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Cefwyn squatted at eye level and saw a man, indeed, in dire straits.
“A message,” the man said, and felt within his coat. He came out with a crushed and bloody letter, in a hand itself black with scabs and dirt. “My lord—my lord—said it was urgent. An’ me horse went down on the ice.”
“Care for this man,” Cefwyn said. “More wood.” It must have cost this man agony to get back and forth between the diminished woodpile and the fire pit. “Cut more, if you need.” Any cutting on the king’s right of way had to have royal permission. It had that, tonight.
“What is it?” came a young voice. Aewyn had gotten down from his horse, and finally found a question, squatting down beside him as he broke the seal and held the letter, fairly written, in good black ink, so that the fire lit it from behind.
Your son has returned safely, Crissand had written, himself: he knew that strong, clear hand. When your ward reached his house, he indeed went west, and reports he has seen Lord Tristen, who he says has informed him he should carry the name Elfwyn. He reports that the lord of Ynefel will come as far as Henas’amef, how soon and in what intent, unfortunately, I do not know. He says that Ynefel gave him a message for me, but that he lost it on the way, in bad weather. This alarms me, as I am sure it will trouble us all.
In the loss of Ynefel’s message, I have lent your ward the ring which Ynefel gave me…
Lost it on the way, for the gods’ sake. That was uncommon bad luck, for one of Tristen’s messages.
Surely Tristen knewit was lost. Didn’t he? Had Crissand gotten another message from him by now, since the dispatch of the letter?
And Otter—Elfwyn—was safe. Safe, and going under his given name, by Tristen’s instruction.
And carrying Crissand’s ring, as potent as Cefwyn’s own amulet. That was welcome news, but it indicated Crissand was very worried, and wanted to be sure where the boy was.
Tristen, gods be praised, was coming to Amefel.
“What does it say?” his son asked, trying to see.
“That your brother has made it back safely.”
“Then I shall see him!” Aewyn cried.
Should he see him? Cefwyn wondered. Tristen was involved. The boy had come back under some instruction from him, and there the matter of Ynefel’s ring, and Otter—Elfwyn—electing to visit his mother, of all damned things. He is convinced her ill will may have caused certain misfortunes, and he seems to believe that Ynefel’s arrival may deal with her. I am uneasy in his intention…
Not the half of it, Cefwyn thought. Crissand wrote: my forbidding him might have consequences I ca
Bloody hell, he thought. Small wonder Crissand had granted Otter the ring, in that case. Tristen was involved. Crissand hadn’t felt he had the authority to stop Otter, but he hadn’t liked that request to visit the woman, which might not have come from Tristen.
He wanted to be back on the road, never mind the hour. He wanted a fresh horse and a clear road, and he wanted to send Aewyn back home, to be safe in Guelemara under Efanor’s not inconsiderable protection.
But—but if magic was in question, separating off his son and sending him back alone was not a safe course, either. Aewyn, with a little of the old blood from his Syrillas mother, had only the disadvantage of that magical heritage at his age, none of the protection it might give him if it ever flowered. Hehimself was blind to magic, but Tristen said things magical outright glowed in the daylight to certain eyes. And if his son glowed like that to certain eyes, then he was a damned sight safer with Tristen in the neighborhood than he would be going off into the dark with a covey of equally blind Dragon Guard.
“What else?” Aewyn wanted to know, tugging ever so slightly at his sleeve.
“That your brother is no longer Otter. He’s now saying his name is Elfwyn. And he seems to have visited Lord Tristen, who told him that was his name. Here, you can read it. What questions you find in it, I fear I can’t answer. Just keep the letter safe.” He stood up and gained the attention of the Guard captain. “Make a litter. Two men to take Lord Crissand’s messenger to the monks at Aelford at a gentle pace, his care at Crown expense: his message is delivered and his duty discharged. He may go where he pleases when he is able to ride, and the monks are to provide him a good horse. The rest of you will go on with me. No canvas spread. Better the clean wind than seal us in with the smoke.” The sound of an axe resounded through the shelter, a tree going down. It would be green wood and, indeed, a great deal of smoke when it burned. It would be well, too, to leave more wood curing for the next occupant of the shelter, who might come in likewise in dire need. The messenger had lain here, burning what he must to keep himself from freezing, and had had the bad luck to have no merchants come along for days.
“Did his mother cause all his trouble?” Aewyn wanted to know, regarding Otter, now Elfwyn, while the Guard started breaking out their supper supplies. “Could she?”
“It’s a good question,” he said. It was not a matter he wanted to discuss in front of the guardsmen. “I don’t know what she can do nowadays. I don’t know the answers, I warned you that. And let’s not discuss it here.”
“Is it a magical ring?”
He touched his own amulet beneath his coat where it rested, against his bare skin. It often lent a warmth to him, if only the comfort of friendship. “I suppose in a sense it’s magical. But a prince of Ylesuin doesn’t talk about magic. It’s not something we bruit about recklessly in front of honest Guelenfolk, even if our good friends use it.”
“But I’ll see Lord Tristen?”
“I very much hope you will,” he said. The flow of questions had started again, unanswerable, but it was the surest sign of happiness in his son. He reached out, knocking back Aewyn’s hood, and tousled his hair, which Aewyn hated. “Questions, questions, questions. Will the sun rise tomorrow? Generally, but I can’t promise it. I’m not in charge of the sun.”
“You’re the king.”
“I’m not in charge of the sun, however. And I’m certainly not in charge of Tristen. He’s not our subject, you know: he’s the High King, and it could be argued we’re his. He’s our friend, is all.”
“He was duke of Amefel, once.”
“He became free of that. I let go the oath. You can’t keep a creature like him bound, you know. You never should, or you have to take what comes of it.”
“What would come of it?”
“I’m not in charge of that, either, piglet. I don’t know what might happen, but getting in Tristen’s way isn’t a wise thing to do.”
“Why? What would he do?”
“He wouldn’t do a thing,” Cefwyn said, with his own memories of ice and fire, and far more inexplicable sights. “He wouldn’t do a thing. But when he needs something, all nature bends. Sometimes it even breaks its own rules, and, no, don’t ask me what those rules are. If I knew, I’d be a wizard, and I’m certainly not.”
“You learned from one.”
“I did. And I do wish I could provide the same for you, son of mine. But there’s not a one I can find.”
“Except Lord Tristen.”
“Who’s—” Cefwyn began to say.
“Not a wizard. I know. He’s Sihhë. Which is different. But I don’t understand how it’s different.”
“You have a bit of it, through your mother, you know. And, son, if you ever do see odd things or find things glowing when you look at them—you can tell her about it. Or tell me very secretly. And quickly. I’d never say it was a bad thing, but His Holiness would have an apoplexy.”
“What’s an—”
“Never mind. But I wouldn’t be sorry if you did have a small touch of your mother’s Sight.”
“And the Aswydds have it, too.”