Текст книги "Fortress in the Eye of Time"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Are you well, Tristen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said you could not recognize a lie. Now I ask you to discover the truth, truth, as you would speak to Mauryl. Say it to me or never again ask me to trust you. What did you see that frightened you?”

“Smoke. Fear. Fire. I wanted us to come through, sir. I wanted you to come through, and I thought you were behind me, I did truly think so.”

There was a moment’s silence. “I believe I thought so.”

“You thought you were leading me to safety. —Or, if you were only running, Tristen, I forgive it. Only say so.”

“No, sir. I thought that I was going toward safety—I believed that you were behind me, and that if I turned back.., if I turned back ... I don’t know, sir. That’s all I remember.”

“Conveniently so,” Idrys said, forgotten in his habitual stillness.

Cefwyn flinched, the spell broken.

“But you did follow me, sir,” Tristen said.

“And you fell straightway into a sleep no man could break,” Idrys said coldly. “Is this wizardry? Or what is it?”

“I—” Tristen shook his head, and there was—there was—Cefwyn would swear he detected guilt, or subterfuge in that look; and if this was guilt, the other things were either lies or hedgings of the truth.

“Did you dream?” he asked, and Tristen looked at him like a trapped deer.

“No, sir.”

“What did you do? The truth, Tristen. As you told me before. Trust me now or never trust me. You have no choice.”

“There were names. There were too many names. I grew tired. I slept.

I sleep when there are too many names.”  “Names of what?”

“Althalen. Emwy. Other names. I might know them if you said them, m’lord. I can think. I can try to think of them.”

“Did this dusty book tell you anything?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“You didn’t read it.”

“I hadn’t time, sir.”

Cefwyn leaned back and bit his lip, flicked a glance to Idrys.

“Be rid of him,” Idrys said. “At least confine him until Emuin returns. Neither you nor I can deal with something Mauryl Gestaurien had his hand in. This Shaping is no hedge-magician’s amusement. Be rid of it.”

“Damn you, Idrys!” He saw Tristen’s face gone ashen. “Tristen.’

“Sir?”

“Would you do me harm?”

“No, sir, in no way would I.” and banned his arms from civilized precincts. A fine jest, was it not? And for all these years the woods have grown over Althalen and cloaked all the bloody Marhanen sins.”

Cefwyn looked up sharply. “Speak so freely to my father, Idrys.”

“Murder has been done for far lesser things than thrones. Most dangerous when the possessors of thrones forget how they came by them.

Your father, like your grandfather, decreed death for bearing the Sihhé arms or practicing the old arts.”  “Yet employed Emuin!”

“What says the book, my lord Prince?”

“Blast your impudence!”

“It serves you. What says the book, my lord?”

Cefwyn covered the page with his outspread palm, stayed a moment until the swimming letters became clear again and his breathing steadied.

“I have need of Emuin.”

“Now, now, you are sensible, my lord Prince.”

He whirled on Idrys, making the chair turn. “But likewise you shall wait for his advice, hear me, Idrys. You will lay no hand on Tristen!”

“My lord Prince.” Idrys stood back, implacable. “For your own safety—”

“For yours, do not exceed my orders.”

“Do you know, my lord, why Emuin made such haste to escape Henas’amef? Do you know why he retreated out of Amefel before this Shaping of Mauryl’s asked him too close questions?”

“You make far too sinister a design. He has gone to retreat to consider.”

“To consider what, my prince? Your messages?”

“He will come back, damn you, when he has thought this matter through ...”

“My lord, I have thought on this. I have thought long and hard on this: if Mauryl could summon something out of the last hour of Althalen, think you that of the two thousand men who died there, it would have been some humble spitboy out of the kitchens? This Shaping is deadly.

Mauryl was no true friend to the Marhanens, nor to the Elwynim, either.

He served the Sihhé! until he turned on them, out of some quarrel with his fellow wizards. He killed his own king. He locked himself ever after in Ynefel, brooding on gods only know what resentments or what purposes; and dying, sends you this, this Shaping with lordly graces? Ask his name, m’lord. I urge you ask his name.”

