“I think,” Tristen said in a thin, small voice. “I think other men are different than I am.”
It was another of Tristen’s turn-about conclusions, the sort that could tempt a man to laughter. But this one stuck in a prince’s throat. This one echoed off walls of his own circumscribed world, and he thought to himself, too, —he, the Prince of Ylesuin—Other men are different than I am; while the look in Tristen’s eyes mirrored his own inward fear. That, he saw facing him and, much, much worse, the look of a man who could say that honestly, the look of a man who had gone to that archive and asked for that book.
Alone. Mortally alone. He understood such fear. He had to fear Tristen’s declaration for what it was, but he respected above all else the courage it took to face that surmise and seek an answer, with all it might mean.
“Tristen, certain folk say it was bandits who attacked against my banner. Certain folk say it was otherwise, a mistake, only the movement of Amefin patrols and lost shepherds. What do you think?” “There was harm meant.”
“I agree. I’ve set guards to protect certain people, and you will aid me best, understand, if you do not go wandering about the halls against the advice of your guards.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Are you well, Tristen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You said you could not recognize a lie. Now I ask you to discover the truth, truth, as you would speak to Mauryl. Say it to me or never again ask me to trust you. What did you see that frightened you?”
“Smoke. Fear. Fire. I wanted us to come through, sir. I wanted you to come through, and I thought you were behind me, I did truly think so.”
There was a moment’s silence. “I believe I thought so.”
“You thought you were leading me to safety. —Or, if you were only running, Tristen, I forgive it. Only say so.”
“No, sir. I thought that I was going toward safety—I believed that you were behind me, and that if I turned back.., if I turned back ... I don’t know, sir. That’s all I remember.”
“Conveniently so,” Idrys said, forgotten in his habitual stillness.
Cefwyn flinched, the spell broken.
“But you did follow me, sir,” Tristen said.
“And you fell straightway into a sleep no man could break,” Idrys said coldly. “Is this wizardry? Or what is it?”
“I—” Tristen shook his head, and there was—there was—Cefwyn would swear he detected guilt, or subterfuge in that look; and if this was guilt, the other things were either lies or hedgings of the truth.
“Did you dream?” he asked, and Tristen looked at him like a trapped deer.
“No, sir.”
“What did you do? The truth, Tristen. As you told me before. Trust me now or never trust me. You have no choice.”
“There were names. There were too many names. I grew tired. I slept.
I sleep when there are too many names.” “Names of what?”
“Althalen. Emwy. Other names. I might know them if you said them, m’lord. I can think. I can try to think of them.”
“Did this dusty book tell you anything?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“You didn’t read it.”
“I hadn’t time, sir.”
Cefwyn leaned back and bit his lip, flicked a glance to Idrys.
“Be rid of him,” Idrys said. “At least confine him until Emuin returns. Neither you nor I can deal with something Mauryl Gestaurien had his hand in. This Shaping is no hedge-magician’s amusement. Be rid of it.”
“Damn you, Idrys!” He saw Tristen’s face gone ashen. “Tristen.’
“Sir?”
“Would you do me harm?”
“No, sir, in no way would I.” and banned his arms from civilized precincts. A fine jest, was it not? And for all these years the woods have grown over Althalen and cloaked all the bloody Marhanen sins.”
Cefwyn looked up sharply. “Speak so freely to my father, Idrys.”
“Murder has been done for far lesser things than thrones. Most dangerous when the possessors of thrones forget how they came by them.
Your father, like your grandfather, decreed death for bearing the Sihhé arms or practicing the old arts.” “Yet employed Emuin!”
“What says the book, my lord Prince?”
“Blast your impudence!”
“It serves you. What says the book, my lord?”
Cefwyn covered the page with his outspread palm, stayed a moment until the swimming letters became clear again and his breathing steadied.
“I have need of Emuin.”
“Now, now, you are sensible, my lord Prince.”
He whirled on Idrys, making the chair turn. “But likewise you shall wait for his advice, hear me, Idrys. You will lay no hand on Tristen!”
“My lord Prince.” Idrys stood back, implacable. “For your own safety—”
“For yours, do not exceed my orders.”
“Do you know, my lord, why Emuin made such haste to escape Henas’amef? Do you know why he retreated out of Amefel before this Shaping of Mauryl’s asked him too close questions?”
“You make far too sinister a design. He has gone to retreat to consider.”
“To consider what, my prince? Your messages?”
“He will come back, damn you, when he has thought this matter through ...”
“My lord, I have thought on this. I have thought long and hard on this: if Mauryl could summon something out of the last hour of Althalen, think you that of the two thousand men who died there, it would have been some humble spitboy out of the kitchens? This Shaping is deadly.
Mauryl was no true friend to the Marhanens, nor to the Elwynim, either.
He served the Sihhé! until he turned on them, out of some quarrel with his fellow wizards. He killed his own king. He locked himself ever after in Ynefel, brooding on gods only know what resentments or what purposes; and dying, sends you this, this Shaping with lordly graces? Ask his name, m’lord. I urge you ask his name.”
“He does not know his name.”
“One can guess.”
Cefwyn pressed his lips together, the sweat started on his brow. He wiped at it. “You suppose. You suppose, Idrys.”
“A Sihhé my lord. What worse could he send you?”
He had no answer for that.
“No stableboy,” Idrys said. “No scullion.”
“Then why for a halfling king? Why not the first five Sihhé lords-those of full blood?”
“Why not, indeed, my lord Prince? A good question.”
Cefwyn left the chair in temper and went to look out the window at something less troubling. At pigeons walking on the sill.
“They still burn straw men in this district,” Idrys said. “You see the old symbols on boundary stones, to the priests’ abhorrence.”
“I have seen them. I have had your reports, master crow. I do listen.”
“Read the chronicle, m’lord Prince. The Sihhé were gentle lords. Some of the latest, at least. Barrakkêth’s blood ran thin at the last. They ate no children. They went to straw men and not captives for their observances .... “
“They never ate children. That’s a Quinalt story.”
“But were they always straw men, at festival?”
“None of us know. Histories may lie. My grandfather was not immune to the malady, you know.”
“Elfwyn, was, they say, a very gentle sort. Dead at Althalen—as were they all. Last Sihhé king. —Last of the witch-lords.”
“Then no hazard to us. A gentle man. You say so.”
“One doubts he even blamed Mauryl for his death. And perhaps he was the only one of that line Mauryl would regret.” “If he were Elfwyn, if he were Elfwynm”