The subject of their conversation remained where he'd slumped, asleep with most of the men in the darkened hall. Ceinion glanced from the son to the father. He shrugged again.
"Ferrieres tends to look down on the Cyngael. Much of the world does, my lord. Even here, if we are being honest. You call us horse thieves and eaters of oats, don't you?" His tone was mild, unoffended. "He would find it alarming that a scholar cited and endorsed by the Patriarch was from a place so… marginal. They used a Rhodian name for me, after all, when they put my phrases in the Pronouncement. An easy error for him to make, not knowing."
"You didn't sign it as Cingalus?"
"I sign everything I write," said the other man gravely, "as Ceinion of Llywerth, cleric of the Cyngael."
There was a little silence.
"He wouldn't even have expected you to be able to write in Trakesian, I imagine," Aeldred murmured. "Or you to read it, for that matter, Gareth."
"The prince reads Trakesian? Wonderful," Ceinion said. "I'm beginning, only," Gareth remonstrated.
"There's no `only' in that," the cleric said. "Perhaps we shall read together while I am here?"
"I'd be honoured," Gareth said. His mouth quirked. "It'll keep you from our horses."
A startled silence, then Ceinion burst out laughing and so did the king. The cleric mimed a blow at the prince.
"My children are a great trial," Aeldred said, shaking his head. "All four of them, but Gareth reminds me, I have new texts to show you."
Ceinion turned to him. "Indeed?"
Aeldred allowed himself a satisfied smile. "Indeed. In the morning after prayers we shall go see what is being copied."
"And it is?" Ceinion was unable to mask eagerness.
"Nothing so very much," said the king, with a show of indifference. "Only a physician's tract. One Rustem of Esperaña, on the eye."
"Collating Galinus and adding his own remedies? Oh, glorious! My lord, how in the god's name did you—?"
"A ship from Al-Rassan stopped at Drengest earlier this summer on its way back from trading with the Erlings at Rabady. They know I am buying manuscripts."
"Rustem? That's three hundred years old. A treasure!" Ceinion exclaimed, though softly among the sleepers. "In Trakesian?"
Aeldred smiled again. "In two languages, friend. Trakesian… and his original Bassanid."
"Holy Jad! But who reads Bassanid? The language is gone, since the Asharites."
"No one yet, but with both texts now we will soon be able to. I have someone working on that. The Trakesian text unlocks the other one."
"This is a glory and a wonder," Ceinion said. He made the sign of the disk.
"I know it is. You'll see it in the morning."
"It will give me great joy."
There was another silence. "That opens a doorway for me, actually," the king said; his tone remained light. "The question I've been waiting to ask."
The cleric looked at him, an exchange of glances in the island of light. Far down the room someone laughed as dice rolled and stopped and fortune smiled, however briefly.
"My lord, I cannot stay," Ceinion said quietly.
"Ah. And thus the door closes," Aeldred murmured.
Ceinion held his gaze in the lamplight. "You know I cannot, my lord. There are people who need me. We were speaking of them, remember? The oat-eaters no one respects? At the edge of the world?"
"We're as much at the edge, ourselves," Aeldred said.
"No. You aren't. Not at this court, my lord. All praise to you for that."
"But you won't help me take it further?"
"I am here now," Ceinion said simply.
"And you will come back?"
"As often as I may." Another small, rueful smile. "For the nourishing of my own spirit. Unworthy as that might be. You know what I think of this court. You are a light to us all, my lord."
The king did not move. "You would make us brighter, Ceinion."
The cleric sipped from his cup before answering. "It would nourish my own desires to do so, to sit here and share learning as old age comes. Do not think I am not tempted. But I have tasks in the west. We Cyngael live where the farthest light of Jad falls. The last light of the sun. It needs attending to, my lord, lest it fail."
The king shook his head. "It is all… marginal, here in the northlands," Aeldred said. "How do we build anything to last, when it might come down at any time?"
"That is true of all men, my lord. Of everything we do, anywhere."
"And not more so here? Truly?"
Ceinion inclined his head. "You know I agree with you. I merely—"
"Cite text and doctrine. Yes. But if you refrain from doing that? If you answer honestly? What happens here if the harvest fails in a year the Erlings decide to come back in numbers, not just raiding? Do you think I have forgotten the marshes? Do you think any of us who were there lie down at night, any night, without remembering?"
Ceinion said nothing.
Aeldred went on, "What happens to us if Carloman or his sons in Ferrieres quell the Karchites, as they likely will, and decide they want more land for themselves?" He looked at the sleeping man on his other side.
"You'll beat them back," Ceinion said, "or your sons will. I do believe there is that here which will endure. I am… less certain of my people, still fighting each other, still seduced by pagan heresies." He paused, looked away again, and then back.
He shrugged. "You spoke of the marsh. Tell me of your fevers, my lord."
Aeldred made an impatient gesture, one that served as a reminder—if one were needed—that this was a king. "I have physicians, Ceinion."
"Who have done little enough to ease them. Osbert tells me—" "Osbert tells you too much."
"And that, you know well, is untrue. I brought something with me. Do I give it to you, or to him, or whichever physician you trust?"
"I trust none of them." This time it was the king who shrugged. "Give it to Osbert, if you must. Jad will ease my affliction when it pleases him to do so. I am reconciled to that."
"Does that mean we who love you must be?" Ceinion's voice carried just enough amusement to make Aeldred look closely at him, and then shake his head.
"I am made to feel like a child sometimes, by these fevers."
"And why not? We are all still children in some fashion. I can remember skipping stones into the sea as a boy. Then learning my letters. My wedding day… there is no shame in that, my lord."
"There is in helplessness."
That stopped him. In the silence, young Gareth rose, took the flask—there were no servants near them now—and poured for the cleric and his father.
Ceinion sipped at the wine. Changed the subject, again. "Tell me of the wedding, my lord."
"Judit's?"
"Unless there is another in the offing." The cleric smiled.
"The ceremonies will be there during the midwinter rites. She goes north to Rheden to make babies and bind two peoples again, the way her mother did, marrying me."
"What do we know of the prince?"
"Calum? He's young. Younger than she is."
Ceinion looked down the hall, back to the king. "It is a good union."
"An obvious one." Aeldred hesitated. His turn to look away. "Her mother has asked me to let her go, after the wedding." It was news. A confiding. "To Jad's house?"
Aeldred nodded. Took up his wine cup again. He was looking at his younger son, and Ceinion realized this would be news for the prince, as well. A time chosen for the telling, late night, by lamplight. "She has wanted this for a long time."
Ceinion said, "And you have agreed now. Or you wouldn't be telling me."
Aeldred nodded again.
It was not uncommon for men or women, nearing their mortal ending, to seek out the god, pulling back and away from the tumult of the world. It was rare for royalty. The world not so easily left behind, for many reasons.
"Where will she go?" the cleric asked.