It was loss for him. But he could not mislead Cefwyn from what was good. “I don’t think so, sir.”
Again Cefwyn gazed at him a long time without speaking. “I don’t think it should, either. You don’t affright me. You dismay me at times, but you have no power to frighten me, not when I have you close at hand. It’s when you’re gone that I’m afraid.” “Of me, sir?”
“No, not of you. Of your not being here. No matter what, Tristen, always be my friend. And, damn it all, don’t say ‘sir’ to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You mustn’t steal horses, either. If I gave you a horse—which would you?”
“I don’t wish you to give me a horse.”
“Well, you can’t be stealing them, either. How is that to look, the King’s friend, a horse-thief? You have an excellent eye for horses. I should like a foal of that red mare, I do tell you. You may have Gery, if you like, though. Look over the horses I have. Take the one you want, except Danvy. You should have at least three or four.”
“I should like Petelly,” he said. It did not console him. But that Cefwyn wished to give him something said that Cefwyn wished to please him. That was something.
“Which is Petelly?” Cefwyn asked.
“The one I stole. I like him.”
“That’s not very ambitious. I have far finer.”
“Petelly is a very good horse.”
“Well, I’m sure. And if you picked him out I should have another look at him. But he’s not enough for heavy armor. And I shall ask you to do several things for me.” “What are they?”
“First—” Cefwyn marked the item with a finger. “Go down to master Peygan. Do you know him? Uwen does.” “The master armorer.”
“Exactly. These are chancy times, and if you ride off again into a fight, by the gods, you’ll go wearing more than you wear about the halls.
Choose anything you like. I’ll give the armsmaster his orders. And you’ll want a horse that can carry you wearing it. I have one in mind. One of mine, in fact, out of a mare I have.”
“I would be very pleased,” he began, and intended to say he hardly knew what to do with such an extravagant gift. From abandoned—he found himself smothered in gifts he supposed proved Cefwyn’s forgiveness—perhaps even Cefwyn’s determination not to abandon him. But Mauryl had given him things just before—just before the balconies fell down.
“Good!” Cefwyn said. “That’s settled. You’ll join me this evening.
Will you?”
“I would be very glad to.”
“Then—” Cefwyn gathered himself up, leaning on the table, and Tristen understood it was dismissal, perhaps business disposed of with that. But unaccountably Cefwyn embraced him, and held him at arms’ length and looked him close in the face. “My friend. Whatever happens, whatever you hear of me, whatever I hear of you, no one will ever make us distrust one another. You’ll take another oath, do you see, in a few days—but I shall not ask you this time to swear to obey me. Only tell me now you’ll take me into your confidence. Kings should not be surprised. Kings should never be surprised. That’s all I ask.”
“I have promised Uwen, too. But I might have to go.”
“Do you know that already? Damn it, what do you know?”
He didn’t know how to answer. Cefwyn reached toward him, toward his collar, and pulled at the chain he wore, of that amulet Cefwyn had given him.
“Does this,” Cefwyn asked, “—does this give you comfort?”
“That you gave it comforts me.”
“Does it protect you?”
“I haven’t felt so.” He had never looked for it to do so. “But I’ve never looked at it in the gray place.”
“The gray place.”
“Where Shadows live.”
“Tell me. You can tell me. What gods do you serve? Emuin’s?”
O0ds should, perhaps, be a Word. Men seemed to hold it so. But he found nothing to shape it for him. He reached for the chain and slid the amulet back within his collar. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Cefwyn.”
“And, with you, not knowing encompasses much, does it not? Can you say what the Elwynim are doing, up by Emwy?”
He shook his head. “But they will know that the lady is here. Aséyneddin listens to Hasufin. I am sure he does. He will dream it. He most likely knows.”
“Is he a wizard?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t met him.”
“I heed you,” Cefwyn said at last. “You are free. But I ask you, wait and ride with us. Will you? —We shall ride to Emwy and deal with the Elwynim rebels. If you learn anything, by whatever means, you will tell me. Promise me that.” “I promise it.”
“And don’t keep me wondering where you are, or what you think. I am fond of you, damn you. I need you. I shall be sad all my life if you leave me.” Cefwyn shook at him a little. “I shall have to be a King. I’m obliged to. It’s a damned boring thing to be. —Join me tonight. Will you?”
It was a dismissal. But Cefwyn embraced him a second time, and with a fierceness that said he was welcome, and wanted, and would not be abandoned, and he held tightly to that embrace, his heart beating hard even while he asked himself was it only kind, what Cefwyn did, and did it hide what Cefwyn knew he would do.
There had been a time he would have been sure that Cefwyn would know what to do. There had been a time he had been sure that Cefwyn would protect him.
Now, if nothing else, it seemed quite the other way about. In the lord Regent he had lost someone who might have stood with him against Hasufin, had his Road led him there instead of here—so certainly so he had to ask himself whether he had indeed mistaken his way in the world; for he knew now with clearest sight that Emuin had the knowledge, but lacked the courage to begin a fight, and that Cefwyn, who did have all the courage anyone could ask, was helpless against this enemy as they all were helpless to stop Cefwyn’s pain, or turn aside the danger that was coming against him.
Mauryl might have helped Cefwyn. Mauryl could have worked a healing on him, and Cefwyn would not been in such unremitting pain as was beginning to mark his face.
But none of them, not Uleman, not Emuin, not Cefwyn, were what Mauryl had been. He himself knew reading and writing and horsemanship; he knew the use of a sword. He knew things about buildings that no longer were, like what he now knew was an older state of the lower hall.
But he knew nothing of what he most wanted, which was to be what Mauryl had wished him to be, and to make Cefwyn happy and safe and free from his wound.
“Thank you,” he said to Cefwyn in leaving, and wished to the bottom of his heart that he were better than he was, and stronger than he was, and wiser than he was; and he wished that there were indeed some wise old man to take care of him and tell him his fears were empty.
The fact was they were not empty. And would not be. He had to do something. He did not imagine what that was. But that was what Mauryl had left him to do—even if his worst fears were true, and he had been mistaken in coming to Cefwyn, he had to find a way to make things right; or, if he had been right, to turn things as they were.., into what they had to be.
The stables had sent in their accounts—Haman did not write well, and the scribe who had taken them down from Haman’s dictation had a florid hand clearly Bryalt in style, which he was trying to puzzle out, when Idrys came to say that the lady had answered his last missive, among missives they had been exchanging with increasing frequency since breakfast.
In fact, the lady was at the door.
“Damn!” Cefwyn cried, and looked for a place to bestow the border reports, the maps. “Here.” He shoved maps at a passing page. “In the map-cabinet, for the good gods’ sake. —Annas!” More pages were running. He handed them the maps and the sensitive documents. “Put them in the bedchamber.”
“Where in the bedchamber, Your Majesty?”