But now, in the hills, under the sky, he found himself thinking very clearly of Ynefel, and Mauryl, and the things of his earliest memories.
The advice of Men had filled his ears with a clamorous assault in town.
Here, he listened to the Lark and watched a Fox trot along the hill and thought—how Mauryl had said it was very easy to make things do what they wanted to do.
And if Men in Henas’amef called that wizardry, he never recalled Mauryl calling his work that, though Mauryl had called himself a wizard. Mauryl had simply expected a thing to be as it wanted to be. And it was. Mauryl never seemed to think it remarkable. He didn’t think it remarkable, either.
So perhaps it had been easy to make himself be here—because this was what he wanted to do, and this was the direction he wanted to ride.
Nothing had been able to stop him last night and nothing had prevented him this morning.
He recalled Mauryl saying he would know what to do when the time came for him to go. And he had indeed known. He had followed the Road and found Emuin. So what Mauryl had promised him had come true.
And now that he thought about it, it did seem that he might know when it was time for him to do other things, and to take other Roads, even to take up the one he had been on, which he had once thought led through the gate of Henas’amef.
But perhaps his Road had only turned there, and gone along beside the wall of the town. Perhaps that was why it now drew him out again, and perhaps the clamor and clatter of the town and the gathering of lords and their men had troubled him because they were all outside Mauryl’s wishes.
That was one state of his thoughts. There were two. One state of his thoughts was calm and safe, and he knew he could rest as he rode, and do as he pleased, and arrive where he wished to arrive, and ask the questions he wished to ask. That was the freedom.
The other state of his thoughts was not calm. The other was full of jagged edges and Words half-unfolded and things that might and might not be, and all the ties he had made to people. That state of his thoughts was full of Cefwyn’s expectations of him, and Emuin’s, and Uwen’s, all unfulfilled. He did not know where good or bad resided, whether with the things Mauryl had wished him to do, or with the things that bound him by friendship to Cefwyn. The thoughts did not at the moment seem compatible.
He knew that in the simplest thinking of all, he should have stayed for Emuin and accepted Emuin’s advice, even if it was to stay in his room and keep silent.
But it seemed to him—leaping to that other way of thinking—that he had found his way past the gates without hindrance because that too was the way things wanted to be. If that indeed was wizardry, then Mauryl had done it or he had.
Lady Orien did not expect visitors this afternoon. That was evident.
Maids snatched at sewing and scattered, white-faced, from the benches at the solar windows. Orien herself cast aside her lap robe and rose up in a scattering of colored threads.
Orien was not at her best. There was little color in her face, and her clothing was gray, looking old and outworn, a gown chosen for comfort, surely, not show. The red curls were drawn back severely and braided in a long braid. Small bruises marked her left cheek and her chin, marks the source of which Cefwyn did not know, but guessed as possibly one of his guards. She seemed entirely unnerved at his sudden intrusion. Her fine hands locked together as if to stop their movement. But she was never at a loss for argument.
“I should have thought you would pay me some courtesy of announcement, Your Majesty. But, then, you own the guards and doubtless you will make free of my door when you will.”
It was by no means the contrition he had had reported to him. The soft, even voice had little quaver in it; the eyes, none.
I misjudged Heryn to my father’s ruin, he thought. Have I likewise misjudged my act of mercy? It grows late to order other deaths; now it would have the taint of persecution.
“You are safe here,” he said coldly. “Do not presume too much on my patience. You asked to be heard. I am here.”
“I thought it was myself who would be summoned,” she said, and brushed at her gray skirts. “This is all I can do for mourning.” Now, now came the quavering voice. Worse, it did not have the sound of pretense.
“Do I learn now what will be done with me and my sister?” “What would you ask, Lady Orien?”
Her head came up; her chin lifted. “I would ask, my lord King, for Amefel.”
Her audacity astounded him. He recalled with shame how she had flattered her way into his bed, while she plotted with her brother against his life and against his father’s life. His gullibility appalled him.
“I am Aswydd,” she said. “Like other Aswydds, I can divorce sentiment and policy. Give me Amefel for my holding. I shall mourn my brother and bow to circumstance. It will save Your Majesty division and confusion within the province at a time when Your Majesty has greatest need of unity. And it will prevent contention among other lords as to who may claim the spoils—with all the feuds and history entailed.” “I need no advice from you or your sister on policy.”
“No, my lord King, since you well know these things to be true.”
What she said made clear sense, but he did not stop hating the woman. “Have what you ask,” he said then, and was gratified that it surprised her. The color quite fled her face and she looked as if she would gladly sit down; but she could not, in the King’s presence, and he did not give her that leave. “Your cousins I shall banish, all, far eastward, stripped of all properties, which I give to you. That will doubtless give them great love for you, Orien Duchess of Amefel, and constant hope of your charity. But extend them none, on pain of death. Your sister Tarien will have no estate. It is yours, and you may not bestow it in your lifetime. You will remain under arrest, Your Grace of Amefel and Henas’amef, until it pleases me to release you. You will be in all particulars.., sole holder of the title.”
“So that there will be no lord to face you in council but myself, and no man to stand for me.”
“Ah, but I shall stand for you. Is it not the ancient custom of Amefel that a man who deprives a lady of her male kin must see to her welfare?
A Crown wardship for you, Your Grace. And Lady Tarien’s wardship and that of your cousins to you. No one will harm you. But I would not have a dozen of my lords competing for your tarnished favors, or have you or your sister politicking between the sheets. When you wed, Your Grace, if ever you know another man—and I shall take a dim view of impropriety—it will be with my approval; and the Aswydds’ rule over Amefel ends with your name, by one means or another. Be assured, you are lord and lady in Amefel.”
Orien’s face had gone quite pale. She made a slow curtsy. “My lord King, —”
“I let you live. I let your sister live. If you were Heryn’s brother, Your Grace, you would fare differently, I assure you. Cross me again and you’ll find no further mercy. That I would execute a woman—never doubt. But your brother swore in dying that you no more than obeyed his orders as lord of Amefel; and therefore you and your sister and your cousins are alive.”
“My lord,” she breathed, and her face was rigid.
“Never grow arrogant, my lady. You will never have any champion for your opinions but myself, and I like them little. Your head is insecurely set and might make pair with your brother’s on the south gate at any moment.”
“I beg my lord King, his body for burial.”
“That I do grant. Neither I nor the ravens have more use for it. But on condition the burial be private and seemly. Yourself, the priests, your sister,.., my soldiers.”
Orien swept another curtsy, slow and deep, showing her breast. He lingered, looking at her, wondering what had ever attracted him to this cold, scheming woman, or why he let her have her life now. The look she gave him was not Heryn’s, but something more direct and more defiant.