“Why, ’tis Prince Aewyn, ain’t it?” the first woman said, and took off her shawl and wrapped it around him, which he protested—the old woman would freeze straightway, in her light clothing. But it warmed him where it touched, warmed his hands just as he tried to give it back to her.
“I’ve lost Otter,” he tried to say, but he stammered too much. He began to make out the other woman, like an Amefin lady, but in a faded, cobwebby gown. And he knew he should not be standing still. He had to keep moving, but he had gotten distracted and forgotten to do that.
But he was so much warmer, just where the old woman had touched his hand, and he thought he knew her. He thought it was Paisi’s gran. Otter had told him she was dead, but here she was, and he had to tell Otter that his gran was safe, when he found him. He had no idea who the other lady was, but he felt safer, and warmer, though the fog closed about him for a moment.
“Grandson,” an old man said from behind him, and he turned about and saw a tall, dignified man with a gold band about his brows, and a fine rich cloak. The old man looked right into his eyes. “Grandson. A fine lad. You have your mother’s look about you.”
“My mother is Ninévrisë, the Lady Regent of Elwynor, Queen of Ylesuin…”
“All these things,” the old man said, “and my daughter. A good daughter, she is. Are you a good and honest son? I think you are.”
“My mother’s father is dead,” he said, and that was two conversations with the dead in a matter of moments, which might be too many for safety. He looked about to see where Paisi’s gran was, and if she had advice for him; but she was gone, and the old man laid a hand on his shoulder, sending warmth through him.
“Tell me about yourself,” the old man said. “Tell me why you’ve come.”
“To find my brother!” he said.
“There is no one here,” the old man said.
“Then help me find him,” he said—not that he failed to know he was in dire trouble, but if he was seeing his dead grandfather, and he was dying or dead, he stuck by his mission, and by his brother. “He fell away. He must have come down somewhere. Help me!”
“Then tell me about him,” the old man said, and flung the great warmth of his cloak about him, and when it enfolded him, the warmth all but stole his breath. He fought to keep aware, and to keep awake—he knew better than to sleep in the snow, but the weight of the cloak bore him down, and down, and he rested against the old man’s knees. He felt the touch of the old man’s fingers in his hair, a caress, then something like a kiss on his temple.
“Rest,” the old man said, somewhere in his hearing, and near him a blue Line sprang into being. Blue fire ran along a wall, then branched, all in squares and rectangles, until all the space about seemed alight. They were wards, and they stretched on and on and on, burning blue and covering the very hillsides.
Safety, they informed him. Safe to sleep, safe to rest.
No, he insisted to himself. Not safe to sleep. Not while Otter’s lost.
iii
AUNT, THE WOMAN HAD CALLED HERSELF. Orien, Emuin had named his mother’s twin. Orien Aswydd. The name sent chills through Elfwyn’s bones. What have you done with my mother? he wanted to ask.
But he had no one to ask. He paced, too weary to walk, but unwilling to sink down and wait patiently in soft cushions. He thought of wreaking destruction on the place, ripping down the tapestries and shredding the cushions and making himself as ungrateful a tenant as possible—but that did nothing to win his freedom, and might put him in a worse place.
He did think to search the walls and behind the hangings for any hint of a second door or a cupboard, or something he might use as a weapon. The fireplace had no poker. There were no windows. And last of all he tried the latch of the door, in the foolish notion that, who knew? Perhaps his strong wish for a way out might make one: the world had not followed ordinary rules since Master Emuin had walked into their little cottage—or maybe not for hours before that.
He pushed the latch. It gave downward, and the door opened on a night-bound waste, a howling gust of snow, and shards of ice that rose up with the sound of swords, completely to bar his escape.
He slammed the door on that ungodly sight, slammed it and leaned against it, chilled to the bone.
It was not just ice. It was a cold so intense it had burned his throat and numbed his hands. It was magical, or sorcerous, part of the deep, unnatural winter that, as often as the snow melted, had blasted out more and more and more, and never quite ceased.
It was his mother’s winter. It was the winter when Gran died. It was the winter when his dream of welcome with his father had come to grief.
He wanted this winter to end. He shut his eyes and wanted it to end, with all the strength he had.
Your wards are pitiful. The voice came to him clear and strong, as if Lord Tristen himself had stood right at his shoulder. It occurred to him that he had made no wards at all, already assuming it was not his premises, and that he was the one held, not the holder. He blinked and lifted his head, stung by his own folly.
Or perhaps you forgot, the mocking voice said again, not in the air, but in his mind, and he knew it was not Lord Tristen. Lord Tristen, whatever else, might have cast him out of Ynefel, but mockery was not his manner— furthest from it. Lord Tristen had been, whatever else, kind, and told him no simply by saying nothing at all.
Liar, he said to that voice, or thought it, then, gathering his courage, said it aloud: “Liar!” Not even his mother had lied to him. It seemed a low, mean sort of behavior, to pretend to be what one was not.
He moved, moreover, and walked the perimeter, and laid the wards once, twice, three times all about, in fury and defiance.
Wind blasted at him, as if every ward at once had blown inward. The force blew cushions off the couches and lifted his hair and blew his cloak back. His hand tingled, half-numb. His wards were flattened, useless.
And the same young man confronted him, standing near the fire… but the fire showed right through him.
“Well, well,” the young man said. “Temper rarely works where skill fails.”
Rage grew cold. The taunting minded him of the court of Guelemara, and the manners there, where detractors attacked with soft, sweet words. He bowed ever so slightly, drawing up the armor he had learned to use there— pride of birth, of all things, and a study of the rules of courtesy the other violated. “My name,” he said with that soft sweetness, “is Elfwyn Aswydd. I own it with no shame. Do you have a name, sir wisp?”
A hit. The young man’s chin lifted, and there was an angry glint in his eyes, before a smile covered it, showing teeth. “Elfwyn Aswydd.” He bowed in turn. “A name, indeed. Was it from your father?”
“You know who I am, or you would find something else to do. Your name, sir.”
“My name. My name. I think you know it. Where is your brother?”
That hit, too, in the heart. He kept his gaze steady. “Clearly your interest is in me, and my mother is in this. Or my aunt. Are you a kinsman of mine, too, perchance?”
“No.” Again, he had nettled the young man. “Such lofty manners from a goatherd.”
“A goatherd who has a name, a noble one, and old. Why should I trouble myself with a wisp?”
“Oh, waspish lad. Unbecoming in a boy.” The young man left the fire, and light ceased to show through him. “Is that better?”
“I hardly know,” he said, jaw set, “since you have not the courage to go by a name, or possibly are ashamed of it. Are you ashamed?”