That was what he had indeed hoped, even wished over the infant, who had become Otter and now Elfwyn—that Hasufin, who had created that intended vessel for his own shell, would be driven so far from the world he would be ages finding his way back; or at very least—that the vessel itself would not be overcome without such a struggle that it would advise him of the danger.
There was a hollow spot in Elfwyn, as in the first Elfwyn’s child. Perhaps there always would be that hollow spot in the boy—not want of a souclass="underline" he had that. Perhaps it was want of love. At least what wanted him—an old enemy, the oldest of enemies—had not gotten in at his birth, or thereafter.
He was still an innocent. Thank Gran for that. It was not an old soul who had gotten past his front gates, to Uwen’s peril, but a young and innocent one, not quite as innocent or as vulnerable as he had been, but still clean. The power that wanted him born had not gotten in.
But this year the boy, nearly a man, came under attack. Everyone attached to the boy now came into danger. Elfwyn was Unfolding, like a word; and that Unfolding would shape him—would, at its worst, work like luck and move everything and everyone aside who opposed the Shape he was born to have—would, blind force, like a seed in the ground that pushes and shoves to reach life below and above, become stronger as it progressed. Elfwyn might yet prove a shell, a husk around an undetectable seed.
That was the danger. Elfwyn was no match, yet, for what might begin to flower in him.
Had he done wrong to preserve the child?
Preserving him, he preserved Cefwyn. He preserved a good king, and a good man, and his friend.
Preserving him, he preserved himself from a deed he could not contemplate and still be himself.
Preserving him—and knowing where he was, and trying to fill that hollow place—
Well, at least they had a watch over him.
Tristen bent, reached to the woodpile by the fireside, and put a stick in, letting the fire take it, watching the bright light that had always been wonderful to him—warmth and pain, the two first lessons of his life, close together and so finely divided. His body, after all his wounds, bore only one scar. It was on his hand, the first one.
Perhaps, he thought, he should go immediately as far as to Henas’amef and meet with Crissand… or send, as he could, and bring Cefwyn here. One stride through the gray space, and he could do that.
But above all, he had to be careful. His own will was potent: he could fill that hollow in Elfwyn with a Word, and if he did, and if he began to work toward a thing in the outside world, he himself might bend the world in ways that he could not predict… precisely because Hasufin was gone from the world. His enemies had a value to the world: they could oppose him, and most things could not. He had all but unstoppable power. But he had learned a hard lesson in Elwynor, that his own will was not necessarily wisest or best for the world.
The stick burned to a wisp of ash and fell away. He rose from his seat then and walked out into the echoing great hall, and to the door.
A face appeared there, looking inward.
“Mauryl,” he said. “Mauryl, my teacher.”
The face seemed to change somewhat, or maybe it was the candleflame moving.
He remembered his days with Mouse and Owl, prey and predator, how he had learned to esteem each, and how such things as a rain barrel had taught him, when Mauryl lived in Ynefel.
It had all come crashing down one day, when the beams fell, when a foolish boy had made a mistake with the wards.
“A boy has come here, Master,” he said. “A boy has come to me for help. What shall I do?”
Dared he go out into the world and learn what had become of the things he knew, what mortals had come into the world, and who of his old friends had left it?
He wasn’t sure, tonight, that he had the courage.
The eyes of the face moved, and looked at him.
“Let him go,” the stone face said.
Let him go, echoed through the depths of the fortress. Not simple words. Mauryl’s words never were. They had to be understood at every depth. Let him go.
Let go of him. Don’t touch him. Let him fly free. Let him do what he will.
It was not what he wanted to hear. Mauryl’s advice rarely was.
Mauryl himself had been known to be wrong, had he not? Wrong, or Mauryl would not be as he was. But Mauryl had, at the end of his life, known his enemy.
Let him go.
He waited until daylight, then, and went out to the yard by first light. Uwen was up and about, tending the boy’s horse.
“Saddle him,” Tristen said. “Our guest has to go this morning.”
Uwen’s hands stopped their work, a soldier’s hands, gentle at their present task. And Uwen straightened his back and looked at the sky, which was overcast and sifting snow, before he looked back again. “Weather’s hard, still. Shall I escort ’im to the edge, m’lord?”
“No,” Tristen said. “Owl will guide him, such as he can. We shall be riding out ourselves, soon, to Henas’amef. But not today.”
A little silence. Uwen never asked to understand what he did, but seemed to know, at times, more than most Men.
“Aye, m’lord,” Uwen said, and kept at his brushing. “I’ll have ’im ready just after breakfast.”
After that encounter, he went inside to write a message, and to wait until Cook’s boy brought cakes over, and until Elfwyn stirred forth and came down the stairs.
“Breakfast,” Tristen said, and offered him cakes and tea. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mostly, my lord,” Elfwyn said, which was truth with a hollow spot, too. Tristen said nothing to that, only shared breakfast with him and put him out of doors with his own good cloak, a fire kit, and a packet of cakes to go with him.
“Uwen has your horse saddled,” Tristen said, “and grain for him in the bags. Owl will guide you. Don’t stop or turn aside for anything.”
“Yes, my lord,” Elfwyn said, as they stood on the steps. “Thank you very much.”
It had a wistful sound. Elfwyn had wanted ever so much more from him. But he left in possession of his right name, and he had heard the truth and had a bag full of Cook’s cakes. There were less useful answers to a petition.
“Be careful,” Tristen wished him, and took him by the arms and looked him close in the eyes, searching for any flaw. It was not apparent in him, except that little frown: anger, always anger. “Find Paisi, care for Gran, and take this—” He drew a little sealed paper from his belt and gave it to him. “Take it to Lord Crissand and wish him well from me.”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy tucked the paper into his own bosom, and took his bag and his blessing, and went down the steps to the courtyard, where Uwen and Cook and Cadun all waited outside to bid him good-bye.
In a moment more he had disposed his baggage and gotten into the saddle, settling his cloak around him. Then he waved good-bye to Uwen and his household, looked last at him, with a little respectful bow, then rode quietly out the gate Uwen opened for him. He left of his presence only tracks in the courtyard snow, tracks the sifting white would soon fill. Ynefel was almost as it had been. Almost.
“Go,” Tristen whispered to Owl, and Owl flew from the height and passed the wall, swift as an arrow.
Perhaps, Tristen thought, he should have given the boy plainer warnings about his mother, but that might expose the boy to more influences once he began to wonder more persistently about her.
At very least a warning not to go near his mother would act as a grain of sand in a boot, a slow irritant that might drive that particular boy to doing the very things he ought not. Best lay wards about the young man, as he had done, and keep him safe and quiet, as untroubled by outside forces as he could make him.