Efanor’s mouth opened, and shut, and maybe Efanor’s wits had begun, however belatedly, to work. Efanor had gone from sincere childhood fears of things going bump in the stairwell at night to a fierce belief that supernatural things had kept him from the good in life and could be cajoled into working better for him in the hereafter. Efanor had had his wits fairly well about him until his desertion of Emuin’s easy-going Teranthines to the more rigid orthodoxy of the Quinalt, with their rules and abstinences—and their course of atonement for faults. Efanor’s self-doubts and his demand for a solution he himself could apply had brought him to a sect that instilled doubts of the morality of his every thought, every thought of a thought Efanor had, and taught him then how to atone for those sinful thoughts and search for more fault in himself—which took an increasing amount of Efanor’s attention from what was going on in the world.
Probably, Cefwyn guessed, it was the effect of growing up with a grandfather who knew he was damned to some unguessed hell and an uncle who’d said something prophetic about his demise the day before he died. Efanor was clutching at straws of salvation in a flood of the increasingly inexplicable.
But the brother he had loved had owned a keen wit once upon a time; and it seemed to him on an odd provocation that a surfeit of inexplicable ideas, complex beyond that damned priest’s limited wit, might be his best chance to rescue his brother.
So he sipped tea and sat discussing the notions he had of matters military and matters involving Elwynor, and he saw that his brother was pleased—his brother, he saw in a vision at least as thunderous as the one he claimed to have had about the sunlight and the river, hated to be ranked down among the other lords, and hated to have his information when they received it.
So he would have to make time to see that Efanor was not surprised by matters of state. Efanor relaxed over that cup of tea and a second and a third, and, granted he must be very, very careful of the new-sprung and thorny hedges that defended Efanor’s religion, Efanor positively expanded, and considered, and even advanced a rational thought or two.
Efanor had always liked to know things others did not—and once Efanor knew there was a complexity of reasons, rather like Umanon, but with more wit, Efanor was haring off down the ramifications and thinking up ideas—which could not be state secrets if he told his priest.
In that tactic, Cefwyn thought, he had his best chance to rescue his brother: get Efanor so deep in state intrigues, little ones at first, that Efanor would lean to him and keep his secrets rather than the Quinalt’s.
Then beware the Quinalt, he thought, foreseeing trouble of a dangerous sort once the Quinalt saw Efanor slipping from their grasp.
He was rather pleased with the outcome of that conversation. His leg ached less. He felt he was on top of matters, at least starting the day, as he saw Efanor out the door.
But no sooner had he gone back to the table and his morning agenda, than Emuin was at the door, craving admittance of his guards.
And on two more cups of tea—Emuin spilled another web of less divine scheming, with secrets to tell him.
“Our young man,” Emuin said, among other pleasantries, “is aware of Mauryl’s enemy and in occasional communication with him.” “Here?” he was moved to ask.
“Occasionally. But Place is important. Magic clings to places, and places once built mark the earth for a long, long time. He and the late lord Regent sought to take Althalen from Hasufin. I believe he did at least give good account of himself. He has prevented absolute disaster in that precinct, and wizardry of some sort called him up there. But I do not know whose maneuver it was and I do not know whose maneuver the lady Regent may be in coming here. I am not confident it’s Tristen’s doing. He’s young, he’s sometimes unaware—I don’t know but what the enemy could instill an idea in him. Certainly I can’t. But I don’t put it beyond Hasufin to do so.”
“This is the dreadful Barrakkêth. This is the wizard capable of turning the Zeide into Ynefel! Now you’re saying he’s a feckless child open to malign and subtle influences!”
“He’s not a wizard. And I am saying Mauryl did not Shape him as he was at his height of power. Mauryl—the gods know what Mauryl did.
Mauryl certainly didn’t capture all of him.” “Glorious! Half a wizard.”
“Don’t make light of it! There is every chance he is simply—young, as I said from the very beginning.”
“And getting older by the day, master grayfrock.”
“Be careful of him. Only be careful. He may have done you a great and very wise service at Althalen. I think, perhaps, since things are quieter, that Hasufin may have gotten his fingers burned. —Did I mention the lord Regent had Sihhé blood? You distracted me with your questions, young King.”
He swallowed the tea he had in his mouth. “No, you did not mention it. I’ve proposed to marry his daughter—Did I mention that, sir? And the lady has gray eyes.”
“It was wizardry, however, that the lord Regent used. Wizardry, as I strongly had the impression. I don’t say Sihhé can’t become wizards, and I think the lord Regent was, if Your Majesty wishes, my considered opinion, both.”
“Good blessed gods, old master, I am speaking of marriage with this woman. I have deliberated marriage with this woman for months. Do you just now report this small fact? Damn it!”
“First, I didn’t know about the lord Regent until Tristen told me.
There are wizards about. They do make rustlings in the world. Second, that blood is very thin, very thin, or the lord Regent himself could have fulfilled the prophecy. He could not. He was nothing to what Tristen is.”
“Will Tristen inherit Elwynor?’
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Should I marry her?”
“If you fancy her, why not?”
“Why not? Good gods, spare me. Give me advice, sir.’
“I confess I don’t know. I could never select a wife for a man, being celibate, myself.”
“Another reason not to trust wizards.”
“It’s not a requirement. It does seem to work out that way. But I have told you what I came to tell you.”
“What shall I do, damn it, sir? Where is your advice?”
“Idrys knows far more of worldly things than I. You might ask him.”
With which Emuin took his leave, off to, Emuin declared, his devotions.
“Hell!” he said to the four walls.
“My lord?” Annas asked, having arrived from the other room.
“Hell and damnation.” He went and stared out the window, at the roof slates and the morning sky. The breakfast dishes were vanishing behind him. He heard the quiet clatter.
And a page slipped up, diffidently to hand him a note.
It was sealed with wax, with a seal of a Tower and quarterings.
Her seal. Of course her seal. They had carried the banners. Packhorses with bundles aboard. Certainly the Regent’s seal—which he lifted with his thumbnail, and unfolded the note.
I accept your offer, it read. I shall marry you.
The sun was well up and the household about its day’s business when Tristen waked—staring at the ceiling of his own room, lying in his own bed, in uneasy comfort.
He hardly wanted to face the day. He had far rather lie still and cause no one any more difficulty.
But he could not, lying there and staying quiet for fear the servants would rush in, keep his thoughts from wandering over where he had been and what had happened, and, worst of all, to Cefwyn, and Cefwyn’s reasons for being angry at him.
He supposed it was a fault in himself that he could not leave it at that, that he needed desperately to make peace with Cefwyn. He was not even entirely certain Cefwyn was angry. But it seemed at least that Cefwyn had every right to be.
That was what finally drove him out of bed.