“He does not know his name.”

“One can guess.”

Cefwyn pressed his lips together, the sweat started on his brow. He wiped at it. “You suppose. You suppose, Idrys.”

“A Sihhé my lord. What worse could he send you?”

He had no answer for that.

“No stableboy,” Idrys said. “No scullion.”

“Then why for a halfling king? Why not the first five Sihhé lords-those of full blood?”

“Why not, indeed, my lord Prince? A good question.”

Cefwyn left the chair in temper and went to look out the window at something less troubling. At pigeons walking on the sill.

“They still burn straw men in this district,” Idrys said. “You see the old symbols on boundary stones, to the priests’ abhorrence.”

“I have seen them. I have had your reports, master crow. I do listen.”

“Read the chronicle, m’lord Prince. The Sihhé were gentle lords. Some of the latest, at least. Barrakkêth’s blood ran thin at the last. They ate no children. They went to straw men and not captives for their observances ....  “

“They never ate children. That’s a Quinalt story.”

“But were they always straw men, at festival?”

“None of us know. Histories may lie. My grandfather was not immune to the malady, you know.”

“Elfwyn, was, they say, a very gentle sort. Dead at Althalen—as were they all. Last Sihhé king. —Last of the witch-lords.”

“Then no hazard to us. A gentle man. You say so.”

“One doubts he even blamed Mauryl for his death. And perhaps he was the only one of that line Mauryl would regret.”  “If he were Elfwyn, if he were Elfwynm”

“It was Elfwyn’s younger brother Mauryl wanted dead. So did Emuin, and all that circle. So I’m told. They insisted the youngest Sihhé prince was a black wizard, whatever that means, if not a sorcerer. And of course Mauryl and his circle had no wizardly ambitions, themselves, whatever makes wizards ambitious. But the child prince died in the fall of Althalen, and so did Elfwyn and all the Sihhé who could claim the name, since the wizards could come by Marhanen help and arms no less bloodily. Marhanen ambition was satisfied with the crown. The Elwynim councilors drew off to shape a Regency until the Sihhi5 should rise from their smoky grave, I suppose, and sit on the throne of Elwynor. I wonder what satisfied Mauryl. A tower in the woods?”

“Who knows what Mauryl wished or wanted?” Cefwyn retorted.

“One supposes he got it, since he left us in peace.”  “But, if one believes the Elwynim, —”

“One has no reason to believe the Elwynim.”

“Even for bride-offers?”

“Have I accepted it?”

“Yet the Elwynim claim the Sihhé kings will return. Who do you suppose promised them that?”

“The Elwynim chose to believe it. It gave legitimacy to the lord of Ilefinian, who otherwise had no royal blood, no more than any other

Elwynim lord. The lord of Ilefinian chose to call himself Regent because there was nothing else he could call himself—certainly not king—not even aetheling.”

“As of course the Marhanen were royal to the bone.”

“Treason, master crow.”

“Treason for the commons. Loyalty—in an adviser to the Crown.

Look at the reasons, m’lord Prince. Mauryl raised up this Shaping.

Perhaps the old man was atoning for his crime, bringing back the King he helped to murder—an excess of your grandfather’s zealotry, or his ambition. Perhaps Mauryl did promise the lord of Ilefinian a King to Come.”

“You must have spent hours on this. You’ve kept yourself awake with these fancies, master crow. I suggest a roll in the sheets. ’T will help you sleep.”

“A prince with two thoughts to his own safety in this rebel province would help me sleep, m’lord. A toadstool tea for this Summoning you take to your bosom would help me rest at night, but you will not take that advice.”

“Have you read this book?”

“I know the history of all claimants and lineages alive, m’lord Prince, who might come into serious question. Now I see I must study the dead ones.”

“And if Mauryl has raised EIfwyn of the Sihhé? What can you say of him, beyond a short reign distinguished only by his calamity?”

