Текст книги "Fortress in the Eye of Time"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

“Then tell m’lord Cefwyn. He’s the King, now. He can call on the priests. Or master Emuin, what’s more like. He could help.”

“No. Cefwyn doesn’t understand. I do. Leave me, Uwen. Go back to the guard where you were. Of all the soldiers I must take there-not you.”

“The King won’t have ye go wi’ any soldiers,” Uwen forecast with a slow shake of his head. “This is priest’s business. Little as I like ’em, they got their uses, lad, and this has to be one.”

“Priests.” He recalled the priests he had seen—those he had met only today in tile Quinalt shrine, where the King’s body was, priests scattering before him, cringing, lest their robes touch him. “They fear me. How could they face my enemy?”

“Then I don’t know, m’lord. King or no, His Majesty hain’t got no soldiers willing to march that road.”

He found nothing to say, then. He had no plan, else, if even Uwen said he was wrong.

“M’lord,” Uwen said, “m’lord, —I’d go wi’ ye. I’d go wi’ yet’ very hell, but I wouldn’t see ye go there. I’d put meself in your way right at these gates, wi’ all respect t’ your lordship, I won’t see ye go there. No.”

“Uwen, what if this enemy comes out from Ynefel? What if he comes across to Althalen?”

“I don’t know nothing about that, m’lord. I don’t know nothing about wizards, and I don’t want to know. I’ll guard your back from any enemy I can see wi’ my two eyes and smite ’im wi’ whate’er I find to hand, but, gods, I don’t like this ’un. Send to Emuin, m’lord. He’d know what to do.

He’s a wise ’un. He ain’t no real priest.”

He shook his head. “Emuin doesn’t know at all what to do with this.

He’s afraid.”

“Ye don’t know that, m’lord?”

“I spoke with him. I spoke with him just now, Uwen.”

“M’lord, you was dreaming. That was all.”

“I did speak to him.” The ceiling seemed more solid now, a pattern of woodworking and lights. “I’m warm now. Go to bed, Uwen.”  “I’m comfortable here, m’lord.”

“I’m in no danger now. Go rest. Think about going back to the guard.

The servants can manage for me.” He reached for Uwen’s scar-traced arm, pressed it, careful of new cuts, and a bruise that, the size of his fist, darkened the side of Uwen’s forearm. “I want you to be safe, Uwen.”

“I hain’t got no family,” Uwen said finally. “The guard’s me mistress.

But I couldn’t leave ye for the barracks again, m’lord. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t be nothing then. I’m getting old. I feel the cold in winter, I think on my wife and my girls and my boy that the fever got, and there ain’t no use for me beginning again. Damn, no, I couldn’t leave ye, my lord.”

And he tucked the blanket about him and got up and wandered away to his own small room between the doors.

Tristen watched him. He had never known about Uwen’s wife or children. He had made Uwen remember them, and he saw that Uwen had attached to him a feeling that Uwen had nowhere to bestow; as he had had for Mauryl, and had nowhere now to bestow it—not on Emuin, who had not Mauryl’s wisdom, and not Mauryl’s strength: Emuin had fled him and refused to be known, or loved, or held to, and he respected that wish, even understood it as fear. Cefwyn asked him to be his friend, but Cefwyn had so many people he had to look out for and to take care of.

But Uwen had only him. Uwen by what he said had lost everyone else.

Uwen was not so wise as Mauryl: he was as brave as anyone could ask, but somehow he had ceased to depend on Uwen for advice as much as Uwen had begun to take orders from him.

And when had that happened? When had he grown to be anyone’s source of advice in the world, when he did not understand the world himself?

He lay still in his bed, and longed for daylight. Time—of which he had rarely been acutely conscious—again seemed to be slipping rapidly toward some event he could not predict or understand.

