Fortress in the Eye of Time (32 page)

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.

F
awn-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.”

“Sihhë.”

“People say that I am Sihhë.”

“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 Sihhë 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 Sihhë kings to power. Have you heard that? Do you think that is true?”

“I—don't know, sir.”

“But it doesn't trouble you.”

“I don't see how it should, sir.”

“Do you not
remember
things? Isn't that what you told me—that you hear names and you know them?”

“That's true. But some Words—time after time they mean nothing to me, and then, on a certain day, in a certain way, they—unfold.”

“Unfold.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And has the word Sihhë unfolded at all to you?”

“It—” It did trouble him. That Word lay out of reach. He knew it was there, that Name, and that he had part of it, but not all. “I think that I might be Sihhë. People in the garden mostly said so.”

“And therefore you believe it?”

“No, m'lord. I don't know what it means.—Can books be wrong?”

“Egregiously wrong. And mislead men—egregiously.”

“Like lying.”

“Or making mistakes.”

“I make mistakes. I make far too many,—Mauryl said. And I still do. Don't be angry at Uwen.”

“You say you're not a wizard.”

“No, sir. I'm not.”

“Then what
would
you be? If you could choose—what would you be? A prince? A king?”

“On the whole, sir,—I think I had rather be Haman.”

Cefwyn's chin rested on his hand as he listened. A crook of Cefwyn's finger came up over his lips, repressing what might be a smile. Almost.

“You are remarkable,” Cefwyn said. “Rather be a stablemaster.”

“I've said something foolish.”

“And honest.—Can you yet read that book of yours? The one Mauryl gave you?”

“No, m'lord Prince. I can't. I tried, this afternoon. But I can't.”

“Are you my Friend, Tristen?”

It was a Word, a warm and good one. “Yes, m'lord Prince, if you like.”

“Had you a name once, besides the one Mauryl gave you?”

“None that I know, sir.” He could hear his heart beating. Suddenly he was tired, very tired, and wanted to sleep, although sleep had been the farthest thing from his mind a short breath before.

“Tristen, tell me, why did you come to Henas'amef rather than, say, to Emwy?”

“It seemed the right way.”

“Does it still seem so?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You might have lived at Althalen before Mauryl called you forth. I should tell you—you most likely did. Hundreds of the Sihhë died at Althalen. Elfwyn died there. Mauryl and Emuin were there, and they helped my grandfather, Selwyn Marhanen, become King of Ylesuin. They killed Elfwyn and his queen and all the Sihhë they could find for three years after. Does this surprise you?”

He was afraid. He wanted Cefwyn to talk about something else. “I'd not heard that, sir, no.”

“There was fire. The hold of Althalen burned. And you smelled the smoke when we rode there. You remembered how to ride. You were most certainly a horseman, and a fine one. You're clearly a scholar, versed in letters and philosophy. You have graces that mark you as well-born. Your speech is liker Amefin than not, but then, you learned it of Mauryl, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Tristen said. Surmises flooded at him, too many to think of and still follow Cefwyn's skipping from point to point.

“My father is King,” Cefwyn said. “I shall be. I by no
means know what Mauryl intended in sending you here. Many in this province of Amefel would be pleased to see me dead. Would that please you? More to the point,—would it have pleased Mauryl?”

“No, sir.” He found it hard to breathe. “It would not. I don't think so.”

“The medallion I gave you. Do you still wear it?”

“Yes, sir.” Tristen felt it against his skin. “Do you wish it back, m'lord Prince? I didn't know—”

“No, no, wear it. Wear it every day. Let me show you another.” There was a small table beside Cefwyn's chair, and Cefwyn took from it a white medallion on a gold chain woven with pearls. Cefwyn leaned forward to show it to him. “This is Ninévrisë. Did Mauryl ever mention that name?”

“No, sir. Not at all.” He steadied the medallion slightly with his fingertips. It was a beautiful face. It was no one he knew. But he liked to look at it. “She has a kind face.”

Cefwyn leaned back again, put the medallion again on the table. “Her father is regent of Elwynor. He offers her to me in Marriage.”

Marry. Marriage. Husband. Wife. Bed.

Children.

“Will you Marry her?” he asked.

“I did consider it. That we were attacked at Emwy, that things have gone amiss in that area—might be because certain Elwynim are opposed to it. Or it might be because certain Amefin are opposed to it.”

“Do you
wish
to marry her?”

Cefwyn's brows lifted, if only mildly, and he took a sip of wine. “It would certainly set certain teeth on edge. You understand—lords marry not for love but to get heirs. And an heir of both Elwynor and Ylesuin—would be very powerful.”

It was a nest of Words. Of ideas. He listened.

“Equally,” Cefwyn said, “a prince to rule well and long needs a loyal group of lords on whom he can rely. You said, did you not, Tristen, that you would be my friend? You would Defend me from my enemies?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you Swear that in the sight of strangers?”

Swearing was a word about gods, and it fluttered about Truth and Lies and making strong promises. It was wider than that, much wider, and the threads kept running off into the dark, so he knew it was a large idea; but it felt entirely reasonable: of course he should defend Cefwyn, if someone tried to harm him.

“Yes,” he said. And that pleased Cefwyn greatly. Cefwyn looked to have set aside the worry he had had in asking him.

“Do you hear?” Cefwyn asked in a loud voice of Idrys, who had been talking with Uwen over at the table. “Do you hear, Idrys? He will swear to defend Ylesuin's heir.”

Idrys left the table. So did Uwen. Tristen stood up, then, as Cefwyn did. He had thought the declaration of no great moment, but Cefwyn thought so, and Idrys frowned and looked not quite so pleased with the matter.