Then his fingers went numb, so that he could hardly hold the cup from falling.
Idrys caught it before it hit the floor, the servants caught him before he did but he was still aware as they carried him to a soft, silky and very cold bed.
Then he slept, truly slept, for the first time since his own bed in Ynefel.
CHAPTER 10
Idrys occupied the chair opposite him when he waked Idrys sat with arms folded about his ribs, head bowed. But not asleep. Tristen caught a sharp glance from that black shape near the light of the diamond-glass window and recalled uneasily both how he had come to this bed, and why this man sat watch over him.
Idrys did not move. Even with no cause but his waking, Idrysʼ lean, black-mustached countenance held no expression toward him but disapproval, a coldness that seemed to him far greater and far more fearsome than that of the gate-guards or the Guelen soldiers, who had toward the last of his ordeal sometimes laughed, or touched his shoulder kindly, or offered him a cup of water. He imagined that he smelled food. But mostly he smelled burnt evergreen. He supposed that, over all, this room was far finer than the guardsʼ quarters, and that the things over which Idrys presided were far more extravagant than the soldiers had offered but he had, he thought, far rather the Guelen soldiers, if he could only have the bath and the bed, too.
He pretended to sleep a while longer, in the vain hope that Idrys would lose patience and leave, or call someone else to watch him sleep. Idrys had to be bored. He hoped to outlast him.
There is food and clothing, Idrys said finally, undeceived, whenever you feel so inclined.
Yes, sir. Thus discovered, Tristen dutifully sat up, aching and sore, and followed with his eyes Idrysʼ consequent nod toward the table in the other room, where a breakfast was laid he saw from where he sat on large silver platters.
He was chagrined to have slept through so much coming and going.
And he supposed if they gave him breakfast they were going to take care of him and that if they took care of him he must have duties of some kind that he was neglecting lying abed.
So he rolled stiffly out onto his feet and wrapped his tangled sheet about him as he cast about looking for his clothes.
Have your breakfast first, Idrys said, so without demur he went and looked over a far too abundant table of cheeses and fruit and cold bread, while Idrys, never rising from his chair, watched him with that same dark, half-lidded stare.
He gestured at the table. Do you not want some too, sir?
I do not eat with His Highnessʼ guests.
That seemed as much conversation as Idrys was willing to grant to him, and Idrys seemed impatient that he had even asked. In embarrassment and confusion, he sat down, gathered up a bit of bread, buttered it, and ate it with diminished appetite, for he had little stomach left after days of hunger, and he felt Idrysʼ eyes on him all the time he was eating. He drank a little, and had a piece of fruit, and had had enough.
I am done, sir. He was appalled at the waste of such delicate food. I could hardly eat so much. Will you eat, now?
Dress, said Idrys, and pointed to a corner where a stack of, as he supposed, towels rested on a table.
He found it clean linens and clothing not his own dirty and torn clothes, but wonderful, soft new clothing of purest white and soft brown along with a basin and ewer, a wonderful mirror that showed his image in glass, and all such other things as he could imagine need of. But most pleasant surprise, he found his own silver mirror and razor and whetstone, which he thought the gate-guards had taken for themselves; he was very glad to have the little kit back, since Mauryl had given it to him.
And all the while there was Idrys at his back, arms folded, watching his every move. He tried to ignore the presence as he reached for the razor and tried to ignore the stare on his back as he began, however inexpertly, to clean his face of the morning stubble. Idrys remained unmoved, a wavery image in the silver mirror he chose to use.
He combed his hair and dressed in the clothing that lay ready for him which fit very close and had many complications and required servants to help him. It was not as comfortable as his ordinary clothing.
What they had provided him was like the fine clothing that Idrys wore, like that Cefwyn had worn: gray hose, a shirt of white cloth, boots of soft brown leather, a doublet of brown velvet, far, far finer and more delicate cloth than that Mauryl had given him, and his fingers were entranced by the feeling of the clothing. But he would have rather the things he knew, and the clothing Mauryl had given him, and Mauryl with him to tell him not to spoil his shirt. It was a thought that brought a lump to his throat.
Your own had to be burned, Idrys told him when he asked diffidently where his own things were. And he wished they had not had to burn what Mauryl had given him, and thought them very wasteful of good food and clothes, and candles, which Mauryl had said were not easily come by. But he dared not argue with the people who fed him and sheltered him. He supposed there were new rules for this Place, in which such things counted less.
Idrys regarded him with the same coldness when he had finished and when he stood shaved, combed, and dressed. He found no clue to tell him whether it was fault Idrys found or whether it was impatience with his awkwardness, or merely it was possible boredom.
What shall I do now, sir? Tristen asked. He hoped for answers to his questions, for a settling of his place and duties in this keep perhaps to speak at length with master Emuin, who reminded him most of Mauryl.
Rest, Idrys said. Do as you wish to do. Pay my presence no heed. I shall stay at least until His Highness calls me. He will probably sleep late.
Did you sleep, master Idrys?
I do not sleep on duty, Idrys said, arms folded.
Tristen wandered back to the table and found the little food he had taken, and perhaps Idrysʼ at least moderate and reasonable answer to him, had further stirred his appetite. He sat down and buttered another bit of bread and cut a very thin bit of cheese. Idrys had settled in a chair nearby, still watching him the way Owl might watch a mouse.
Master Idrys, he found courage to say. If you please, what is the name of this place?
The town? Henasʼamef. The castle is the Zeide.
Kathseide.
So men used to call it. Did Mauryl tell you that?
No, sir. Master Idrys. Tristen swallowed a suddenly dry bit of bread, still terrified of this grim man, and was very glad that Idrysʼ mood had passed from annoyance to this sullen, idle companionship.
Why have you come? Idrys asked him, then, as swift as Owlʼs strike.
For help, master Idrys.
Idrys only stared at him. There seemed one reasonable thing to say to Idrys, and to all the people whose sleep he had disturbed.
Or if you will only let me go, Tristen said in a small, respectful voice, I will go away. If I knew where to go. Am I in the wrong place? Do you know, master Idrys?
Idrysʼ face remained unchanged, and in that silence Tristenʼs heart beat painfully. Idrys finally said, Ifs count nothing. But Tristen did not take it for his answer, only a sign that Idrys had heard his offer and, pointedly perhaps, ignored his real question regarding his permanent disposition.
But in that moment came a rap at the door, and Idrys rose and went to see to it. There was some ado there: servants, Tristen thought, were waiting outside, or perhaps guards; but the fuss came inside with an opening of the inner doors, and it was Emuin.
He rose from the table, glad to see the old man, who had listened to him patiently last night, who had been kind and pleasant to him and kept his promises to bring him to the master of the keep. Emuin smiled at him gently now and dismissed Idrys to wait outside as behind Emuin came Cefwyn himself, whom he was not quite so glad to see, and who looked reluctant and unhappy to enter. Cefwyn clapped Idrys on the shoulder in passing and spoke some quiet word to him, after which Idrys nodded and left.