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Efanor had always liked to know things others did not—and once Efanor knew there was a complexity of reasons, rather like Umanon, but with more wit, Efanor was haring off down the ramifications and thinking up ideas—which could not be state secrets if he told his priest.
In that tactic, Cefwyn thought, he had his best chance to rescue his brother: get Efanor so deep in state intrigues, little ones at first, that Efanor would lean to him and keep his secrets rather than the Quinalt’s.
Then beware the Quinalt, he thought, foreseeing trouble of a dangerous sort once the Quinalt saw Efanor slipping from their grasp.
He was rather pleased with the outcome of that conversation. His leg ached less. He felt he was on top of matters, at least starting the day, as he saw Efanor out the door.
But no sooner had he gone back to the table and his morning agenda, than Emuin was at the door, craving admittance of his guards.
And on two more cups of tea—Emuin spilled another web of less divine scheming, with secrets to tell him.
“Our young man,” Emuin said, among other pleasantries, “is aware of Mauryl’s enemy and in occasional communication with him.” “Here?” he was moved to ask.
“Occasionally. But Place is important. Magic clings to places, and places once built mark the earth for a long, long time. He and the late lord Regent sought to take Althalen from Hasufin. I believe he did at least give good account of himself. He has prevented absolute disaster in that precinct, and wizardry of some sort called him up there. But I do not know whose maneuver it was and I do not know whose maneuver the lady Regent may be in coming here. I am not confident it’s Tristen’s doing. He’s young, he’s sometimes unaware—I don’t know but what the enemy could instill an idea in him. Certainly I can’t. But I don’t put it beyond Hasufin to do so.”
“This is the dreadful Barrakkêth. This is the wizard capable of turning the Zeide into Ynefel! Now you’re saying he’s a feckless child open to malign and subtle influences!”
“He’s not a wizard. And I am saying Mauryl did not Shape him as he was at his height of power. Mauryl—the gods know what Mauryl did.
Mauryl certainly didn’t capture all of him.” “Glorious! Half a wizard.”
“Don’t make light of it! There is every chance he is simply—young, as I said from the very begi
“And getting older by the day, master grayfrock.”
“Be careful of him. Only be careful. He may have done you a great and very wise service at Althalen. I think, perhaps, since things are quieter, that Hasufin may have gotten his fingers burned. —Did I mention the lord Regent had Sihhé blood? You distracted me with your questions, young King.”
He swallowed the tea he had in his mouth. “No, you did not mention it. I’ve proposed to marry his daughter—Did I mention that, sir? And the lady has gray eyes.”
“It was wizardry, however, that the lord Regent used. Wizardry, as I strongly had the impression. I don’t say Sihhé can’t become wizards, and I think the lord Regent was, if Your Majesty wishes, my considered opinion, both.”
“Good blessed gods, old master, I am speaking of marriage with this woman. I have deliberated marriage with this woman for months. Do you just now report this small fact? Damn it!”
“First, I didn’t know about the lord Regent until Tristen told me.
There are wizards about. They do make rustlings in the world. Second, that blood is very thin, very thin, or the lord Regent himself could have fulfilled the prophecy. He could not. He was nothing to what Tristen is.”
“Will Tristen inherit Elwynor?’
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Should I marry her?”
“If you fancy her, why not?”
“Why not? Good gods, spare me. Give me advice, sir.’
“I confess I don’t know. I could never select a wife for a man, being celibate, myself.”
“Another reason not to trust wizards.”
“It’s not a requirement. It does seem to work out that way. But I have told you what I came to tell you.”
“What shall I do, damn it, sir? Where is your advice?”
“Idrys knows far more of worldly things than I. You might ask him.”
With which Emuin took his leave, off to, Emuin declared, his devotions.
“Hell!” he said to the four walls.
“My lord?” A
“Hell and damnation.” He went and stared out the window, at the roof slates and the morning sky. The breakfast dishes were vanishing behind him. He heard the quiet clatter.
And a page slipped up, diffidently to hand him a note.
It was sealed with wax, with a seal of a Tower and quarterings.
Her seal. Of course her seal. They had carried the ba
I accept your offer, it read. I shall marry you.
The sun was well up and the household about its day’s business when Tristen waked—staring at the ceiling of his own room, lying in his own bed, in uneasy comfort.
He hardly wanted to face the day. He had far rather lie still and cause no one any more difficulty.
But he could not, lying there and staying quiet for fear the servants would rush in, keep his thoughts from wandering over where he had been and what had happened, and, worst of all, to Cefwyn, and Cefwyn’s reasons for being angry at him.
He supposed it was a fault in himself that he could not leave it at that, that he needed desperately to make peace with Cefwyn. He was not even entirely certain Cefwyn was angry. But it seemed at least that Cefwyn had every right to be.
That was what finally drove him out of bed.
He had his breakfast, which pleased his servants; he dressed deliberately in clothing his servants somehow found for him—black—and, resolved to mend his behavior, talked pleasantly with Uwen, who had been able to sleep late, too, which Uwen almost never could. He took a little bread and opened the square of window that would open and set it out for the pigeons, which he would do every morning he had leisure—he wanted to have his life quiet and the same again, and he did all those things he would do when his life was at its most even.
But after breakfast he excused himself to Uwen and said he was going across the hall. “I promise, Uwen,” he said. “I do most earnestly promise to go nowhere else without coming back for you. Rest. Do what you care to do.”
“I don’t distrust ye, m’lord,” Uwen protested.
“I deserve your mistrust,” he said. “And I am going to do better, Uwen. I promise I am.”
“M’lord,” Uwen said, seeming embarrassed. But there was little more he could say than that.
It was clear by the number of guards at Cefwyn’s door that Cefwyn was in and most likely alone: at least no other lord’s guards were standing about. He went across the corridor, trailing the two members of his guard that were obliged to go with him even this distance, and asked entry to Cefwyn’s apartment, half-expecting that Cefwyn would not grant it, and dreading the meeting if he did.
But the guards passed him through on standing orders, it seemed, which had never been revoked, and he passed through Idrys’ domain between the doors, finding that vacant, and so on into Cefwyn’s rooms, where Cefwyn sat at the dining table which he had had pulled over to the light of the window.
“M’lord,” he said faintly.
“Tristen.” Cefwyn started to get up, and it cost him pain. Cefwyn settled again with a sigh, and beckoned him.
“I didn’t know that you’d see me,” Tristen said, and came and took the chair Cefwyn offered. “I’m truly sorry, sir.”
Cefwyn reached out across the table and caught his wrist. “Tristen. I would have called you last night but they said you were abed.” “I was, sir. What did you want?”
Cefwyn laughed and shook his head, letting him go. “Constant as the sunrise. ‘What did you want?’ I wanted you alive, you silly goose. I wanted you well.”