Far away he heard movements in the halls. From the yard came the occasional clatter of hooves, horsemen abroad in the dark, bound to or from the lower town or countryside or the camps—there was no cause to be dashing about on horses within the Zeide courts. Perhaps messengers, he said to himself, and tried to think what might be going on that had so much astir.

He had no inclination to sleep and confront another bad dream. Sweat prickled on him, the blankets weighed like iron. The beats of his heart measured interminable time, and he lay and stared at the lightless glitter of the windowpanes.

The darkness seemed a little less outside, a reddish murk, but not in the east, a glow that reflected on the higher roofs and walls—and from outside came a noise he could not at first recognize, then decided it was many voices shouting at something. Thunder rumbled. Rain spattered the glass, a few drops, and the air stayed chill—he could feel it with his fingers to the glass, and the fire seemed more than convenience tonight.

The glow outside was much too early, unless, he thought, in this’ wretched day the laws of nature were bent and that murkish light was an ill-placed dawn or an effect of storm he had never seen.

But whatever the cause of it there was less and less chance of sleeping or resting in such goings-on, with the accumulation of unanswered questions and unidentifiable sounds and light. He rose from bed, determined at last and least to know what was happening that kept other people awake, and searched out clean, warm clothes. He had half dressed before, probably because of his opening the clothes-press, which had a stubborn door, Uwen arrived from the other room, rubbing his eyes and limping.

“M’lord,” Uwen murmured, “what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and thought of going quickly, taking just the door guard, not wishing Uwen to have to dress and break his sleep, but then he remembered Cefwyn’s order about wearing the mail, and it was too serious an order to dismiss lightly. He went to get it. “There’s a great deal of going and coming. I’m going downstairs to see.”  “I will, m’lord. Ye don’t need to stir out.”

“I want to see, Uwen. I want to know.” It seemed to him his whole life until now had swung on his ignorance of the things around him—that too often he had taken others’ seeing and others’ doing, and not always had the result of that turned out for the good. He knew much too little, now, when Cefwyn was becoming King and Cefwyn’s brother was entering the household. So much else was changing, not alone in Henas’amef, as he knew it to be, but in Elwynor and the whole of the lands he had ever heard about.

While he was putting on his boots Uwen had stumbled back to his own space, and came back fastening his breeches and carrying his boots and his coat—Uwen did not intend to let him go alone, that was clear, and of all orders he could give Uwen that he knew Uwen would obey, he had had clear warning that Uwen would disobey him wide and at large if he bade him stay.

There came an outcry from some distant place. They both looked toward the windows. “M’lord,” Uwen said, “don’t be going out. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t think it’s nothing good. I swear to ye, I’ll go down fast and see, and report to ye before ye could dress and be down.”

“No,” Tristen said, wound his hair out of the way as best he could and began to struggle with the mail shirt himself until Uwen came to help him.

The mail came down on his shoulders and shaped itself to his body, becoming no weight, a part of him. He picked up a coat that had turned up in the clothes-press, velvet and black like all else they gave him, the heaviest thing he had, against the chill in the night. He put it on over the mail, and Uwen, shaking his head, fastened it snugly down his chest, not pleased with his going, but helping him to be presentable, all the same.

The halls upstairs were deserted except for the guards appointed to the various doors. Noise of shouting drifted up from the lower floor, and they walked to the stairs, two of the guards from their own door walking behind them as the guards always did when he went outside.

Half of Cefwyn’s door-guards were missing, too, meaning an empty apartment and the likelihood that Cefwyn had never yet come to bed—or that Cefwyn had had to leave it after that clattering of men up and down the hall.

Cefwyn’s father lay dead. He thought that, however exhausted Cefwyn was, however strongly Cefwyn had rejected the offers of people who wanted to stay these lonely hours with him, it was unlikely that Cefwyn would have slept at all tonight.

But that Cefwyn would be up wandering the halls—he had not expected.

