“These are murderers! These are godless, heretic murderers!”
“Who, if certain Elwynim lords have acted without their Regent or in spite of him, have committed treason against him, brother. Before I commit men to the field, I’d know against whom we are sending troops, and why, and whether there is another choice that will not plunge the realm into a war along half its borders—with gods know what allies, at a very unstable time in our affairs and theirs!”
“You are temporizing with murderers. You are expecting truth from a man who does not worship the gods!”
“One can hardly be both godless and a heretic, brother. And this is Amefel.”
“You’ve been in this heretic land too long, brother.”
“Efanor. Efanor. You’re mortally weary. So am I. And heart-sore. I know that. Go upstairs.”
“I’11 not be dismissed!”
“I’11 not be lessoned! For the love we bear each other, either offer counsel without reading me scriptures, Efanor, or offer me no counsel at all. If I want a priest I’ll call for one!”
Efanor was pale. His hands shook. “This is not a joking matter, my lord brother.”
“Trust I know it is not. Trust that I make my prayers as they’re due, good brother, and trust that I know Amefel as having more worthy lords than the Aswyddim, the Elwynim as having many worse lords than the Regent, and that if we allow any fledgling in that nest to raise himself by the death of our father, we not only sully our father’s memory, we promote his murderer to fortune and to power. If we attack and kill the Regent, we may well put our father’s murderer in power, because we have at one stroke given whatever villain bears the guilt both a war and a kingship to fill.”
‘“Or,” said Umanon, “we throw the Elwynim into confusion, and we attack across the river.”
“Look at the map, Your Grace. Having conquered all of Elwynor, shall we arm twelve-year-old maids and send them out to stand duty?
Elwynor is a vast, vast land, as great as our own kingdom. We do not do well to pull the dragon’s tail.”
“Empty land. Pasturage. It is not that populous.”
“But it is not now hostile and we are not in it. How far apart must our patrols ride through these pastures to prevent seditions? And if we found one nest of sedition, would they not move into the unpatrolled land? We cannot occupy Elwynor, sir. You dream.”
Cefwyn was right, Tristen thought. But there was more. He burned to say so, but the argument was already bitter.
“Fear,” said Umanon, “makes fewer patrols necessary.”
“I cannot agree,” Cefwyn said. “And I will not be disputed in this. To take Elwynor would be a disaster to us.” “Not if they fear us.”
“Sirs.” Tristen could bear it no longer. “Sirs, there’s more than Elwynor. There’s Ynefel.”
“Who is this stranger,” asked Umanon, “that we should trust him?
He’s Sihhé, you say, and does he not most properly stand with the Amefin—at best?”
“We trust him,” Cefwyn said, “because he saved our life. Because he drove the attackers off the field and saved the lives of all of us near my lord father.”
“He did that,” a captain said.
“But,” said a finely-dressed lord Tristen did not know, one who had come with Cefwyn’s father, “does he stand as a member of this council, my lord King? He has no real holdings. Althalen and Ynefel are a domain of mice and owls.”
“Lord of Murandys,” Cefwyn said softly, leaning forward, “his titles are by my grant, and by inheritance—titles by blood, m’lord.” There was chill silence.
“Or something like unto it,” Efanor muttered.
“Brother,” Cefwyn said.
Efanor ducked his head and folded his arms, the image of Idrys.
“My lords,” Cefwyn said, “I have not slept tonight, nor have you. I have sent messengers informing the northern lords of my father’s death, and of my resolution to hold this town and settle matters on the borders before returning to the capital. The press of events here affords me no respite for an official mourning nor for the receiving of their formal oaths, which I hope they will tender in intent, at least, by messenger. The danger to the realm is here, whether in Amefel, whether on the river. Our decision is made. My father—” Cefwyn’s voice faltered. “My father will be interred here—”
“M’lord!” Efanor’s head lifted.
“Here, I say, in a Quinalt shrine earliest of all Quinalt shrines in Amefel, a place of great import, great and historic sanctity, and presided over by the southern Patriarch, who will conduct the services as soon as we have built an appropriate vault, brother, in which our father may lie until I have dealt with his murderers! The King of Ylesuin will not be carried home, sirs, murdered, and with no penalty dealt his killers. The Kings of Ylesuin living and dead will not quit this province until they have justice, sirs, and on that I take holy oath! You will not dissuade me.”
Heads bowed, even Efanor’s, in the face of Cefwyn’s anger. Tristen ducked his head, too, but he had caught Cefwyn’s eye, and Cefwyn seemed not angry at him, nor as passionate as his voice had sounded.
“The rest, the rest, sirs, I shall inform you after I’ve taken more sleep than I have yet. Good night to you. Gods give you peaceful rest.”
The lords bowed, murmuring polite formalities. Tristen wondered if Cefwyn had changed his mind and wished him to leave, too, but when he had caught Cefwyn’s eye, Cefwyn shook his head and caught his arm.
Efanor also remained, exempt from the order, it seemed; and Idrys—constantly Idrys stayed at Cefwyn’s shoulder.
The door shut. They were alone, save the Guelen guard.
“Efanor,” Cefwyn appealed to his brother.
“Have we secrets to share at last?” Efanor asked. “Now am I in your counsel, brother? Am I at least privy to the secrets you bestow on the Sihhé?”
Cefwyn made a curt motion of his hand: the guard withdrew and closed the door.
Then Cefwyn leaned on the table, head bowed above the map in an attitude of profound weariness. “Efanor, trust me. After the funeral, I shall send you to the capital, while I pursue matters here. Is that not trust? I shall give you highest honor. I forget our quarrels. Only do not ever oppose me in council on matters we two have already discussed, and bear me some small patience now, as I bear it with you.” “What moves this sudden liberality?”
Cefwyn’s face had been weary. Now it went hard and angry and he straightened his shoulders. “The gods’ grace, Efanor! I cannot fight outside enemies and you at once. Grant me this. Our father’s death will be repaid. I do not say it will be repaid tomorrow, but that it will be repaid—give me this much trust. Give me your affection, if you have it to give. But I shall take your duty, if you offer at least that.”
Efanor’s eyes wandered to Tristen and back again. “Whatever influences work here have mellowed you—or your experience in this land has vastly increased your subtlety.”
“I am tired.” Cefwyn eased a chair behind him, extended his wounded leg, and sat down, holding it. “Gods.”
“Better you had followed your physicians’ advice, Majesty,” said Idrys. “The guards should bear you up to bed.”
“No.” Cefwyn reached to the crown about his brow, rubbed it, where it left a mark and bloodied a cut. He settled it on again. For a moment he rested his eyes against his hand, wiped at them, looked up again. “I have no subtlety left at all, Efanor. This province has undone it. I pray you be my loyal brother, nothing less.”
“I am astonished,” Efanor said dryly. “I am truly astonished. But bear you good faith, I shall, if you bear it to me. I had not expected your trust, Cefwyn.”
“I need all such allies as I can trust. We are under attack. Mauryl-was a grievous loss. —Tristen.” “Sir.”