Those three he had, yet he could not even claim the undivided enthusiasm of his own brother's province of Guelessar, in which the capital sat, in which they now were. It was not surprising, perhaps, since Guelessar was the hotbed of politics of every stamp andthe seat of the Quinaltine, and could no more make a decision than the council and the clergy could.
But, gods, that was difficult to hear, and it was difficult for Efanor to report.
"I would think," Efanor said quietly, "that you have prayed here as long as profits anyone, and it may be time now to come out and hold council. Your captains have readied the army to move. What more can there be? If you ordered such as you have to march now, you might frighten the likes of Osanan into joining you."
He saw his brother in the light of half a hundred candles, modestly dressed as always, but with a certain elegance: whence the gold chain about his neck, that did not support the habitual Quinalt sigil, but rather a fine cabochon ruby? Had he seen Efanor without that sigil in the last year?
And whence the rings on his fingers, and the careful attention to his person? Had this worldliness begun to happen, his brother attiring himself to draw a lady's eye, and he not seen it?
He stared, entranced and curious, seeing in this suddenly handsome and elegant younger brother the flash of wit as well as jewelry, the spark of a man's soul as well as a saint's. This was his successor, if it had to be. This was the continuance of the Marhanen, absent an heir of his own body, staunch in loyalty and awakening to the power he had.
There was hope in his brother.
"Also," Efanor said, "I have some concern for Her Grace."
"She's not fasting!" He would not let her fast, not with the chance she was with child. That had meant she was alone for her devotions, except for Dame Margolis, who ran her household.
Efanor seemed abashed. "Her Grace has reported the morning sickness to her maids."
He was appalled. The maids gossiped in every quarter. Ninévrisë knew better.
Then he was sure she did know better, and intended to break the news unofficially—deliberately, with calculated effect. Rumor would chase rumor through the halls. When Tarien's secret became a whisper, afterthe whispers about Ninévrisë's, it would only be meaningful in the context of Ninévrisë's secret. Women's secrets would battle one another for weeks in the back corridors before they both came to light in council; and lords, again, would take sides.
But before that, the army would march. Thatmight be in her mind.
"Likely her stomach's upset," Cefwyn said, trying to make little of what men ought not to take note of—yet. "So is mine, for that matter. Ryssand is a bane to good digestion."
"Whether it's true," Efanor said, "I am no judge. But it must be end to end of town by now. And in the people's mindstheir own prince will be the firstborn. Your lady is a very clever woman."
"Their own prince." He kept his voice muffled. He had his guard outside, but he wanted no report of crows of laughter and loud voices to come out of his solemn retreat. He could not believe it. He had counted up the days since their wedding night, and it was possible, but only scantly so. It was too much to expect, too soon. "But if it's not true_ if she's made this up only because of the Aswydd woman…"
"She surely wouldn't."
"We have scarcely enough time together… three months, three months, is it not, to be sure?"
Efanor blushed, actually blushed. "I believe women know signs of it, besides the sickness, and there's a chance she's right. Besides…" Efanor added anxiously, "her father was a wizard, no less than the Aswydds. So couldn't she—?"
"I honestly don't know what she could and couldn't. She could be mistaken."
"But if she's deceived herself," Efanor said, "you'll be in Elwynor and maybe in Ilefínian before anyone knows it. Leaves don't go back on the tree. Isn't that what grandfather used to say? You'll haveElwynor."
" Shewill have Elwynor," he reminded his brother.
"To the same effect, is it not?"
By the time anyone knew whether there was a prince to come, the war and the outcome of it would have been settled… except that knotty question of inheritance. Had Ninévrisë thought of that when she confided in a maid?
Or had the sickness been real, and the confidence in the maids a necessity?
And would not the child remove Efanor and all his line from the succession? Perhaps Efanor hoped for it. Perhaps he saw it as he would, as his chance of freedom.
"It will open a battle in the council," he said to Efanor. "To loose this, on her own advice—"
"There is the chance," Efanor said soberly, "that it was the truth, and the sickness was no sham."
"And if it is, she should not ride!"
"Where shall she stay?"
"I would protect her."
"But the rumors would fly. And there would be danger."
"These are good Guelenmen, most. It's Ryssand who's poisoned the well."
"He still thinks he has the advantage," Cefwyn said. "And damned if he does. He will march. Cuthan's head is in jeopardy, Parsynan's with it. I long to say the same of Ryssand, but his obediencewould serve me better. I don't need the other two."
"Don't trust him. Never trust him."
Cefwyn laughed, bitterly, and hushed it, because of the still and holy precinct. "Trust? and this the father of your prospective bride? I trust him only to make mischief, and I shall neverallow you to make that sacrifice, I tell you now. I'll have none of Ryssand in the royal house, in the blood, in the bed, in the intimate counsels. No! don't nay me. I have had unaccustomed time to think, and I will not have that girl attached to you. If I should fall—don't marry her. If I come back, by the gods, you won'tmarry her. I love you too much. "
He surprised Efanor, who looked away and down, and seemed affected by what he had said. He hoped Efanor believed it.
"And I, you," Efanor said at last, "but what other use for a prince who'll never rule?"
"Don't say you'll never rule. War is—"
"Don't say that! And don't talk of falling. The gods listen to us in this place."
"The gods listen to us everywhere or nowhere. It's common sense I make provision. Every farmer who marches with the levy knows to instruct his wife and his underage sons. Shall I do less? She'll ride with me. I know there's no stopping her. And if you rule, promise me Ryssand won't live to see the next day's sun. Marry that chit of his to some farmer. Breakthat house. It will be a detriment to you."
Efanor looked about him as if he feared eavesdroppers. "Not here," Efanor said. "I beg you don't say such things here."
Efanor revered this place, his refuge, his place of peace, the source, Cefwyn suspected, of all Efanor's fancies concerning the gods and the means by which Jormys and then Sulriggan had secured a hold on his brother. And Efanor wished it not to be profaned with talk of killings.
"I respect my brother's wishes," Cefwyn said. "Respect mine. For the good of Ylesuin—promise me."
"I do," Efanor said, and his face was pale when he said it… damning himself with the promise of a murder, so Efanor would see it.
"You're no priest. You're a lord of Ylesuin, you're the duke of
Guelessar, my heir, and justiceis in your hands, a function of the holy gods, the last good advice the Patriarch preached to me. Murder isn't in question. Justiceis."