They descended the stairs into the main hall, where soldiers gathered and servants and lords and ladies stood in knots whispering together, weeping, some of them. He smelled smoke, and recalled Althalen, where Cefwyn swore no fire had come since the Sihhé had died there. But this did not seem ghostly smoke. It made the eyes sting.  The noise came from the halls beyond.

“No farther,” Uwen counseled him. “My lord, stay and I’ll see.”

He knew by Uwen’s warning that there was no pleasure to come to him by going any farther. But all safety tonight seemed illusory; and his danger was worse, he had already persuaded himself, in biding ignorant of what happened in the place in which he lived, whether Cefwyn acted or others did without Cefwyn’s knowledge. Defend him, Cefwyn had bidden him swear: and how could he do that in utter ignorance?

Guards stood in the central hall. He went past them unchallenged, and Uwen stayed with him. So did his personal guards, into the main doors at the Zeide’s heart, those that let out into the front court.

Those four doors lay wide open. Their access and the whole corridor was jammed with mingled soldiery and residents of the hall in brocades or velvets or priests’ plain habits. Lamps lit the place, as they did in all places where the wind blew through, but the glow outside the doors was the red glare of a larger fire on vast billows of dark smoke, the stench of which reached far inside the hall.

Voices roared, outside, a wash of sound in which no words made sense.

It was impossible to keep together in the crowd. He plunged past a knot of lords out onto the landing and down the stairs, searching for a clear space to stand, at first, then found himself swept up in the rush, realizing that the crowd was carrying him toward the heart of the disturbance.

“M’lord,” he heard Uwen call to him, one clear, thin voice in that din of voices, but he had found a clearer vantage at the side-facing steps and did not wish to yield it up.

Wind rushed at him in that exposure, cold, rainy wind warmed with smoke. Ash and sparks flew. He wondered if the far wing of the building itself was afire—but he saw as he came past the crowd on the steps that it was a large fire set at the side of the courtyard. Men came and went sparsely in proximity to its light, showing him how large that fire was, a pile of wood more than the height of a man; and the flames lit figures that hung on the curtain wall above it, men dangling from ropes, against the stones of the defenses of the Zeide. While he watched, one plummeted into the fire, in a plume of sparks.

Men. Men hanged by the neck from ropes. Men burning in the fire.

The crowd behind him shouted. Guards broke forth from the doors, jostling him. In that press, for one frightening moment, he saw a distorted face, a bloody wreckage of a man hastened along by armored Guelen guards. Red hair, the man had, and the ruin of fine clothing. For an instant the man had looked straight at him.  Heryn, he thought in horror.

Heryn Aswydd. Cefwyn had blamed him for the men who had attacked the King.

Soldiers keeping the crowd back pressed him against the wall, and he stayed there, his back against it, following with his eyes the progress of that company of soldiers and others across the yard. Raucous laughter shocked him. He came down the steps, seeking to go closer, in the smell of smoke-warmed wind. There came a rumble he realized belatedly was thunder. Droplets of rain began to fall—it will put out the fires, he thought. It will save Lord Heryn. It will clear the smoke. It will make things clean.

And then he knew that it could not, because it could never bring things back the way they had been, simple, and clear and becoming utterly safe at a word from the men who ruled his life. The fires were not going out for any rain, and the burned men would not come back to life.

“M’lord.” Uwen reached him and caught his arm. “M’lord, best you go in.”

“They mean to kill him,” he said, calm, as that last group mounted the steps toward the fire, taking Heryn with them. His voice choked. He was unable to accept that Uwen was so trembling. “Orien? Tarien, too?”

“That’s in King Cefwyn’s hands, m’lord, come. Come wi’ me. This ain’t no place for you.”

He could not let Uwen or anyone conceal any more truths from him. Uwen frightened him with his calm  voice, his evident belief that such things as he saw now were ordinary and right. He broke away from Uwen and began to walk across the yard. Rain was falling, pelting him with large, cold drops, spotting the cobbles, making him blink as the wind carried rain into his face.

