Yes, Cefwyn said, in that awkwardness.
He could easily find Emwy. It was where it seemed to him it should be. He ventured to touch that Name, which he had not known, though Cefwyn and Idrys had spoken it, until he saw it written on the map Words could be elusive like that: there, but not there, until of a sudden they unfolded with frightening suddenness and he saw them he saw all of Amefel, and the air seemed close, and warm, and frightening.
Emwy, indeed, Cefwyn said. Thatʼs where the sheep go wandering.
More than near the river, Idrys muttered. The stones of that place are uneasy. I still would speak with you privately, mʼlord, on this matter.
Pish. Sihh kings. Before my grandfather. Did Mauryl teach you the history of Althalen?
No, mʼlord, nothing. Tristen felt faint, overwhelmed with Places, and distances.
Probably as well. It are you well, Tristen?
Yes, sir. The haze lifted as if a cold, clear wind had blown onto his face, and now the solidity of the table was under his hands. He caught a breath and set his wine cup farther away from him. Mauryl said I should be careful of wine. I feel it a little warm, sir.
Gods, and us straitly charged not to corrupt you. Annas, open the window. The fresh air will help him.
No, Tristen said quickly. No, I am well, mʼlord Prince, but I have drunk altogether enough. He made himself stand straight, though the dizziness still nagged him, a distance from all the world. Iʼve not eaten today. Not eaten well for several days.
So I had it reported. Cook is a spy, you know.
I had not known, sir. He found Cefwynʼs humor barbed, sometimes real, sometimes not. He feared he was being foolish; but he truly had no strength and no steadiness left.
A dangerous young man, said Idrys. My lord Prince, for his sake as well as yours, do not bring him into your society. His harmlessness is an access others can use. And will, to his harm and yours.
Trust this man, Cefwyn had said. Yet Idrys called him dangerous, and spoke of harm, when he had only looked for a little freedom. Idrys might be right, by what Cefwyn said. It might well be that Idrys was right.
I shall go to my room, sir, if you please, I want to lie down. Please, sir.
He has not drunk all that much, said Idrys.
Much for him, perhaps. Perhaps you should see him to bed.
Aye, my lord.
Tristen turned, then, to go to the door, and had to lean on the table, bumping the salt-cellar. Sometimes, he tried to explain to them, sometimes too many Words, too many things at once
Too much of Amefin wine, Cefwyn said with a shake of his head. Debauchery over maps. That youʼll sleep sound tonight I donʼt doubt. Idrys, find some reliable Guelen man that can stand watch on him personally, someone he can confide in, and mind that the man is both kind and discreet. Heʼs utterly undone. Have care of him.
Sir, Tristen murmured, yielded to Idrysʼ firm grip and made the effort at least to walk, foolish as he had already made himself. He wondered if Cefwyn would after all take Idrysʼ advice and send him back to solitude.
But Idrysʼ advice he already knew, and asked him no questions.
Idrys escorted the wobbling youth to the care of the assigned guards one could take that for granted, as Idrys knew his duties.
And for no particular and more than one reason, Cefwyn wandered to the clothes press in his bedroom, and to a chest that, with a turn of the key set in its lock, yielded up a small oval plaque set in gold, with a chain woven through with pearls.
Ivory, on which an Elwynim artist had rendered black hair, green gown, a face
A face lovely enough to make a man believe the artist was bewitched himself. A face fair enough to make a man believe in Elwynim offers of peace and alliance, while Elwynim bones bleached above the gate for trying to cut short his tenure in Henasʼamef.
A face of which one could believe gentleness and intelligence, wit and resolve alike. Could such clear eyes countenance assassins? Could such beauty threaten?
There might for all the prince knew be a bewitchment, not on the artist, but on the piece itself, which warmed to his hand. He should have sent the piece back with the last dagger-wielding fool, or flung it in the river, but he had not. He had not been fool enough to reply to it, save by the means of word passed to suspected spies that he wished to hear more how should a man or a prince wish not to hear more of such a face, even from his mortal enemies? but no answer had come, either floating the river, flying pigeon-fashion, or trudging down Amefin roads.
And, failing such elaboration he should have tossed the miniature out the window, lost it, forgotten it at least, and kept the chest, which was finely done, of carved wood and brass.
But at certain moments he still resorted to it, asking himself what in fact was this offer of the Regent in Ilefnian, what was the scheme that had the sonless Regent offering his only daughter to prevent a war his lords and advisors seemed bent on provoking, a war the Elwynim march lords invited in daggers, in poison, in cattle-theft? Count the ways: Elwynim found occasions to make his tenure difficult, and he counted this proposal among the tactics, a way to ruin his fatherʼs digestion did he even mention it in court in Guelemara.
Perhaps, on the other hand, Elwynor thought to create a better chance for its assassins, and that was why the chest had come to him secretly, by an Amefin carter, who said a man had given him the box and said the prince in Henasʼamef would pay more than Heryn Aswydd to have the piece.
That was the truth. One wondered what other rules of commerce the Amefin commons had understood.
The door opened and shut. Idrys walked back in.
Ah, Idrys said, having caught him temporizing again with the border.
Ah, yourself, Cefwyn said. I take oath that he knows nothing of Elwynor.
Oh, that one? Sir mooncalf? I take oath he knows nothing Mauryl did not tell him.
He had, in fact, rewarded the messenger handsomely for this ivory miniature, carried to him from the border by an Amefin peasant. And he doubted not at all that Heryn Aswydd wished to have intercepted that box.
But no paintings in ivory comprised Herynʼs offer of alliance. Herynʼs offer came straight to his bed. Often. And twice over.
Cefwyn tossed the miniature back into the chest and closed the lid and locked it, insofar as the lock could serve to protect it from general knowledge.
Is there a reason, Idrys asked, my lord contemplates such Elwynim gifts, on the eve of a ride so near the border?
I might, of course, wed Orien instead. Or Tarien. It would secure the province.
My lord jests, of course.
Heryn counts it no jest. Nor does Orien. As my Lord Commander knows. Cefwyn walked to the window, where the sun went down into sullen dark. The window showed the far horizon and a seam of red light.
One could not see Ynefel from here. One could not know for certain, except as one believed Tristenʼs tale, that the fortress had fallen. And one did, in such unsettled times, want to know what the situation was, bordering Marna, and what the locals saw and surmised about changes in their sheep-meadows.
Though in the wizardly fashion in which Emuin knew things, Emuin had confirmed it was so, that Ynefel and its master had indeed fallen and a prince could become so utterly dependent on such attesters as Emuin, and Heryn, and even Idrys, with all his attachments and private reasons.
By far less arcane means a prince knew that the twins had their own designs, independent of Heryn, and knew that their brother Heryn, who could not keep his tax accounts in one book, had his private reasons, and his none-so-private ambitions. And all the cursed pack of them, Elwynim, Amefin Aswyddim, and the Elwynim barons, had a notion how to secure in bed and by other connivance what they could not win of Inreddrinʼs heir in war unless Inreddrinʼs heir grew careless about personally verifying the reports others gave him.