He crossed through the anteroom of his chambers and inside, where the servants were disposing bath and bed, and where Idrys was poring over maps on the sideboard.
“No change in him,” Cefwyn said.
Idrys said nothing. Cefwyn unlaced cuffs, collar, side laces, and hauled off shirt and doublet together, before the staff could receive all the pieces thereof.
“The men I wanted?” Cefwyn said to Idrys. “I’ll see them between bath and bed.”
Idrys frowned. They had had their argument already: it was bootless to dispute it in front of servants. Idrys said, “Yes, my lord Prince,” and turned and went.
Four messengers.
To four lords of the south besides the Duke of Henas’amef, proud Heryn Aswydd. There was a lesson to be taught, and it began now, before the sun had risen on this silken-smiling Amefin lord, who asked with such false concern after his safety, who rode in hall clothes out to the windy road to ask after a Marhanen’s welfare.
Cefwyn shed the rest of his clothing, stepped into the bath and ducked down under the tepid surface long enough to scrub the sickroom heat from his skin and hair, long enough to count to twenty, and to want air; and to find the bath too warm for pleasure after the stifling warmth across the hall. Gods alone knew how Lewen’s-son stood it.
“Your Highness,” Annas said, alarmed as he broke surface again-expecting a near drowning, perhaps; but Cefwyn found the draft from the open window vents more pleasant than the heat of the water. He clambered up to his feet, reached for the linen which a servant, taken aback, was slow to give him, and snatched it around himself, splashing the marble floor and the plastered walls as he stepped out. Servants mopped to save the woven mats and other servants scrambled to offer his dressing robe and more dry linens. The bath smelled of roses and hot oils. It cloyed. The water heated the air around him. He shrugged the dressing robe about him and mopped his own hair with the linen towel, ignoring the servants’ ministrations as, in his wake, Annas ordered the just-poured bath removed, the bath mopped—the linens taken away.
“Leave it,” he said, and tossed the towel at the boy nearest him. “It can cool.” It took six servants half an hour to empty the cursed tub. “Do it in the morning, Annas, please you, I prefer quiet.”
Annas understood. The three pages seniormost in his service understood. The latest come, he doubted. But he sat down in front of a window vent in his double-layered robes, and endured, still damp, the noxious airs of the night breathing from the open windowpane, despite his physicians’ earnest disputations and predictions of the upsetting of his humors—his humor was vastly upset already, and if anything, the damp wind cleared his wits and made him less inclined to order summary execution for the servant who escaped Annas with an offer to light the, he was assured, already-laid fire.
“Out!” he shouted, he thought temperately, and moving to his desk, taking up pen and uncapping the inkwell, he wrote four brief notes to four provincial lords, affixed the seal of his personal ring, which precluded tampering with the ribbon he wrapped about each. Then he waited.
The chest was in front of him. The Elwynim chest. The bride offer.
And perhaps it was imprudent and tempting his own immoderate anger to lift the lid and to take out the ivory miniature, and to test his mood against that wide-eyed expression, the full lips, the midnight cloud of curls and swell of bosom daringly portrayed to entice a man, an offer of luxurious peace—to snare the heir of Ylesuin.
And ask—ask whether there were old bridgeheads being refurbished across the Lefialim. Ask what this offer meant against the arrant folly of Heryn Aswydd who, if he were wise, might know his two sisters, fields for every plow, were temptation to lesser lords, but not to the heir of Ylesuin, not to promote His Grace Heryn Aswydd of rebel, perpetually heretic Amefel up to high estate in the court at Guelemara.
All that Heryn expected, in return for no more than a tumble in the bedclothes, for the latest gossip, for a whisper of Heryn’s ambitions, for a night few whores could match for invention or few councilors for wit: oh, well indeed the twins (who came in a set, he had always believed, principally because neither trusted the other) were full of plans. By what he had heard, Tarien never, never forgave her sister her minute precedence into the world and would knife her in an instant if she thought Orien might gain anything above her.
Mothers thereby of a royal heir? No. That was for ladies richer, less versatile, more religious, less profligately trafficked, and certainly of larger, more influential and orthodox provinces. He could name an even dozen candidates of higher degree; ladies virginal, well-brothered and
-fathered and -uncled- Close-kneed, religious, limp and meek.
But—this—Elwynim. This—ivory bewitchment at which he stared, at odd moments, imagining that face alive with hints of both virginity and hoyden mischief—a crown of pearls and maiden violets, mirth dancing in the eyes, lurking about the edges of the mouth ...
The Regent’s maiden daughter and only offspring, a bid for peace, an end of the old rivalry.
Meanwhile the vicinity of Emwy seethed with so-called outlaws, that near the ruins of Althalen, that near the Lenfialim’s dividing shores, open defiance aiming at seeing the Prince of Ylesuin come to the same end the Sihhé had met—while the Aswydds simply pursued kin-ties, bed-sharings and bastard offspring (who might be worth lands and money in the coffers of the Aswydds, if nothing else) and endlessly embellished this great gilt palace which, the prince would greatly suspect, came not only of hidden Sihhé gold, but of other sources.
Foolish offer, this ivory Elwynim loveliness. A message had come with it that Elwynor did not propose to yield up its sovereignty, but that the Regent’s line, having come down to a daughter with no other royal prospect, considered a matrimonial alliance and separate title for the heirs.
Audacious. Damned audacious of a man waiting all his sonless years for the Sihhé! to rise from their smoky pyre, or for Mauryl Gestaurien to mend his treason and send them a King.
The more to worry—considering the feckless young man across the hall, who’d shown a seat any rider could envy and a skill at riding he claimed not to have.
Damn Emuin. Damn Emuin for kiting off to prayers and piety and leaving him a young man so full of mysteries. Every possibility and every fear he owned was potentially contained in the young man lying cold as a corpse in that bed—who might be fading, for what he knew, with Mauryl’s power leaving the world, who might be ensorcelled by gods knew what, who might be afflicted by some malady that—naturally?-gods! came on the raised dead.
The source of souls, Emuin had said.
And fallen into languor at Althalen, the very place where the last Sihhé king perished?
He heard the sound of men entering the antechamber and knew by the plain fact there had not been a rush to arms among his guards outside that it was Annas or Idrys, and by the scuff and clump of soldierly feet that Idrys had come back with the men he had asked Idrys to find.
He disposed the miniature to the chest; he closed the lid; he looked up as Idrys shepherded his choices to his desk. Idrys took a stance with arms folded, his eyes disapproving; and Cefwyn ignored the pose as he had ignored Idrys’ objections to his decisions.
Four men, plainly armored and armed, Guelen men. So was the patrol that was going out in pursuit of the bandit remnant that had official blame for the attack on the Marhanen prince. They were Guelen men, too, that patrol, with orders to believe nothing too fantastical of bandit origins, and to look closely at kinships with Emwy and with Henas’amef did they take any bandits—did they take any, which a gold sovereign would wager they did not.
But these four men would not ride all the way with the patrol.
Nor would the four parchments bearing the Marhanen Dragon and
Gillyflower personal seal of Cefwyn Marhanen, the King’s viceroy—who did have specific authority to do what he proposed, but who.., with the