Uwen caught his arm, forcefully, this time. “King’s justice, m’lord, ye can’t help here!”

Justice? Was this the Word from the archive’s Philosophy? Was this the Word that went with Happiness?

He feared the violence around him, he flinched at the loss of life—he feared the passage from life into death that he had already caused, and saw it happening again before his eyes, and he could not explain or understand it—but the knowledge that it did happen was inside him, a Word racing around a doorless dark and trying to come out. Men feared that passage as they feared nothing else—and he understood the dying on the field as much as he understood death at all. But in the Zeide, where he lived, Men had gathered to cheer as other men burned—and Uwen seemed to think it was nothing remarkable, but nothing he should look at.

Rain began to pelt down about him, but it had no effect on the fire-the blaze sent out waves of heat too great for any rain to stop.

Then lightning whitened the stone of the top of the fire-stained wall, thunder cracked right over the yard, and rain began to sweep down in fire-lit sheets. Drenched onlookers began to retreat, some running, to the doors. A man slipped and fell on the steps. It was confusion, and in all that crowd was no one he would wish to find, no one whose answers he would want to know. He began to move instead against the crowd, trying to reach that proximity of the fire where he knew he was forbidden, as he was forbidden all harsh things.

But Uwen caught him a third time, pleading with him, half-drowned by a peal of thunder, and in defeat he went with Uwen back to the steps, up under the shelter of the arch.

In the doorway a shadow accosted them with such absolute authority he stopped cold, standing partly in the rain.  It was Idrys.

“Your guards report more faithfully than your man does,” Idrys said.

“And what provokes this bloody curiosity, lord Tristen of the Sihhé?”

“Where is Cefwyn, sir? Where shall I find him?”

Idrys’ eyes raked him over. “I shall take you there, my lord,” Idrys said with no more than his usual coldness, and turned and led the way, not a far distance once they were inside. Guards with Idrys cleared their way through the gatherings of men and women who shivered and complained in the corridor.

They passed the intersection of hall and stairs and came to that chamber they called the Lesser Hall, where the guards had brought him to meet with Cefwyn the first night he came here.

“Wait outside,” Idrys bade Uwen.

“Uwen, do so,” Tristen said, because Idrys’ tone had not been polite.

Uwen was soaked; he was; he wanted to have answers from Cefwyn while Cefwyn was to be found; and as quickly as possible take himself and all his guards upstairs into dry clothing. He did not expect it would take long, or that Cefwyn could spare much time for him, but he was determined that Cefwyn should know what was done outside, if Cefwyn was in any wise ignorant. He did not wholly trust Idrys, regardless of Cefwyn’s word. He saw reasons the lords around Cefwyn might wish not to inform Cefwyn of everything that happened, and he still found it hard to believe that Cefwyn knew of that horror outside.

He entered the hall behind Idrys, into a space which now held a large table. He brought smoke with him, the reek clinging to his clothes, but he could not be certain he was the sole source. The lords from the south and strangers who had come with Cefwyn’s brother were gathered about the table, and their armed escorts stood about, crowding the walls, some of them rain-draggled, proving that they, too, had been outside.

So perhaps Cefwyn did know. But there was no dampness about Cefwyn. He saw Cefwyn and Efanor among those standing at the table, over a collection of maps, and before he could approach, Idrys arrived at Cefwyn’s side and whispered something precautionary in Cefwyn’s ear.

Cefwyn looked about at him in anger. “I told you stay to your room!”

He was shaken by the anger, dismayed, and he did not thank Idrys for whatever Idrys had said. He remembered that Idrys clearly knew what was going on in the courtyard. But he still held out hope Cefwyn did not.

“They’ve hanged Lord Heryn,” he said to Cefwyn. “And other men. I don’t understand, m’lord.”

