“Certainly not the sort of shrine one could bribe the Quinaltines to establish. And not one even the Teranthines would countenance.” “Was it done?”
“Oh, it is there, m’lord. The size of a man’s hand, that star, with odd symbols, in a remote corner of the crypt. To this hour the candles, thirty-eight is the specification, burn day and night—tended by someone in constant care. The sum of money must have been considerable.
It does go back eighty years, during your grandfather’s reign. Perhaps, too, the Bryaltines are very general in their worships; in the villages, I have observed, Bryaltine priests seem very little distinguishable from hedge wizards. Most of all, this is Amefel, my lord, and never did I feel it so keenly as standing in that small shrine.” “Thirty-eight. Why thirty-eight?”
“Why, twice Nineteen, my lord King. A second Nineteen. A return of the old gods? Another ascendancy of wizardry over men?”
“Damn.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“Emuin is Teranthine. A rational man, not a religious. I know him, my teacher, my—”
“The record is there to be read, my lord, in the shrine, if you will I bring it to you. —My lord, granted the Teranthines do shelter him and attest his piety. But they were an obscure sect before he came to them and brought them fame and fortune. As Emuin has grown in favor, in two, now three reigns, so they have prospered in donatives and courtly devotions of lords who would not omit a respectable order, especially now, one favored by the Marhanens. And so blessed, would the Teranthines denounce him willingly for his private devotions, to whatever powers? A minor peccadillo, one of those small matters I doubt Emuin told your grandfather—or your father when your father made Emuin your tutor. I know him well. And I doubt Emuin has ever confessed fully his sins to me—or to the Teranthines, who doubtless do not wish to bear the burden thereof, even if they suspected it. I am tolerant, but not where it regards the overthrow of the realm or fealty to dead wizards.”
“Gods,” Cefwyn muttered, and touched his chest where once he had worn a silver circlet, a Teranthine amulet. But he had given the amulet to
Tristen. It had been comfort to him as a child afraid of dark places and his grandfather’s nightmares of burning children. It had become a luckpiece when he became a man, if only because Emuin had given it to him. He had seldom thought of the religiousness, only of the friend and counselor. Now he did think of it. Now, perhaps belatedly, he questioned to whom he had given something he treasured, his personal attachment to Emuin.
Emuin had been a father to him, more than his own had been; and to lose both his father and Emuin in a matter of days- Now, he thought angrily, eyes stinging and hazed, —now you have me to yourself, do you not, master crow? My bird of ill omen. My jealous shadow. Now you have discredited even Emuin. And of course you speak against Tristen. Shall I trust only you, hereafter?
“Emuin is at Anwyfar,” Idrys was saying. “I can send the message. I can summon him. If he is not already on his way, on the news of your father’s—”
“Let Emuin be. Let be, Idrys! Gods! You have an excess of zeal for turning stones.”
“My lord is too generous for his own safety’s sake. Go back to the capital, where a King of Ylesuin belongs. Leave your brother this thankless frontier. Above all, I counsel you, do not let Efanor go to Guelemara without you. Far better he stay here in Amefel with you, if you will not go.”
“If Efanor dies here, well-sped? Is that your meaning? Is that what you say?”
“I am my lord’s man, none else.”
“You do not trust Efanor as my representative? Even absent the chance for my father’s funeral?”
“He is, straight from his devotions in godly Llymaryn, a naive and believing man. To send him alone among the machinations of your father’s courtiers and the western lords is not wise, my lord king. Hold him here in the place of danger and go yourself back to safety. Hard duty is the lot of superfluous princes, especially if they are contrary-minded.
And if Lord Tristen of the Sihhé asks you lend him soldiers to lead, why, give him the Amefin and march them against Ynefel as he wishes. It would please the Amefin commons and most of the lords, who do not mourn Heryn Aswydd or his taxmen or his usurers, and give them common purpose against an enemy not yourself.”
“And if Tristen should succeed, and take Ynefel from this purported enemy—this—Hasufin of various chronicles?”
“Why, good success. I should applaud it, since I cannot counsel you against this Sihhé gift. And if your Lord Warden of Ynefel should instead join with your more numerous enemies across the river—at least your enemies will all be facing you, not standing at your back.”
He drew a deep breath. “And as we spin out this skein of distrust, what should we do with Emuin?”
“Oh, by all means, bring Emuin here. Your Sihhé lord might well need him and his shrine.” “Idrys, —”
“I am entirely serious, and I pray you take me so. Any other course may make your reign a short one.”
“Already men of my father’s court think I had a hand in my father’s death.”
“I have not heard that said today.”
“Oh, but it was said often yesterday. It was the reason of Efanor’s coming to Henas’amef, master of all suspicion! Maybe it was an empty court my brother hoped to find, where he could ensconce himself and his Quinalt advisers, while Father caught me consorting with Elwynim and Amefin sorcerers. Maybe he was honest in his hope to save me from sorcery and heresy. Killing Heryn did not prevent my enemies from shaping their own belief, nor will it in future. So shall I likewise murder my brother, my black and bloody counselor? A pious and believing man Efanor may be, but he is no innocent in intrigue. He and I survived my grandfather together, and my uncle is in his grave. Do not talk to me of courtiers besieging Efanor’s sweet innocence! I will not have you of all people fall under his spell!”
“I am not unaware of his abilities, nor blind to his ambitions—nor to his Quinalt supporters. Do what you will. You are King. When you are an old king, none will dare remember it to you.”
“I would remember. And they would write it, after I am dead.”
“What care you then? Likely they will write it anyway.”
“But I would know. I have to sleep of nights. I love my brother, damn you! Is that a fault in me?”
“My lord King, leave this place, leave Amefel and all its influences.
There is too much of the Old Kingdom here. You belong eastward, in Guelemara. When you can breathe that air, you will forget all these morose thoughts—and this Sihhé revenant.”
“Are you afraid, Idrys? Have I finally gone where you fear to follow?
Have I possibly gotten ahead of you?” “I am my lord’s man.”
“Your advice to me once had more than retreat in it.”
“Shall I give you the advice I like best? Kill Efanor, kill the Sihhé, and be rid of Emuin all at one stroke. But you would never hear that. Kill Orien Aswydd and her sister. But you will not. Kill Heryn’s four feckless cousins, who will lie down with conspirators and get up with ideas, but you will not.”
“No,” he conceded. “I will not.”
Idrys frowned. “So. Who is to the fore now, m’lord King? I, or you?”
“There is yet,” Cefwyn said, “no news from Sovrag?”
“No, my lord. Nothing.”
“It is possible, you know, that even Tristen’s fears are born of too much rich dessert and a disposition to dream of that place on uneasy nights. It may be nothing. He may come back on his own, confounding us all.”