Prince Efanor. He ain’t seen you fight, m’lord. But I think he knows now he was in deep waters.”
He wished he understood, all the same. That the man did not like him hardly surprised him. But that the man wanted to fight him did not make sense. That the man wanted to entrap him and to discourage Cefwyn from friendship with him—that, he did see. He didn’t know if it was fair to warn Cefwyn. It seemed to him that there were intricate Rules to govern men’s behavior, and to govern what they told authority about and what they did not and settled unto themselves.
He did not know those Rules. He only saw they existed. He was quite, quite stunned by Sulriggan’s kind of malevolence. But Hasufin’s sort of harm and this man’s seemed to have tactics in common, and he found it worrisome this was the man who stood closest to Efanor, except only Efanor’s priest.
Efanor did not, over all, like him, and at least this one man, possibly with Efanor’s knowledge, possibly without it, was going about quietly trying to turn Pelumer to their side, too.
He was not certain where Fairness lay, in this—whether it was Fair for him to tell Emuin, who would surely tell Cefwyn, and that would make trouble with Efanor, which would make Cefwyn unhappy, when Cefwyn had enough pain.
It seemed something he could deal with. It seemed at least the man had gone in retreat.
So it was not something he chose to tell Cefwyn, in the meeting they had.
And Cefwyn was not angry with him. Tristen was very glad of that. He had gone to Cefwyn’s door specifically to apologize for interrupting him in council, but Cefwyn took his hand and said it was very well, he had been right to speak out under the circumstances. And Cefwyn had asked him in and shared a cup of tea with him, and directly asked him about the armor, which he said was very fine.
Then Cefwyn told him he had ordered Haman to make a choice of horses for Uwen as well, since, as Cefwyn said, for the King’s pride he could not have the chief of personal guard of a lord of Ylesuin drawing his mounts at random from the stables. He gave Uwen the horses and their upkeep, the written order said, as long as Ynefel stabled horses at Henas’amef.
It was a very handsome gift, Tristen had no difficulty in recognizing that. It was another in the succession of gifts Cefwyn had poured out on him in the context of his betrothal to the lady, and he did not know altogether what it meant. “If I had any means,” he said to Cefwyn, troubled and embarrassed, “I would provide for him. I understand what I should do, and I cannot, and I am very grateful.”
“If I had any desire to weigh you down with the administration of a province,” Cefwyn said, “I swear I would bestow Amefel on you and send Orien Aswydd packing. As it is, I find it a very modest upkeep for an entire province of Ylesuin. The horses have come in, Haman advises me. You will need, of course, grooms, standard-bearers, their horses and upkeep. And upkeep for your servants.”
He could scarcely conceive of it—or understand what Cefwyn was doing to him: pushing him out on his own, perhaps, which was not unkind, and perhaps even timely; but he still had the suspicion that gifts and generosity came before bad news and parting.
“I am not a lord in any useful sense. I hardly need more than Uwen.”
“Oh, you are far more useful and far less expensive than, say, Amefel.
How did you find Orien? Civil? Or otherwise?” “Idrys told you.”
“Oh, my dear friend, Idrys indeed told me. And I wish to know if you have any complaint against her.”
“I know that I shouldn’t have gone there. I was there before I knew that. But her guards were wiser than I was: they told Idrys and he came for me.’
“Idrys says you made it out on your own,” Cefwyn said. “Which is far more sense than I had.”
That was a joke, but Cefwyn did not laugh, and Tristen did not. He did not think of anything to report that Cefwyn did not know, but he did not think he could as freely forgive Orien the way he had forgiven the gate-guards and Idrys and all the people who had done him harm of one kind and another. Orien’s action seemed somehow more mindful and of a purpose he did not wholly guess, nor wish to. But he tried to guess.
“I have no idea what she wanted,” Tristen said, and Cefwyn looked at him oddly.
“I believe I know,” Cefwyn said, as if he were being a little foolish, even for him. But beyond the evident conclusion, he thought it far more than a ploy to lure him to—what he only dimly visualized. Still, he did not wish to launch into that discussion tonight, for Cefwyn seemed very tired, certainly in pain, and should go to bed. “I’ll deal with Orien,”
Cefwyn promised him. “I am very aware of her displeasure.”
“You should rest,” Tristen said.
“I fully intend to,” Cefwyn said, and declared his intent to go to bed like a good betrothed husband, after which Tristen made his excuses and withdrew across the hall to his own apartment.
Cefwyn had seemed in increasing pain since last night, and that was hard to watch as well as disheartening for their preparations. He could not imagine of his own experience how acute the pain of such a deep wound was, but Cefwyn’s face had been quite pale, at the last, and damp with sweat. Tristen wished—desperately wished—that he had Mauryl’s ability to take the pain away and to heal the hurt; but he did not.
And worry over Cefwyn might have put him out of the mood to have supper, except Uwen was so entirely delighted and overcome when he heard about the horses and the King taking a personal interest in him, it was hard to remain glum.
So he took supper in his sitting room with Uwen and the four servants, who were, since he had come back from Althalen, very willing to linger by the table and gossip. He learned, this evening, for one thing, that Lord Sulriggan’s personal cook had had a dish turn up very, very salty at the betrothal feast, and Lord Sulriggan called it witches, but the servants thought it likelier the scullery-lads.
Tristen found himself laughing, in far better humor than he had begun. He felt a little guilt, because it was a misbehavior, but not harmful; and by now the servants and Uwen probably had traded stories, so Lord Sulriggan’s discomfiture in the armory would probably make the rounds, too—and find especial appreciation in the kitchens.
Opinions about Ninévrisé were also making the rounds of the staff: there was a deep curiosity about a woman who would be, if not queen, still, the next thing to it. The general opinion the servants gave—far more cautiously—was that she was a very kind, a very gracious lady, who, moreover, politely had not complained of a wool coverlet, though her skin could not bear anything but lambs wooclass="underline" it came of being a princess, the staff said, and the servants had had to send after more linens to case all the blankets until they could find proper ones.
Tristen was duly appalled that such information was a matter of common gossip, but Uwen reminded him what he had said to him from the beginning, that a lord’s reputation among the servants was just as important as that he achieved among his peers—because it rapidly was among his peers. So Nin6vrisi3 was well begun, at least with the staff, who thought her very proper and very accepting of the staff’s good intentions.
There was a muttering of thunder as they finished supper. The clouds today had gone over with no more than a spit of rain, and would shed their burden on Guelessar. The farmers of the south and west were doubtless happy, and so, doubtless, would be the lords and their men who, leaving their tents with the baggage, had started home to their own lands.
Tristen for his part thought it a good night to sit by the fire, and in that comfort, still thinking of Cefwyn’s misery, he took it in mind to try just a little magic, foolish as the attempt might be, to see if it worked for him at all. Cefwyn’s well-being was something he wanted very much-and that might help. Mauryl had said it was easiest to make things what they wanted to be.