“It was Elfwyn’s younger brother Mauryl wanted dead. So did Emuin, and all that circle. So I’m told. They insisted the youngest Sihhé prince was a black wizard, whatever that means, if not a sorcerer. And of course Mauryl and his circle had no wizardly ambitions, themselves, whatever makes wizards ambitious. But the child prince died in the fall of Althalen, and so did Elfwyn and all the Sihhé who could claim the name, since the wizards could come by Marhanen help and arms no less bloodily. Marhanen ambition was satisfied with the crown. The Elwynim councilors drew off to shape a Regency until the Sihhi5 should rise from their smoky grave, I suppose, and sit on the throne of Elwynor. I wonder what satisfied Mauryl. A tower in the woods?”
“Who knows what Mauryl wished or wanted?” Cefwyn retorted.
“One supposes he got it, since he left us in peace.” “But, if one believes the Elwynim, —”
“One has no reason to believe the Elwynim.”
“Even for bride-offers?”
“Have I accepted it?”
“Yet the Elwynim claim the Sihhé kings will return. Who do you suppose promised them that?”
“The Elwynim chose to believe it. It gave legitimacy to the lord of Ilefinian, who otherwise had no royal blood, no more than any other
Elwynim lord. The lord of Ilefinian chose to call himself Regent because there was nothing else he could call himself—certainly not king—not even aetheling.”
“As of course the Marhanen were royal to the bone.”
“Treason, master crow.”
“Treason for the commons. Loyalty—in an adviser to the Crown.
Look at the reasons, m’lord Prince. Mauryl raised up this Shaping.
Perhaps the old man was atoning for his crime, bringing back the King he helped to murder—an excess of your grandfather’s zealotry, or his ambition. Perhaps Mauryl did promise the lord of Ilefinian a King to Come.”
“You must have spent hours on this. You’ve kept yourself awake with these fancies, master crow. I suggest a roll in the sheets. ’T will help you sleep.”
“A prince with two thoughts to his own safety in this rebel province would help me sleep, m’lord. A toadstool tea for this Summoning you take to your bosom would help me rest at night, but you will not take that advice.”
“Have you read this book?”
“I know the history of all claimants and lineages alive, m’lord Prince, who might come into serious question. Now I see I must study the dead ones.”
“And if Mauryl has raised EIfwyn of the Sihhé? What can you say of him, beyond a short reign distinguished only by his calamity?”
“A weak king, who wasted his treasury on shrines and supported scholars and priests of any persuasion at all. He lost three towns to the Chomaggari in his first year of reign and still kept his scholars fat and his army nigh barefoot. If it were not for Mauryl Gestaurien he would have fallen sooner. But then, if it were not for Mauryl Gestaurien, he might not have fallen at all, and the Marhanen would still be lords chamberlain to the Sihhé. Rebellion wanted an able general. Which your grandfather was.
Unfortunately for the Sihhé king—your grandfather was his general.”
“As you hope to become mine?” Cefwyn asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing Idrys blink. “On the tide of a war on this border?”
Idrys’ chin lifted. “I trust I serve a wiser lord. The latter-day Sihhé put all their trust in Mauryl, and thereby, my trusting prince, the gates flew open to the Sihhé successors and the Sihhé died a terrible death along with their king, next Althalen’s burning walls. —You invite—whom?—to your table, my lord Prince?”
“A well-spoken and civil young man, whose converse is pleasant, whose company I find far less self-serving than, for instance, Heryn’s, whose presence you have generally approved.”
“Your grandfather tossed Sihhé babes into the flames,” Idrys said,
“hanged the women and impaled the men above the age of twelve in a great ring about Althalen’s walls. And even from the grave, would the
Sihhé bear you love, Cefwyn Marhanen? He does not remember these things. He could not remember these things with that clear, innocent look he bears you. Think of this when you trust too much. That account is, I will wager you, in that book, m’lord Prince. That is the chronicle your guest has been reading, and I will wager you he is Sihhé, with all it means.”
“Then what do we do? What do we do, hang his head at the gate? I am not my grandfather! I do not murder children! I have no wish to murder children! Elfwyn in life was a gentle man. He haunted my grandfather to his dying day. My grandfather on his deathbed swore he heard the children crying. I do not want a death like that. I do not want dreams such as he had or a conscience such as he had. He never slept without holy candles burning in his room.”
“He had a peaceful reign. His enemies feared him. Consequently his taxes were lighter than Elfwyn’s or your father’s. Ylesuin remembers his reign as golden years.”
“Golden on Sihhé gold—consequently his taxes were lighter.”
“And his enemies were all dead or in terror of him.”
“I will not be such a King.”
“M’lord Prince, —what became of the ivory miniature?”
Another of Idrys’ flank attacks. Thwarted on one front, Idrys opened another. And the devil where he was going with it.
“A lovely thing,” Idrys said. “Is it in the chest yonder? Do you still keep it? Or have you sent it to your father for his word on this-Elwynim bride-offer?”
“My father, as you well know, would fling it in the midden.”
“Ah. And therefore you keep it? You temporize with this offer?”
“I do not see what this has to do with my grandfather or my guest.”
“A marriageable daughter, a sonless Elwynim king—ah—regent.
Uleman of the Elwynim sees the ravens gathering—knows he cannot command his own lords, who are more apt to war with each other over fair Ninévrisé’s hand—so, oh, aye, offer you the daughter, offer the bloody Marhanen the last Sihhé realm with no more than a wedding and an heir-getting. Whatever has prevented you from leaping to that offer, m’lord Prince?”
“Nine skulls on my gate is not enough?”
“And, of course, you are the heir of Ylesuin. And wish no witchly get out of a marriage bed.”
“It did somewhat cross my mind.”
“And would cross your father’s. And your brother Efanor’s. No witchly offspring to sit the Dragon throne. Yet you still keep the ivory.”
“A lovely piece of work. A pretty face. Why not?”
“Still temporizing with the matter. Asking yourself how more cheaply to gain a claim to Elwynor.”
“I do not!”
“You doubt that Uleman countenanced the assassins. You said so yourself. Internal dissent. Angry lords, jealous fellow suitors for the lady’s hand ...”
“I am no suitor, for her least of all! And what has this to do with Tristen, pray, master crow? What edifice of fantasies are we now building? Or have you quite forgot the track?”
“‘Tristen,’ is he now, and not ‘Mauryl’s gift?’”
“Insolent crow. Crow flitting about the limits of my tolerance. What has this business of assassins and Elwynim to do with him?” “Ah. Mauryl’s motives. That’s our worry.”
“What? A stray piece of work from Mauryl’s tower? Mauryl’s dying maunderings? —Mauryl’s rescue of a Sihhé soul from wherever Sihhé go when they die? Emuin said treat him gently. I take that for the best advice, and until you have more substantial complaint—” “Mauryl’s motives. And Uleman king—”
“Not King. As you well know. Find your point.”
“Oh, you have taken it, m’lord Prince. Elwynor has no kings. Only Regents, a Regent in waiting for a King, like his father before him, and his grandfather. Waiting for what? A King your grandfather murdered. I ask what dealings Uleman had with Mauryl before Mauryl died, or what the promise was that’s kept Elwynor under a Regent for all these years.