Mʼlord, Uwen was saying, patting the sleeperʼs cheek. Mʼlord, dʼ ye hear? At the bedside, Uwen took the sleeperʼs hand, which the physicianʼs ministrations had left prey to cold air, and, tucking it across Tristenʼs chest, drew the blankets up to his chin.
Like chiseled stone the face was, too perfect and seemed older sleeping than awake, curious perception of Maurylʼs creature. It was a grimmer, more hollow-cheeked visage than when the curious, gray eyes were open, entrapping, ensorcelling the unwary eye to look into them, not at the features, not at the stature, which was tall, nor at the shoulders, which were broad nor at the hands, fine-boned and strong and sure on red Geryʼs reins.
Maurylʼs piece of work had fallen ill in the Sihh ruin, complaining of smoke which only some of them had smelled before or after that warning, but which he could now imagine clinging even in this room.
Maurylʼs piece of work had ridden a good mare a course that should have broken her legs and his neck, through sapling woods and over ruined walls, along starless trails, over thorn hedges and dead-on to the road they were looking for staying just out of their reach and with uncanny accuracy arriving to meet Idrys, who was desperately looking for them.
Thereafter an increasing swoon, moment to moment waking to be with them, then gone again, like a candle guttering out, wit and resource all spent. Uwen had had hard shift only to keep his charge ahorse; and it had taken two men to carry him, yestereve, to this room.
Tristen had not waked since that last time on the road, still far from Henasʼamef; had not waked though taken through the clattering town streets and through the gates; had not waked though borne by the guard upstairs and undressed and settled here; had not waked through the ministrations of three separate physicians, the last of which had been the princeʼs own resort.
Cefwyn looked at Uwen and let go a breath, giving a shake of his head.
A priest would call this a dangerous place to be. Are you a pious man, Lewenʼs-son?
Not soʼs Iʼd leave him, Your Highness. I seen wickedness. I seen it where I had no doubt. This ʼun donʼt ʼfright me.
They say heʼs a haunt, you know that.
Who says, Your Highness?
Oh, the wise, that might know. Gossips in the hall. Servants in the scullery. Men in the guardroom. Priests at their prayers. Some might say your soul was in danger. Some might say heʼd bewitch you. Or that he already had.
Some might say theyʼre full of wind. Wiʼ all respect, Your Highness. Uwen ducked his head and his ears were red. I misspoke.
Idrys called you honest. I respect that.
I donʼt know that, Your Highness, but if the Lord Commander says.
Servants will attend tonight. Tell them if you have need of anything for yourself or for him. Anything. Do not be modest in your requests. His belongings are under guard in his own room, upstairs. My guard, across the hall, will rouse me if he wakes or worsens.
Your Highness. Uwen gathered himself up to his feet. Thank you, Your Highness.
Bed down by him, on the mattress. Youʼve need of your own rest, man. Heʼll not mind.
Aye, Your Highness. I
Yes?
The physician didnʼt hint at any cause, Your Highness? I seen men hit on the head, mʼlord, or knocked in the gut, and I seen ʼem sleep like this. Uwenʼs scarred chin wobbled. I didnʼt think heʼd fallen, Your Highness, and I couldnʼt feel aught amiss, but maybe he sort of cracked his head, or one of them slingers
He had a good soldierʼs helm till he lost it, Lewenʼs-son. Where was yours?
I guess I give it him, Your Highness.
So your own head is the chancy one, isnʼt it? No, Lewenʼs-son. This is Maurylʼs working, and by Maurylʼs working he lives or not.
They say Maurylʼs dead, Your Highness.
That they do. And perhaps the old manʼs work is unraveling. Or maybe it isnʼt. If we knew, then weʼd bewizards and our own souls would be in danger, so Iʼd not ask, man. Iʼd just keep the fool covered and pour a little brandy wine down him if he wakes. You could bake bread in this room, gods, and it wonʼt warm him.
I been thinkinʼ of warming stones. Summer ʼn all, Your Highness, if we could once get ʼim warm
It could do no worse. Tell the servants. He gave a shake of his head and walked out, through the anteroom where Lewenʼs-son had a bed he refused to use, and across the hall where Guelenmen stood guard over his own quarters. It was a larger room heʼd allotted Tristen. It was a finer room, but that was beside the point for a man who might not wake. It was the holy gods knew, a twinge of conscience, that heʼd so failed Emuinʼs simple behest to take care of their visitor.
Heʼd sent to Emuin, last night, post-haste, a royal courier, one of twelve such silver tags which the King in his expectations of calamity had allotted his son and heir. They allowed a courier anything he needed anywhere along his route, under extreme penalty for refusal of his demands. Heʼd not used a one, before last night.
Heʼd not needed one before last night. Or had, counting what had been quietly going amiss over in Emwy district, and he had failed to see it growing.
Outlaws. Using shepherd weapons. And, if one believed Heryn Aswydd, rangers on horses, unusual enough in a woodland district. Rangers who didnʼt show themselves even to the princeʼs banners plainly and unequivocally displayed?
Not proper behavior, as he added the tally.
He crossed through the anteroom of his chambers and inside, where the servants were disposing bath and bed, and where Idrys was poring over maps on the sideboard.
No change in him, Cefwyn said.
Idrys said nothing. Cefwyn unlaced cuffs, collar, side laces, and hauled off shirt and doublet together, before the staff could receive all the pieces thereof.
The men I wanted? Cefwyn said to Idrys. Iʼll see them between bath and bed.
Idrys frowned. They had had their argument already: it was bootless to dispute it in front of servants. Idrys said, Yes, my lord Prince, and turned and went.
Four messengers.
To four lords of the south besides the Duke of Henasʼamef, proud Heryn Aswydd. There was a lesson to be taught, and it began now, before the sun had risen on this silken-smiling Amefin lord, who asked with such false concern after his safety, who rode in hall clothes out to the windy road to ask after a Marhanenʼs welfare.
Cefwyn shed the rest of his clothing, stepped into the bath and ducked down under the tepid surface long enough to scrub the sickroom heat from his skin and hair, long enough to count to twenty, and to want air; and to find the bath too warm for pleasure after the stifling warmth across the hall. Gods alone knew how Lewenʼs-son stood it.
Your Highness, Annas said, alarmed as he broke surface again expecting a near drowning, perhaps; but Cefwyn found the draft from the open window vents more pleasant than the heat of the water. He clambered up to his feet, reached for the linen which a servant, taken aback, was slow to give him, and snatched it around himself, splashing the marble floor and the plastered walls as he stepped out. Servants mopped to save the woven mats and other servants scrambled to offer his dressing robe and more dry linens. The bath smelled of roses and hot oils. It cloyed. The water heated the air around him. He shrugged the dressing robe about him and mopped his own hair with the linen towel, ignoring the servantsʼ ministrations as, in his wake, Annas ordered the just-poured bath removed, the bath mopped the linens taken away.