Emwy, Idrys. Or Malitarin. Now thereʼs a village loyal to the Marhanen. And only four hoursʼ ride, do I recall?
Emwy overnight, Idrys said stiffly, might be better.
A peaceful village. Missing sheep, for the good godsʼ sake. In the Arys district. Iʼve been looking for excuse to see the hills there, from safe remove, I assure you. I want very much to know how that land lies how wide that precious forest is, apart from Herynʼs maps. And I had as lief know what the local grievances are, beyond the missing sheep. How they think the border stands recently.
A double Patrol would be at minimum wise, my lord Prince. And lodge inEmwy, not on the road. Walls and an armed presence in the village.
I grant you. But no advance warning. No word to anyone where we ride. And polite and moderate in our lodging. Iʼd have this village stay loyal.
May I point out your guest has only light clothing?
See to that. Cefwynʼs quick eyes darted back. Youʼve never ridden?
No, sir. Mʼlord. Mauryl had
No skill with horses. Have never handled weapons.
No, lord Prince.
Idrys chides me that there is at least a possibility of Elwynim on our side of the river. Not in force. But best we do have some caution.
The Elwynim are not safe, mʼlord?
He amused Cefwyn, who tried not to laugh, and struggled with it, and finally rested his forehead on his hand, shaking his head.
There is hazard, Idrys said, completely sober.
Indeed, Cefwyn said, and soberly: Ynefel once prevented that sort of thing. But my captains believe now there will be a set of trials of that Border which is still far from Emwy, and I doubt there is anything to be feared there at the moment.
Your enemies pray for such decisions, Idrys said. And I remind you our young guest is not without any impugning of his good will entirely discreet.
And I, said Cefwyn, doubt anything at all in Emwyʼs strayed livestock but a straggle of hungry Outlaws, pushed out of the woods, if anything, by our real difficulty over on the riverside.
Outlaws, Tristen said, lost in the notion of Mauryl and Elwynim, sheep and Borders. Men in the woods.
Men in the woods?
I did see some. They were cooking something over the fire. But I know it wasnʼt a sheep. It was much smaller. They gave me bread.
Near Maurylʼs crossing? Idrys asked, so sharply attentive it startled him.
I suppose, sir, near the bridge, but not I was walking so far
Pages had whisked away the soup bowls and served them instantly with a savory stew and good bread. The smell was wonderful, and he had a mouthful of bread and sauce. His stomach felt better and better.
Most probably, Cefwyn said, there is the cause of Emwyʼs strayed sheep. Bandits. Outlaws.
The gate-guards thought I was one, Tristen said.
Well you might have been, Idrys said, but for that book. How fares that wondrous book, Lord Tristen? Still reading it?
No question from Idrys ever sounded friendly. No question from Idrys was friendly.
Do you read it? Cefwyn asked. Emuin said you made no sense of it.
I do try, sir, Tristen said faintly, and swallowed a mouthful of bread, which he had made too large. A page had refilled his wine cup and he reached for it and washed the bite down. But nothing comes to me.
Nothing comes to you, Cefwyn echoed him.
Not even the letters, Tristen confessed, and saw Idrys look at him askance.
Emuin said nothing? Cefwyn asked. Nor helped you with it.
No, sir, but I still try.
Sorcerous goings-on, Idrys muttered. Ask a priest, I say. The Bryalt might read it.
Damned certain best not ask the Quinalt, Cefwyn said. Eat. Plague on the book. Itʼs doubtless some wizardly cure for pox.
Mauryl said it was important, sir.
So is the pox.
If I learn anything of it
He saw by Cefwynʼs expression he had been foolish. Cefwyn had stopped eating, crooked finger planted across his lips, stopping laughter.
Tristen stopped eating, too. Cefwyn composed himself, but did not seem to be angry.
Sometimes, Tristen said, I donʼt know when people mean what they say.
Oh, youʼve come to a bad place for that, Idrys said.
Cefwyn was still amused and tried not to show it. Tristen. I care little for pox, except as I could apply it to Lord Heryn. Which, Cefwyn added, before Tristen found a need to say anything, is a very boring matter and a very boring man. Eat.
Yes, sir. He felt foolish. But Cefwyn said nothing more about it, and the stew went away very quickly as Idrys and Cefwyn discussed the number of men they should have along on their proposed excursion.
But the Name of Elwynim nagged at him. So did the accusations the gate-guards had flung at him. So did his recollection of the men in the woods. He reached for wine. He recalled the guards that had thrust that Name at him amid blows. It was a Name that would not, as commoner things did, find the surface and explain itself. He pulled at it, as something deeply mired.
Are not he ventured to ask finally. Are not Elwynim and Amefin both under Heryn Aswydd?
Maurylʼs maps are vastly out of date, Cefwyn said.
Idrys said, Or perhaps the old man never quite accepted the outcome of matters.
Cefwyn frowned. Enough, sir.
They are no longer under one lord, Idrys said. The Aswyddim are no longer kings. The capital has moved. Did Mauryl never say so, master wizardling?
You see why he does not sit at table, Cefwyn said, leaning back with the wine cup in his hand as pages began to remove the dishes. He provokes all my guests.
Only to the truth, my lord Prince.
But Tristen said, confused and not wishing to provoke a quarrel. Why should the Elwynim be crossing the river to steal sheep from Heryn Aswydd?
Easiest to show, Cefwyn said, and thrust himself to his feet. Idrys pushed back his chair to rise, and Tristen did, in confusion, thinking they were leaving the table, and looked for a cue where to go next; but Cefwyn immediately found what he wanted among the parchments stacked on a sideboard and brought a large one back to the table, carelessly pushing dishes aside to give it room as pages frantically rescued the last plates. The salt-cellar became a corner weight. A wine pitcher did, moisture threatening the inks. There was an up and a down to the words, and Tristen diffidently moved closer as Cefwyn beckoned him to see.
In fair, faded colors and age-brown lines, it was a map; and Cefwynʼs finger and Cefwynʼs explanation to him pointed out a design that was subscribed Henasʼamef; and a pattern that was the Forest of Amefel, and then, differently made, and darker Marna, and the Lenalim which wound through it.
Here sits Ynefel and the river. There is the old Arys bridge. Our realm of Ylesuin ends here Cefwynʼs finger traveled up where the Lenalim bent through forest, and Marna Wood stopped. In that large open land were divisions of land, drawings representing fortresses, and the whole was marked Elwynor. He saw one fortress, Ilefnian, that touched recognitions in him. Ashiym was the seat of a lord, a place with seven towers, but they had only drawn six
Names: Names, and names.
This is Elwynor. Did Mauryl show you nothing of maps?
Cefwynʼs voice came at a distance. He tried to pay attention, but the map poured Names in on him. A few. I know he had them. He never showed me. But I know what they are, sir. They
A haze seemed to close about his vision.
Tristen? he heard.
Elwynor was much larger once, he said, because it seemed so to him, but that was not what he was seeing. His heart pounded. He felt the silence around him.