“A weak king, who wasted his treasury on shrines and supported scholars and priests of any persuasion at all. He lost three towns to the Chomaggari in his first year of reign and still kept his scholars fat and his army nigh barefoot. If it were not for Mauryl Gestaurien he would have fallen sooner. But then, if it were not for Mauryl Gestaurien, he might not have fallen at all, and the Marhanen would still be lords chamberlain to the Sihhé. Rebellion wanted an able general. Which your grandfather was.

Unfortunately for the Sihhé king—your grandfather was his general.”

“As you hope to become mine?” Cefwyn asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing Idrys blink. “On the tide of a war on this border?”

Idrys’ chin lifted. “I trust I serve a wiser lord. The latter-day Sihhé put all their trust in Mauryl, and thereby, my trusting prince, the gates flew open to the Sihhé successors and the Sihhé died a terrible death along with their king, next Althalen’s burning walls. —You invite—whom?—to your table, my lord Prince?”

“A well-spoken and civil young man, whose converse is pleasant, whose company I find far less self-serving than, for instance, Heryn’s, whose presence you have generally approved.”

“Your grandfather tossed Sihhé babes into the flames,” Idrys said,

“hanged the women and impaled the men above the age of twelve in a great ring about Althalen’s walls. And even from the grave, would the

Sihhé bear you love, Cefwyn Marhanen? He does not remember these things. He could not remember these things with that clear, innocent look he bears you. Think of this when you trust too much. That account is, I will wager you, in that book, m’lord Prince. That is the chronicle your guest has been reading, and I will wager you he is Sihhé, with all it means.”

“Then what do we do? What do we do, hang his head at the gate? I am not my grandfather! I do not murder children! I have no wish to murder children! Elfwyn in life was a gentle man. He haunted my grandfather to his dying day. My grandfather on his deathbed swore he heard the children crying. I do not want a death like that. I do not want dreams such as he had or a conscience such as he had. He never slept without holy candles burning in his room.”

“He had a peaceful reign. His enemies feared him. Consequently his taxes were lighter than Elfwyn’s or your father’s. Ylesuin remembers his reign as golden years.”

“Golden on Sihhé gold—consequently his taxes were lighter.”

“And his enemies were all dead or in terror of him.”

“I will not be such a King.”

“M’lord Prince, —what became of the ivory miniature?”

Another of Idrys’ flank attacks. Thwarted on one front, Idrys opened another. And the devil where he was going with it.

“A lovely thing,” Idrys said. “Is it in the chest yonder? Do you still keep it? Or have you sent it to your father for his word on this-Elwynim bride-offer?”

“My father, as you well know, would fling it in the midden.”

“Ah. And therefore you keep it? You temporize with this offer?”

“I do not see what this has to do with my grandfather or my guest.”

“A marriageable daughter, a sonless Elwynim king—ah—regent.

Uleman of the Elwynim sees the ravens gathering—knows he cannot command his own lords, who are more apt to war with each other over fair Ninévrisé’s hand—so, oh, aye, offer you the daughter, offer the bloody Marhanen the last Sihhé realm with no more than a wedding and an heir-getting. Whatever has prevented you from leaping to that offer, m’lord Prince?”

“Nine skulls on my gate is not enough?”

“And, of course, you are the heir of Ylesuin. And wish no witchly get out of a marriage bed.”

“It did somewhat cross my mind.”

“And would cross your father’s. And your brother Efanor’s. No witchly offspring to sit the Dragon throne. Yet you still keep the ivory.”

“A lovely piece of work. A pretty face. Why not?”

“Still temporizing with the matter. Asking yourself how more cheaply to gain a claim to Elwynor.”

“I do not!”

“You doubt that Uleman countenanced the assassins. You said so yourself. Internal dissent. Angry lords, jealous fellow suitors for the lady’s hand ...”

“I am no suitor, for her least of all! And what has this to do with Tristen, pray, master crow? What edifice of fantasies are we now building? Or have you quite forgot the track?”

“‘Tristen,’ is he now, and not ‘Mauryl’s gift?’”

