There was a to-do among the servants and the guards that Uwen was dealing with, and by the darkened window, which showed a very little gray slate beyond the rippled panes of the bedchamber, Tristen stood finding new textures in the glass, new shapes of candle-shadow about the walls.
Servants. Silk and velvet. He thought of the pigeons which, haunting the window on the floor above, on the other side of the building, must have missed the bits of bread days ago. He was sorry for that. He missed them. He hoped they would be clever enough to find this window. He always seemed to be moving on, always seemed to be finding a new bed, a new window, a new arrangement for his life, which unfolded with a swiftness that foiled his ability to plan for anything, do anything, hope for anything.
But Cefwyn had called him his friend tonight. Cefwyn had hugged him, not tentatively like Emuin, but as warmly as Mauryl once had, and he had been afraid no one would ever do that again.
Cefwyn had filled his head with Words and Names and told him what he had to do, as Mauryl had. Cefwyn had placed demands of obedience on him as Mauryl had. In one hour the world seemed to have reeled back to an older, more comfortable night, when the walls were not bright white, casting back the candlelight, when the air had been dank and dusty and Mauryl’s pen scratched away at the parchments, louder than the crackle of the fire in the hearth, Mauryl telling him Words until the air hummed with them.
But then, then, Go to bed, lad, Mauryl would tell him; and he would take the candle. Mauryl would send him aloft to light all the candles on the balconies, at which time the faces would seem to move, or to change.
Swear, Cefwyn had said, and named Names that meant nothing to him as yet, but they might, in the way of things that came closer and closer and then unfolded themselves wide around him.
Cefwyn had named Names and said Words until the unshuttered dark of his new room seethed with them.
A door opened, perhaps the servants going out: the candle wavered, and Shadows crept along the joints of the black-paned window and into the joints of the masonry. He knew no magics such as Mauryl had had to keep them at bay. He was defenseless against them, except for the candles and the window latch.
He had always thought the candles Mauryl had had him light had been his defense. But it had been Mauryl. He knew now that, threaded through every stone of Ynefel, it had been Mauryl’s power keeping him safe and keeping the Shadows out. And there was none such here. And things were changing so fast.
—Emuin, he said, reaching for that gray place. Emuin. I need you.
He could see before him a pale spot in the gray, and he tried to go toward it. A weight sat on his shoulders, cold and crushing, and he knew there was something behind him. He knew that Shadows raced along the corners of the room, and sniggered at his mistakes.
—Emuin, Cefwyn calls me his friend. He says I should defend him.
And I would gladly do that. But it always seems that people have to defend me. I should know bow to do the right things I know to do, master Emuin. And I don’t know bow to make this room safe. He hoped for an answer. None came. He tried again.
—I answer Cefwyn’s questions with foolish answers, master Emuin.
And I still can’t read the Book. I still don’t know what Mauryl would have me do. I had Owl for a guide and I lost him. I do wish you would tell me how to be wiser.
—Could you not, sir, answer me—just once?
There was attention. He felt it, then. Emuin was far distant and busy at books—an absolute tower of books. Like Mauryl. Like Mauryl, Emuin was searching for something that he had forgotten. And Emuin had become aware of him.
—Go back, boy! Emuin’s voice said, and something less friendly came faintly through the gray. This is not a safe place now. Stay out of dark places. Go no more to the old palace. His remains are there. And he sees you. He sees you, boy. Get away!
He fled, as Emuin had said. Shadows poured after him, almost caught him, and a voice not Emuin’s and not Mauryl’s said gently, There you are. Changed rooms, have you?
He fled the gray place, went careening back to the room and the window.
Something made the latch tremble. It rattled, if ever so slightly.
It stopped, as if his eyes had tricked him.
His heart hammered against his ribs. His face and his arms were clammy with sweat. He heard quiet in the next room, where Uwen had been talking to the newly arrived servants, beyond the open bedroom doors. He started to walk to the other room. But, feeling dizzy, he sank down into the nearest chair and rested his head in his hands, struggling with that gray light that kept trying to establish itself in his mind.
He heard Uwen’s step. “M’lord,” Uwen said, kneeling by him. “Are ye ill?”
“I am cold, Uwen.”
“Silk shirts is damnable cold in a draft, m’lord. I think I like linen best.
Here, lad.” Uwen rose, and with a gust of cool air, a coverlet from the bed, he supposed, came whisking through the air and landed about his shoulders. Uwen snugged it up close about his chin and set his hand to hold it. “You have this about ye, m’lord. I’ll make down the bed. It don’t take no servants for that.”
“Uwen, —light more candles. I don’t want it dark.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Uwen pulled down the covers on the huge bed, another waft of cool air, made it smooth, then took the sole burning taper from the table and walked about the room, lighting all the candles, making the Shadows retreat.
Then he came back and went down on one knee. “There ye be. —Ye feel any better, m’lord?”
“Cefwyn has given me Ynefel,” Tristen said. “He calls me his friend.
Did you hear?”
Uwen’s scarred face was frowning. “I suppose His Highness has it to dispose, m’lord.”
“Uwen, tell me. Is it Ynefel men fear so? Or is it Mauryl? —Or is it me?”
“I don’t know, m’lord,” Uwen said. “Ynefel hain’t a good reputation.
But hereabouts is a superstitious lot.”
“Go,” he said finally. “Uwen, if you fear me, go.”
Uwen looked up, in fear of him, he was sure of it, and with something else, too, that had once touched Mauryl’s face. Uwen scowled then, spoiling it. “Ain’t never backed off from no man. And not a good lad like you, m’lord.”
“You don’t have to run, Uwen. You can just stand outside with the other guard, no more, no less than they.”
“Ain’t leaving ye. And enough of foolishness, m’lord. Ye’d best get ye to bed.’
“No.” He clenched his hands before his mouth, remembered the little scar and rubbed at it with his thumb, staring into the candlelight. A face like his own came to him, dim and mirrorlike, as if it were reflected in bronze.
He shut his eyes the tighter, and opened them, and it left him.
“Uwen, Cefwyn believes I’m Sihhé.”
“So folk say ye might be.”
“What does that mean, Uwen?”
“Old, m’lord. And wizards.”
“I’m not. I wish I could do what Mauryl could. But Mauryl’s lost, Emuin’s left me and he’s afraid. Uwen, I have no way to ask anyone else.
What is Althalen and what does Cefwyn think I am? Why does Idrys think I lie? Why does Cefwyn ask me Names over and over again? Why does he talk about killing and burning? Why does he want me to swear to be his friend and defend him if he thinks I’m something he won’t like, Uwen?”
Uwen’s face was pale. He drew from his shirt an amulet and carried the thing to his lips. “My lord, I fear some mean no good to ye. I don’t say as the prince means ye ill, but others—others ye should watch right carefully.’
“Do you feel so? But I will swear to be his friend. I have to do it.
Cefwyn is m’lord Prince, and I must do what he wishes, is that not so?”
“Aye, m’lord,” Uwen whispered. “That it is. But ye don’t understand what they intends, and I’m sure I don’t. I don’t think m’lord Prince has authority of his father the King to do a thing like he’s done. The King will hear, sure enough, and then gods help us.” “So what should I do, Uwen?”