“My name is Cefwyn Marhanen. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, sir.” It did not. “Not except that you have two names.”
“Elfwyn. Do you know that name?”
“I don’t know that name either, sir.”
“Sihhé.”
“People say that I am Sihhé.”
“Are you?”
“I’ve read—” He sensed in all these questions that this was purposeful and far more important than Cefwyn’s simple curiosity, and he suspected now that all this evening had been leading to this strange chain of Words and Names. “I read in the book that the Sihhé were cruel wizards. And it’s a Name, sir, but I don’t understand it—not—that it makes sense to me. Mauryl was a wizard, but he was never cruel. He said I should be polite, and I should think about others’ wishes and not touch what doesn’t belong to me. I don’t think that leads to being cruel, sir. So it isn’t Mauryl, either.”
“No. It doesn’t seem so.” Cefwyn gazed at him and sipped his wine, and went on looking at him, seeming strangely troubled. “Mauryl brought the Sihhé kings to power. Have you heard that? Do you think that is true?”
“I—don’t know, sir.”
“But it doesn’t trouble you.”
“I don’t see how it should, sir.”
“Do you not remember things? Isn’t that what you told me—that you hear names and you know them?”
“That’s true. But some Words—time after time they mean nothing to me, and then, on a certain day, in a certain way, they—unfold.”
“Unfold.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And has the word Sihhé unfolded at all to you?”
“It—” It did trouble him. That Word lay out of reach. He knew it was there, that Name, and that he had part of it, but not all. “I think that I might be Sihhé. People in the garden mostly said so.” “And therefore you believe it?”
“No, m’lord. I don’t know what it means. —Can books be wrong?”
“Egregiously wrong. And mislead men—egregiously.”
“Like lying.”
“Or making mistakes.”
“I make mistakes. I make far too many, —Mauryl said. And I still do.
Don’t be angry at Uwen.”
“You say you’re not a wizard.”
“No, sir. I’m not.”
“Then what would you be? If you could choose—what would you be?
A prince? A king?”
“On the whole, sir, —I think I had rather be Haman.”
Cefwyn’s chin rested on his hand as he listened. A crook of Cefwyn’s finger came up over his lips, repressing what might be a smile. Almost.
“You are remarkable,” Cefwyn said. “Rather be a stablemaster.”
“I’ve said something foolish.”
“And honest. Can you yet read that book of yours? The one Mauryl gave you?”
“No, m’lord Prince. I can’t. I tried, this afternoon. But I can’t.”
“Are you my Friend, Tristen?”
It was a Word, a warm and good one. “Yes, m’lord Prince, if you like.”
“Had you a name once, besides the one Mauryl gave you?”
“None that I know, sir.” He could hear his heart beating. Suddenly he was tired, very tired, and wanted to sleep, although sleep had been the farthest thing from his mind a short breath before.
“Tristen, tell me, why did you come to Henas’amef rather than, say, to Emwy?”
“It seemed the right way.”
“Does it still seem so?”
“I think so, sir.”
“You might have lived at Althalen before Mauryl called you forth. I should tell you—you most likely did. Hundreds of the Sihhé died at Althalen. Elfwyn died there. Mauryl and Emuin were there, and they helped my grandfather, Selwyn Marhanen, become King of Ylesuin. They killed Elfwyn and his queen and all the Sihhé they could find for three years after. Does this surprise you?”
He was afraid. He wanted Cefwyn to talk about something else. “I’d not heard that, sir, no.”
“There was fire. The hold of Althalen burned. And you smelled the smoke when we rode there. You remembered how to ride. You were a most certainly a horseman, and a fine one. You’re clearly a scholar, versed in letters and philosophy. You have graces that mark you as well-born. Your speech is liker Amefin than not, but then, you learned it of Mauryl, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Tristen said. Surmises flooded at him, too many to think of and still follow Cefwyn’s skipping from point to point.
“My father is King,” Cefwyn said. “I shall be. I by no means know what Mauryl intended in sending you here. Many in this province of Amefel would be pleased to see me dead. Would that please you? More to the point, —would it have pleased Mauryl?”
“No, sir.” He found it hard to breathe. “It would not. I don’t think so.”
“The medallion I gave you. Do you still wear it?”
“Yes, sir.” Tristen felt it against his skin. “Do you wish it back, m’lord Prince? I didn’t know—”
“No, no, wear it. Wear it every day. Let me show you another.” There was a small table beside Cefwyn’s chair, and Cefwyn took from it a white medallion on a gold chain woven with pearls. Cefwyn leaned forward to show it to him. “This is Ninévrisé. Did Mauryl ever mention that name?”
“No, sir. Not at all.” He steadied the medallion slightly with his fingertips. It was a beautiful face. It was no one he knew. But he liked to look at it. “She has a kind face.”
Cefwyn leaned back again, put the medallion again on the table. “Her father is regent of Elwynor. He offers her to me in Marriage.”
Marry. Marriage. Husband. Wife. Bed.
Children.
“Will you Marry her?” he asked.
“I did consider it. That we were attacked at Emwy, that things have gone amiss in that area—might be because certain Elwynim are opposed to it. Or it might be because certain Amefin are opposed to it.” “Do you wish to marry her?”
Cefwyn’s brows lifted, if only mildly, and he took a sip of wine. “It would certainly set certain teeth on edge. You understand—lords marry not for love but to get heirs. And an heir of both Elwynor and Ylesuin would be very powerful.”
It was a nest of Words. Of ideas. He listened.
“Equally,” Cefwyn said, “a prince to rule well and long needs a loyal group of lords on whom he can rely. You said, did you not, Tristen, that you would be my friend? You would Defend me from my enemies?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you Swear that in the sight of strangers?”
Swearing was a word about gods, and it fluttered about Truth and Lies and making strong promises. It was wider than that, much wider, and the threads kept running off into the dark, so he knew it was a large idea; but it felt entirely reasonable: of course he should defend Cefwyn, if someone tried to harm him.
“Yes,” he said. And that pleased Cefwyn greatly. Cefwyn looked to have set aside the worry he had had in asking him.
“Do you hear?” Cefwyn asked in a loud voice of Idrys, who had been talking with Uwen over at the table. “Do you hear, Idrys? He will swear to defend Ylesuin’s heir.”
Idrys left the table. So did Uwen. Tristen stood up, then, as Cefwyn did. He had thought the declaration of no great moment, but Cefwyn thought so, and Idrys frowned and looked not quite so pleased with the matter.
“And keep his oath?” Idrys said. “Can you keep an oath, sir wizard?”
“I am no wizard,” Tristen said. “And, yes, sir, I know what it means.”
Cefwyn went to the table, where he dipped pen in ink and wrote something rapidly on parchment. Tristen stood up and walked over to watch as Cefwyn heated sealing-wax over a candle and dripped it onto the parchment. He impressed his seal on it. “Call Margolis,” he said.
“She can keep a matter to herself. And we have not that much time.
Tristen has agreed to swear me his allegiance, and you—” he said, looking at Tristen. “You will have a name, hereafter, sir, subject to my father’s confirmation—which I do not think he will withhold. By my grant the lordship of Ynefel and of Althalen is filled. Tristen, Mauryl’s sole and undisputed heir, inherits. Both holdings are within my jurisdiction. The grant is, subject to the King’s will, lawful.”