, and walked away—insisting to himself that he was himself free, that he was not bound to Tristen; that he owed nothing to Tristen; that Tristen’s apprehensions were of no substance and Tristen’s appearance in his court in this most perilous time for Ylesuin was more related to an old man’s natural demise than to any immutable destiny of the Marhanens—and that Tristen’s fears were no more than innocence confronted with the very frightening sight of the King’s justice.
Which…had not stayed Tristen’s hand on the field at Emwy.
He was, if one believed anything about Tristen, a conjured soul who had shown a frightening skill at arms, a conjured soul who was mostly surely not the feckless, bookish Elfwyn of the Red Chronicle. There had been defenders in that hour who had fought for Elfwyn—some of them his heirs; but Tristen had defended him. Tristen had saved him from certain death. Was that the action of an enemy? Was that a man he should doubt, no matter what Idrys found or did not find in archive?