“Insolent crow. Crow flitting about the limits of my tolerance. What has this business of assassins and Elwynim to do with him?”  “Ah. Mauryl’s motives. That’s our worry.”

“What? A stray piece of work from Mauryl’s tower? Mauryl’s dying maunderings? —Mauryl’s rescue of a Sihhé soul from wherever Sihhé go when they die? Emuin said treat him gently. I take that for the best advice, and until you have more substantial complaint—”  “Mauryl’s motives. And Uleman king—”

“Not King. As you well know. Find your point.”

“Oh, you have taken it, m’lord Prince. Elwynor has no kings. Only Regents, a Regent in waiting for a King, like his father before him, and his grandfather. Waiting for what? A King your grandfather murdered. I ask what dealings Uleman had with Mauryl before Mauryl died, or what the promise was that’s kept Elwynor under a Regent for all these years.

Not so foolish and stubborn as we thought, if they were waiting for something Mauryl promised them—and now has delivered.”

“Then why send a Sihhé revenant to me, crow? Your logic escapes me.”

“Mistakes are possible. Mauryl dead—perhaps the Shaping went down the wrong road. Or perhaps he did not. Who knows but Mauryl?

And perhaps Uleman.”

“Then Uleman’s logic escapes me. Why this proposal to me?”

“Why, because Mauryl had not yet fulfilled his promise. Or if he had, Uleman had no idea of it. He sees his kingdom foundering for want of an heir—and, my lord Prince, if he had such, he needs no marriage with his longstanding enemy. I’m certain he desires no Marhanen in his daughter’s bed. But Uleman is an honest and doting man, as I hear, fond of his wife, fond of his daughter, with his lords chafing at the bit, wanting more than a Regency for some King to Come. Each of his earls seeing, as mortality comes on the third and sonless Regent, that marriage with this—we dare not call her princess, only the Regent’s daughter—would legitimize any of them as an Elwynim King.

This is what they see. And—if one believes in wizardly foresight—dare we believe that the third generation is the charm, that old Mauryl laid a sonlessness on the Elwynim Regent so that it would come down to this, just at the time Mauryl should produce a claimant and fulfill his magical promise.”

“Gods, I should have you my architect, not the Lord Commander of my guard. Such a structure of conjecture and hypothesis! Shall we put towers on ’t?”

“And shall we not think that this Shaping of Mauryl’s is a rival for your father’s power? That he is the bridegroom for this bride? That Uleman will know this, the moment he knows this Shaping exists? Send now to Uleman accepting his offer and see whether he sends the bride. I think he would see her wed a dead Sihhé king rather than a live Marhanen.”

Cefwyn drew deliberately slow breaths and leaned his chin on his hand, elbow on the arm of the chair, listening, simply listening, and thinking that, whatever else, Mauryl’s childlike Shaping had least of all the knowledge what to do with a bride, Elwynim or otherwise.

But—but—Tristen had had no knowledge of horses, either, until he climbed into red Gery’s saddle. Tristen rode—a prince could be magnanimous toward such skill—far better than he did, on far less horse. That stung, more, actually, than any prospective rivalry for the Elwynim Regent’s daughter, who was, as an ivory portrait, a matter of mere theoretical and aesthetic interest–    But interest enough to risk a taint of Sihhé blood in the Marhanen line—no. The Quinalt would not accept it. The Quinalt would rise up against the Crown.

“It may be true,” Idrys said, “that Mauryl robbed this Shaping of his wits. But Mauryl gave him a book which I concede may not be Mauryl’s household accounts. This Shaping is, however you reckon his worth, not the feckless boy that came here.”

“Oh, come, would you set Tristen to guard the larder from the kitchen boys? Far less set him to govern a kingdom! And now you fear wizardly curses and prophecies? You were never so credulous as that before.”

“My lord Prince,” Idrys said broadly, “I did not believe in such things.

I did not believe that the Mauryl Gestaurien who betrayed Elfwyn was that Mauryl who betrayed Galasien after very similar fashion. Now I do take it so.”

“On what evidence?”