Cefwyn seemed disturbed, and still angry. “They’ve beheaded Lord Heryn. Noble blood does have its privilege. But you’ve clearly passed the bounds of things you need to know, sir. —Idrys, why did you bring him here? Damn it, why isn’t he in his room?”

“Your Majesty, Lord Tristen begged urgently to have personal audience with you. I thought it might be of more moment than it seems.”

“No, sir,” Tristen said, and evaded Idrys’ reach to come to the table between Cefwyn and lord Pelumer. “No, sir. I need to speak with you.”

“Not now, Tristen.”

“Sir, —Emuin—” He had diminishing confidence he had any argument at all regarding Lord Heryn, but that was not the only cause he had of disturbance tonight, and it was not the only thing Cefwyn needed to know. But he recalled that Uwen doubted his hearing Emuin, and Cefwyn did not look patient of his stories or his questions at the moment. “Emuin warned me of a danger—and this—”

There was a murmur among the assembled lords.

“What danger?” Cefwyn asked. “When?”

“Tonight, sir, now.”

“Is Emuin here?” Cefwyn asked. “Has he come?”

“M’lord King,” Idrys said, “Emuin is not here.” Idrys took Tristen’s arm, and his fingers hurt. “Let me take you upstairs, young lord.”

“No! M’lord, I saw it—” He resisted Idrys’ attempt to draw him away, and it was clear on faces all about that no one of them believed him, or thought it likely he had spoken with Emuin at all. He kept the struggle between himself and Idrys a quiet one, and kept the pain Idrys caused entirely to himself. “I shall wait my turn, m’lord King, if you please. I think I might know something useful, but I don’t wish to speak what I don’t know.” He thought of Uwen shivering in the hall. “Only let me dismiss Uwen and my guards upstairs. They’re wet through.”  “So are you.”

“Yes, sir, but I want to stay.”

“Dismiss your men,” Cefwyn said. “Page. Get him a cloak.”

“From his quarters, Your Majesty?” the page asked.

“Give him mine! Good gods!” Cefwyn was in pain, and limped when he moved—Cefwyn ought to be in his bed, Tristen thought, but Cefwyn was trying to decide something with his maps that were strewn across the tabletop, and with these men, not all of whom were pleasant or agreeable. Tristen took his small permission to go to the door, and put his head out.

Uwen was there, shivering till his teeth rattled. So were the two night guards, in no better case.

“Cefwyn’s guards will see me back,” Tristen said quietly, for there was business and argument going on behind him, among the lords in the room. “Please go upstairs and go to bed, Uwen. Have the guards change clothes. I’ll be safe.”

“Ye’re sopped, too, m’lord. Shall I bring a cloak down?”

“They have me one. I’ll not be long. —Or if I am, please go on to bed.

The guards here will see me upstairs. There’s no need of you to stay.”

“Aye, m’lord,’ Uwen said, not sorry to be sent for a change of clothes, he was certain. Uwen was shivering and miserable, and gave him no argument about it.

He shut the door to the hall and took the heavy cloak from the page who waited at his elbow. He wrapped the thick, lined velvet about him with relief and went back among the others in the room.

“What happened inside Amefel and on the border,” Cefwyn was saying, “we must answer, early and strongly. Heryn claimed his frauds against the Crown frightened him to such a desperate treason. Heryn claimed that his only intention was to call the King here and to arrange an attack of a small Elwynim force—he swore that he meant to be there with his own forces, to come to my father’s rescue. He had the effrontery to say—” Cefwyn drew an angry breath. “That had my father not moved early and had I not had him under arrest, the plan would have worked and my father would not have died.”

There was a muttering among the lords. Tristen thought it a foolish plan on Heryn’s part, a dangerous and desperate plan. He saw the motions of troops in his mind, he saw the lay of the land.

And he thought that there had been far more enemies than seemed likely for a false threat against Cefwyn’s father.

