Keep him safe, he wished, like a prayer, but not to any god. I’ve tried so long to keep from doing wrong with the boy. I kept my distance this season to let the boys manage for themselves. I tried to bring him onto the rolls, into public view, where people could see he’s such a well-favored boy. I tried to do well for him. And now plainly I’ve not done the right thing. Nothing I’ve done in years has gone this badly amiss.
Keep him safe.
Keep all of us safe from whatever’s afoot in this business. Something surely is.
Sometimes, when he thought of Tristen, he felt a comforting warmth, a sense someone was listening.
Tonight the warmth failed and faded, and he put the glove on quickly, numb to the bone.
CHAPTER FOUR
FESTIVAL ENDED, THANK THE GODS, IN SUCH AN UNPRECEDENTED GLUT of charitable bread and ale that the city reeled homeward in much better humor. Street preachers found no audience in a driving snow. Bread and ale had appeased the populace, Brother Trassin had dropped from sight and hearing, apparently withdrawn to cloistered service for his health, and the Holy Father, miraculously recovered from his fever, approached the royal precincts to be appeased with gold.
“The hell he will!” was Cefwyn’s initial response: he had had perhaps an hour of sleep before services, had missed breakfast in favor of that hour, had had to confess failure to his son, and was still in no good humor; but Efanor bent near the kingly ear, and whispered, “The stone has stayed clean the while, and the scratches on the altar are diminished.”
“Conveniently!”
“The Holy Father has declared a miracle and declared the omen portended the imminent fall of a cleric the Holy Father rightly despises. It’s all gone to religious debate between the Holy Father and the street preachers, brother. It’s to the good of us all, not least the boy, who’s quietly written down in the book as blessed, for anyone to see, and the Holy Father has declared him—Guelen.”
“Give him a hundredweight for his masonwork,” Cefwyn said sourly, wishing it were within his prerogatives to hang Brother Trassin. “And his cloistered spy. Guelen, for the gods’ sake!”
“Guelen. But still bastard.”
The old man approached. Cefwyn summoned up a smile and a gracious word as the Patriarch came to pay his respects, in this first royal audience of the new year.
“Your Majesty,” the old man said, and bowed. Cefwyn took his hand and kissed his cheek.
“I hate him,” Aewyn said afterward, leaning near him on the other side, standing, and Cefwyn, on his throne, and facing more petitioners and a headache, leaned his head against the angry young brow.
“Don’t hate those who serve you, boy. Shape them with skill or be rid of them.”
“I wish you’d be rid of him,” his son said. “He’s to blame for this. He might even have done the scratches. I know he sent Trassin.”
“And has apologized and will not transgress again against your brother. He has written him down Guelen, not Amefin. Should we appoint a new man, to make new mistakes? We shall just have to find an honor for your brother, a good Guelen title.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” Aewyn said glumly, “and he’s not our friend.”
“Good lad.” Cefwyn kissed his son’s convenient brow and pressed his arm. “But we know what he did and have that to hold over him when we need. Keep his sins in mind. They’re as good as coin.”
“Otter’s not Guelen. He won’t want to be Guelen. He’s Amefin, and he likes being that.”
“Hush,” Cefwyn said, in the approach of the duke of Carys. He managed a smile, a gracious extension of his hand to one who was truly a friend.
Three days on, one of Idrys’ company came back, having turned back at the river ford to deliver a report. “The lieutenant believes the boy has crossed the river dry-shod,” that man reported, “and the lieutenant crossed on into Amefel to carry the message as ordered. He sent me back to advise the Lord Commander and understand the situation in the capital.”
“Stay and warm yourself,” Cefwyn said, “and put yourself at your commander’s orders.” He did not dispose Idrys’ men, not ordinarily, and Idrys would have his own questions to ask the man. He was not utterly surprised that Otter had eluded them, and would, at this rate, be home or close to it. He hoped the boy had indeed had a dry crossing, and slept warm.
He had had a dream of his own last night, however. He had dreamed he rode after the boy, and that he fell farther and farther behind, until in a white gust, Otter vanished. That dream continued to haunt his day.
Aewyn picked at his meals, an unheard-of degree of distress. He had discharged two of his servants for reporting his mood, he had taken to the library and demanded maps of Amefel, and sulked through the family dinner that quietly celebrated the end of the Bryalt feast.
“Where is his chair?” he asked loudly, and the servants froze in confusion. In fact the table was arranged for the intimate family, and there was no place set for Otter.
“He will be back,” Ninévrisë said reasonably. “Your father has made that very clear. And I believe he will come. Do not you?”
Aewyn frowned and pushed his peas about the plate, disconsolate. He only picked at his dessert, and that final display, with his surliness toward his mother, truly roused Cefwyn’s temper, but he kept it under tight rein nonetheless.
The evening was full of storms. Aemaryen was fretful. Even the servants went about glum and downcast, and one dropped a dish, a crash that dented a gold-rimmed plate and brought down the majordomo’s silent fury.
Your father has made that clear, Ninévrisë had said.
Sent, and by a guardsman. He had been reluctant to put that royal apology on paper. He had turned back, when he had told his son he would do better than that, and his son had hoped, had he not? A son always hoped his father could work a miracle.
Afterward, in his office, at his desk, he found a blank sheet under his hand and the pen near, and he picked up the pen, and found himself wondering again what he could write, what he dared commit to paper. Messengers had been intercepted before this, and a gods-cursed run of bad luck in the visit counseled caution.
His queen was waiting. His servants would not go to their beds until they had seen him to his.
But after all the hurry and flurry of the dinner, after all the press of petitioners and favor-seekers, there was a silence, a very lonely silence.
It became a very resentful silence.
One more, he kept thinking, one more piece chipped away by the priests. A son, this time. The half of me, before this, when Tristen had quietly slipped even out of Amefel and sent him only a letter, saying, “They hate me too much.”
Too cursed much. The damned priests. Always, the damned priests. And the people he ruled. The hatred of Guelenfolk for the Sihhë who had ruled the west had not faded at all. Hatred had sent Tristen from the world of Men—though Tristen would never accuse his people or blame those who drove him out.
The anger that had slowly welled up came brimming over, rendering him furious beyond words. He more than suspected traitors among the priests, mortal men who thought they knew better than their king. The scratches and the spot were all too convenient to create a furor, not yet a sedition, but so easily could the matter have gone to riot and bloodshed, given the bloody-handed history of the Quinaltine and its priests.
Efanor claimed a manifestation, and he did not disbelieve in such powers; but on the other, and from a king’s jaundiced view, it might have a common, human, seditious origin, even human conjuring of the forces Efanor warned him against. Oh, that that were the truth, and that he could find the author of it and get his hands on one priest’s throat—