“Good gods, m’lord, we talk and sit at table with a Shaping, in broad daylight and by dark. What is more probable? That Mauryl is the same Mauryl—or that you have invited a dead man to your table tonight?”

“It is a question,” he conceded.

“And if Mauryl has robbed him of his wits, still this Tristen is not the young man that came here. That compliant boy is gone, my lord Prince.

Look at him carefully tonight. You were far safer dining with Heryn at Heryn’s table. At least you never believed Heryn to the exclusion of your own advisers. If I were a credulous man—and I am fast becoming a believer in more than ever I did—I would say you were bewitched.”

“I and the Elwynim Regent. —So what profits us to wriggle? We are foredoomed, we cannot stray from our wizard-set actions. I do not believe that, Idrys! And I have seen a portrait of Elfwyn, likewise in ivory—my father had it from Grandfather and keeps it in a chest with other curiosities of Althalen’s unspendable treasures. I see nothing like our guest in that face, as I recall it. So what is a Shaping? If the Summoned soul’s the same, then why not the flesh that clothes it?”

“Because the flesh is gone to worms, my lord, and whether a Shaping need resemble the dead it clothes I leave to wizards. But should the soul not have something to do with Shaping the flesh about it, all the same? I should much doubt he was a Sihhé princess. A king, well he could be.

The King the Elwynim believe will come again. Go, go, accept the Elwynim marriage. I’ll warrant no bride comes across the river.”

“Then why should Mauryl not send him to the Elwynim? And how could a wizard who could raise the sleeping dead so broadly miss his target?”

“Perhaps he didn’t miss.”

“How not?”

“To wreak most havoc, my lord Prince. I’ll warrant worse than happened at Emwy comes by spring, and I’ll warrant bridges are building at least by spring thaw, if not by now, else I would have counseled you more emphatically than I do not to call the border lords in. Let your father the King take this move of yours for foresight—and so it is. But foresight against only one of your enemies, m’lord Prince. The worst one of all you lodge next your own bedchamber. The King who should come again, my lord. Well that you’ve called Emuin.”

“Emuin was Mauryl’s student.” He wished not to listen to Idrys’ fancies. But once the thoughts were sailing through his mind, they spread more canvas. “And dare I trust Emuin, if this was all along the design?

Whom shall I trust, master crow? You, the arbiter of all my affections?”

“Few,” Idrys said. “Trust few, m’lord Prince. And only such as you can watch. You say very true: Emuin was Mauryl’s student.”

“Leave me. I’ve thoughts to think without your voice in my ear.”

Idrys rose, bowed, walked toward the door. Anger was in Cefwyn’s mind. Petty revenge sprang to his lips ... harsh belittlement of Idrys’ fears. But Idrys had never deserved it.

He let Idrys go in silence to the anteroom that was his home, his narrow space between the doors. Sword by his side, Idrys slept, every night ready to defend his own life and the heir’s should the outside guards fail or fall in their duty. Little wonder Idrys’ every thought was deception and doubt.

He had sent for Emuin and had now to wait, first for the message to reach his old tutor, and then for Emuin to gather his aged bones onto a horse and ride back. He was not certain now whether he wholly welcomed Emuin’s intrusion into the matter. He needed time for all that

Idrys had told him to sink into bone and nerve. He needed time to know in his own heart what he had taken under his roof, or what manner of situation he had made for himself.

Win his love, Emuin had said. Win his love.

Gods, how much had Emuin known, or guessed, or foreseen about Mauryl’s work? He had questions to ask. He had very many of them.

And it was still, all things considered, a good thing to have sent to Emuin. But more than trusting Emuin to solve matters—he had to solve them in some way that preserved the peace on the border, if in fact Mauryl had aimed at overthrowing the present order.

Wizards and spells. Like Uwen, he had been disposed to believe the accounts of magic as exaggerated, the wizard arts as no more than he was already accustomed to see in Emuin’s warnings and in the likes of the woman at Emwy—a great deal of show, taking advantage of a fortuitous gust, claiming credit for natural events and natural misfortunes.