“This was Heryn’s claim,” Cefwyn said, “and we could obtain no other word from him. From two prisoners, common men, we have a name, Lord Caswyddian of Lower Saissonnd. Style of shields and various leavings on the field do indicate the river provinces of Elwynor. The prisoners did not see him on the field, but avow a son of his led them in what was given to be a retaliation for the execution of five Saissondim under flag of truce—this never happened, but this was what they were told. Sovrag’s men are not back with a report, but either by bridge or by barge, the Elwynim have at least light horse across the river in numbers.

Which they may have withdrawn. Disregarding the question whether Heryn told the truth, whether this story of the prisoners reflects something Heryn did, which he denied, or whether the Elwynim betrayed Heryn and advantaged themselves of his folly to do far more than he wished—a possibility which I do not discount—I am not in either case convinced the Elwynim Regent was behind the attack. That—is behind my reasoning.”

“M’lord,” Efanor said, “this was not a rag-tag element. These were well armed. We have names.”

“Of a lord and men bearing no device, no banner. This is not the Regent. It is a sign of the Regent’s lords with the bit in their teeth. It is a sign which way the wind is blowing should the Regent die.”

“Our father is dead!” Efanor said. “What matter which cursed Elwynim crossed the river? The Regent is ultimately responsible! You do not consider accepting any marriage offer from them! You would not do this!”

“Did I say so? Have I done so? I point out that we are not dealing with a well-organized enemy, brother, and that a message to the Elwynim Regent possibly—if it cannot produce us names—may still produce action, even strengthen the hand of the Regent against troublesome elements within his own realm and get us the justice we’re due.”

“These are murderers! These are godless, heretic murderers!”

“Who, if certain Elwynim lords have acted without their Regent or in spite of him, have committed treason against him, brother. Before I commit men to the field, I’d know against whom we are sending troops, and why, and whether there is another choice that will not plunge the realm into a war along half its borders—with gods know what allies, at a very unstable time in our affairs and theirs!”

“You are temporizing with murderers. You are expecting truth from a man who does not worship the gods!”

“One can hardly be both godless and a heretic, brother. And this is Amefel.”

“You’ve been in this heretic land too long, brother.”

“Efanor. Efanor. You’re mortally weary. So am I. And heart-sore. I know that. Go upstairs.”

“I’11 not be dismissed!”

“I’11 not be lessoned! For the love we bear each other, either offer counsel without reading me scriptures, Efanor, or offer me no counsel at all. If I want a priest I’ll call for one!”

Efanor was pale. His hands shook. “This is not a joking matter, my lord brother.”

“Trust I know it is not. Trust that I make my prayers as they’re due, good brother, and trust that I know Amefel as having more worthy lords than the Aswyddim, the Elwynim as having many worse lords than the Regent, and that if we allow any fledgling in that nest to raise himself by the death of our father, we not only sully our father’s memory, we promote his murderer to fortune and to power. If we attack and kill the Regent, we may well put our father’s murderer in power, because we have at one stroke given whatever villain bears the guilt both a war and a kingship to fill.”

‘“Or,” said Umanon, “we throw the Elwynim into confusion, and we attack across the river.”

“Look at the map, Your Grace. Having conquered all of Elwynor, shall we arm twelve-year-old maids and send them out to stand duty?

Elwynor is a vast, vast land, as great as our own kingdom. We do not do well to pull the dragon’s tail.”

“Empty land. Pasturage. It is not that populous.”

“But it is not now hostile and we are not in it. How far apart must our patrols ride through these pastures to prevent seditions? And if we found one nest of sedition, would they not move into the unpatrolled land? We cannot occupy Elwynor, sir. You dream.”

Cefwyn was right, Tristen thought. But there was more. He burned to say so, but the argument was already bitter.

“Fear,” said Umanon, “makes fewer patrols necessary.”

“I cannot agree,” Cefwyn said. “And I will not be disputed in this. To take Elwynor would be a disaster to us.”  “Not if they fear us.”