But if one did take Tristen for exactly what Emuin claimed him to be—and certainly Tristen’s continually changing skill argued for something unnatural, as Tristen’s manner argued for his personal honesty-then all disbelief was foolish, and a prudent prince should take careful consideration, Idrys was very right, even of folk tales and superstitions which might forewarn him what else Mauryl might have done, and how Mauryl might do it: whether spells worked at long or short range, and whether they could grow in strength even after the wizard was dead. He knew the wizard of Ynefel could do far more than cure cattle or luck-bless a pregnant sow. The village of Capayneth had certainly enjoyed far more than luck in Mauryl’s favor.

One dared only so far ignore the possibilities of what Mauryl might have done less beneficently. One dared only so far treat a wizard-gift as what it seemed, and all Mauryl’s purposes as friendly and generous.

Win his love, indeed, win his love. What Emuin had said was not the pious Teranthine sentiment it had sounded. It was a wizard’s direct advice.

Chapter 16  

En-colored velvet stitched with silver thread, blue hose, a silver chain and a pair of soft brown boots: for tonight, the servants had said, when they laid out the clothing. Tristen was amazed.

Cefwyn had sent it, and the servants, with other clothes and other gifts, including finer clothing for Uwen, all for the expected dinner summons.

“Surely fine feathers for the like of me,” Uwen said with a shake of his head. Uwen had shaved, and a servant had trimmed his silver hair. “Such as,” Uwen said, rubbing the bald spot, “such as there is, m’lord.” Uwen’s hair shone pale and silver with the preparations the servants had brought, and they smelled, both, of perfumed oils and bathwater.

It pleased him that Uwen was pleased. He loved the touch and feel of the fine cloth and the softness of the new boots, and he was only a little anxious as they crossed the hall, assured by the servants that it was the proper hour for supper with the Prince, and that the table was waiting for them.

The guards let them in without delay, and they walked into a room fragrant with delicious smells, scented candles, the table set with candlelit gold—a Harper sat in the corner, and began a quiet Music. The Words came to Tristen with the first sounds—and the sounds transfixed him, went through his ears, through his heart, through his bones, so that he stopped still, and stared, and did not move until Idrys came beside him and brushed his arm, directing him to the table.  It was so beautiful. It was so unexpected a thing.

He bowed to Cefwyn before his wits thought to do it—he recovered

! himself, saw that Cefwyn’s habitual russet velvet had given way to red with gold embroidering. Even Idrys’ sober black now was velvet picked out with silver. The music washed at his senses, the smells, the glitter of light on gold and beautiful colored glass—hearing, smelling, seeing, remembering to be polite—all flooded in on him.

“Sit,” Cefwyn bade him, taking a chair at one end, while the harper kept playing softly, sound that ran like water, caressed like the harper’s fingers on the strings.

He sat. Cefwyn bade Uwen and Idrys to table. Annas was there, and servants young and old, who poured them wine and served them food in little dishes made of silver and gold.

Between such servings the harper sang for them, sang in Words, a Song of a shepherd with his sheep, a Song of dawn and evening, a Song of traveling on the river, and of a man far from his home. He was entranced. And after that, Cefwyn talked of horses and how Gery fared, and how he had two horses, Danvy and Kanwy, and how he had Kanwy’s brother Dys up at another pasture, and they should ride up there someday and see.

It was so much coming at one time, so much to listen to, so much to imagine that he found it hard to eat—taste was another flood into his senses, sweet and bitter, hot and cold: there were so, so many things to listen to and to look at, from the glass on the table to the several colors of the wine, and the sound of the harp, and a rapid conversation in which he only knew how to say, Yes, m’lord Prince; or, No, m’lord Prince—foolish, helpless answers to what he was sure were Cefwyn’s efforts to draw more conversation than that from him.

But even Idrys was soft-spoken, even Idrys smiled and laughed and, uneasy as Uwen had looked at the outset, Uwen became willing to laugh, even to speak from time to time. The harper played more songs, these without words, cheerful and bright, and Cefwyn told Annas take the dishes, and bade Idrys and Uwen sit still at table—”Stay,” Cefwyn said.