“Sirs.” Tristen could bear it no longer. “Sirs, there’s more than Elwynor. There’s Ynefel.”

“Who is this stranger,” asked Umanon, “that we should trust him?

He’s Sihhé, you say, and does he not most properly stand with the Amefin—at best?”

“We trust him,” Cefwyn said, “because he saved our life. Because he drove the attackers off the field and saved the lives of all of us near my lord father.”

“He did that,” a captain said.

“But,” said a finely-dressed lord Tristen did not know, one who had come with Cefwyn’s father, “does he stand as a member of this council, my lord King? He has no real holdings. Althalen and Ynefel are a domain of mice and owls.”

“Lord of Murandys,” Cefwyn said softly, leaning forward, “his titles are by my grant, and by inheritance—titles by blood, m’lord.”  There was chill silence.

“Or something like unto it,” Efanor muttered.

“Brother,” Cefwyn said.

Efanor ducked his head and folded his arms, the image of Idrys.

“My lords,” Cefwyn said, “I have not slept tonight, nor have you. I have sent messengers informing the northern lords of my father’s death, and of my resolution to hold this town and settle matters on the borders before returning to the capital. The press of events here affords me no respite for an official mourning nor for the receiving of their formal oaths, which I hope they will tender in intent, at least, by messenger. The danger to the realm is here, whether in Amefel, whether on the river. Our decision is made. My father—” Cefwyn’s voice faltered. “My father will be interred here—”

“M’lord!” Efanor’s head lifted.

“Here, I say, in a Quinalt shrine earliest of all Quinalt shrines in Amefel, a place of great import, great and historic sanctity, and presided over by the southern Patriarch, who will conduct the services as soon as we have built an appropriate vault, brother, in which our father may lie until I have dealt with his murderers! The King of Ylesuin will not be carried home, sirs, murdered, and with no penalty dealt his killers. The Kings of Ylesuin living and dead will not quit this province until they have justice, sirs, and on that I take holy oath! You will not dissuade me.”

Heads bowed, even Efanor’s, in the face of Cefwyn’s anger. Tristen ducked his head, too, but he had caught Cefwyn’s eye, and Cefwyn seemed not angry at him, nor as passionate as his voice had sounded.

“The rest, the rest, sirs, I shall inform you after I’ve taken more sleep than I have yet. Good night to you. Gods give you peaceful rest.”

The lords bowed, murmuring polite formalities. Tristen wondered if Cefwyn had changed his mind and wished him to leave, too, but when he had caught Cefwyn’s eye, Cefwyn shook his head and caught his arm.

Efanor also remained, exempt from the order, it seemed; and Idrys—constantly Idrys stayed at Cefwyn’s shoulder.

The door shut. They were alone, save the Guelen guard.

“Efanor,” Cefwyn appealed to his brother.

“Have we secrets to share at last?” Efanor asked. “Now am I in your counsel, brother? Am I at least privy to the secrets you bestow on the Sihhé?”

Cefwyn made a curt motion of his hand: the guard withdrew and closed the door.

Then Cefwyn leaned on the table, head bowed above the map in an attitude of profound weariness. “Efanor, trust me. After the funeral, I shall send you to the capital, while I pursue matters here. Is that not trust? I shall give you highest honor. I forget our quarrels. Only do not ever oppose me in council on matters we two have already discussed, and bear me some small patience now, as I bear it with you.”  “What moves this sudden liberality?”

Cefwyn’s face had been weary. Now it went hard and angry and he straightened his shoulders. “The gods’ grace, Efanor! I cannot fight outside enemies and you at once. Grant me this. Our father’s death will be repaid. I do not say it will be repaid tomorrow, but that it will be repaid—give me this much trust. Give me your affection, if you have it to give. But I shall take your duty, if you offer at least that.”

Efanor’s eyes wandered to Tristen and back again. “Whatever influences work here have mellowed you—or your experience in this land has vastly increased your subtlety.”