“Tristen and I have matters to discuss. Annas, whatever they might wish.

Two soldiers can pass time over a wine pitcher. —Tristen, come over here and share a cup with me.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and, following Cefwyn to a group of chairs remote from the table, sat where Cefwyn bade him sit. Annas came and offered him a cup of wine, different than that he had left at table—but he only sipped it, and poised it in both hands so more wine could not come into it without his noticing: he had learned to be wary of Cefwyn’s generosity.

“So,” Cefwyn said, crossing one ankle over another, in possession of his own cup, which he held in similar fashion, “how does Gery fare?”

“She cut her leg,” Tristen said. “Master Haman says it’s slight. But I shouldn’t have ridden her so hard. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sorry she was hurt.”

“I’m glad you didn’t break your neck.”

“Yes, sir.” It sounded like one of Mauryl’s sort of utterances, with rebuke directly to follow.

“Do you remember Uwen taking you to his saddle?”

“Not clearly, m’lord Prince.”

“You seem to have cast your spell over Uwen. The man and your staff had strictest orders to report to me if you waked, and, lo! they go following you about, here and there, upstairs and down, with never a thought of my orders in their heads. Did you bid them do that?”

“I beg you don’t blame him. It was my fault. He asked me to wait. I disobeyed him. He was trying to catch me. And I knew better, sir. I did know better. Not about your order. But I knew I made him chase me, because I wanted to go outside. I know it was wrong.”

Cefwyn’s brow lifted. A long moment Cefwyn simply stared at him.

“You know that Uwen is at your orders as well as mine.”  “I know, sir.”

“But you obey him, do you?”

“He’s my guard, is he not, sir?”

“He is your man.” Cefwyn waved his hand, dismissing the question.

“He chose this morning to take his allegiance with you. Therefore I release him to give oath to you, and, for good or for ill, you provide for him. —Racing about just ahead of us, out to the yard and back again to the archive and searching up a book—hardly the place I’d seek a young man in a soldier’s company.”

This was not, then, a casual questioning. He wished himself back in his own room, his old room, not this huge place opposite Cefwyn’s apartment. He perceived he had brought Uwen into difficulty.

“Do I distress you?” Cefwyn asked. “Why did you go to the archive, out of all places you could go? What sent you there, instead of—say—the garden, or anywhere else of your habit?”

“I wished—” He found himself on ground more and more frightening.

“I wished to know more about Althalen.’  “Why?”

It was hard to speak. He had not been able to explain to Uwen. He tried, at least to explain it to Cefwyn. “It’s a Name, sir. I know it. I asked the archivist was there anything to tell me about Althalen. And he gave me that book. —Was it wrong?”

“Not wrong. Perhaps it’s not what you wish to find. It’s my grandfather’s history. Did you know that?”  “No, m’lord Prince.”

“My name is Cefwyn Marhanen. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, sir.” It did not. “Not except that you have two names.”

“Elfwyn. Do you know that name?”

“I don’t know that name either, sir.”

“Sihhé.”

“People say that I am Sihhé.”

“Are you?”

“I’ve read—” He sensed in all these questions that this was purposeful and far more important than Cefwyn’s simple curiosity, and he suspected now that all this evening had been leading to this strange chain of Words and Names. “I read in the book that the Sihhé were cruel wizards. And it’s a Name, sir, but I don’t understand it—not—that it makes sense to me. Mauryl was a wizard, but he was never cruel. He said I should be polite, and I should think about others’ wishes and not touch what doesn’t belong to me. I don’t think that leads to being cruel, sir. So it isn’t Mauryl, either.”

“No. It doesn’t seem so.” Cefwyn gazed at him and sipped his wine, and went on looking at him, seeming strangely troubled. “Mauryl brought the Sihhé kings to power. Have you heard that? Do you think that is true?”

“I—don’t know, sir.”

“But it doesn’t trouble you.”