“Gods,” Cefwyn muttered, and touched his chest where once he had worn a silver circlet, a Teranthine amulet. But he had given the amulet to

Tristen. It had been comfort to him as a child afraid of dark places and his grandfather’s nightmares of burning children. It had become a luckpiece when he became a man, if only because Emuin had given it to him. He had seldom thought of the religiousness, only of the friend and counselor. Now he did think of it. Now, perhaps belatedly, he questioned to whom he had given something he treasured, his personal attachment to Emuin.

Emuin had been a father to him, more than his own had been; and to lose both his father and Emuin in a matter of days-    Now, he thought angrily, eyes stinging and hazed, —now you have me to yourself, do you not, master crow? My bird of ill omen. My jealous shadow. Now you have discredited even Emuin. And of course you speak against Tristen. Shall I trust only you, hereafter?

“Emuin is at Anwyfar,” Idrys was saying. “I can send the message. I can summon him. If he is not already on his way, on the news of your father’s—”

“Let Emuin be. Let be, Idrys! Gods! You have an excess of zeal for turning stones.”

“My lord is too generous for his own safety’s sake. Go back to the capital, where a King of Ylesuin belongs. Leave your brother this thankless frontier. Above all, I counsel you, do not let Efanor go to Guelemara without you. Far better he stay here in Amefel with you, if you will not go.”

“If Efanor dies here, well-sped? Is that your meaning? Is that what you say?”

“I am my lord’s man, none else.”

“You do not trust Efanor as my representative? Even absent the chance for my father’s funeral?”

“He is, straight from his devotions in godly Llymaryn, a naive and believing man. To send him alone among the machinations of your father’s courtiers and the western lords is not wise, my lord king. Hold him here in the place of danger and go yourself back to safety. Hard duty is the lot of superfluous princes, especially if they are contrary-minded.

And if Lord Tristen of the Sihhé asks you lend him soldiers to lead, why, give him the Amefin and march them against Ynefel as he wishes. It would please the Amefin commons and most of the lords, who do not mourn Heryn Aswydd or his taxmen or his usurers, and give them common purpose against an enemy not yourself.”

“And if Tristen should succeed, and take Ynefel from this purported enemy—this—Hasufin of various chronicles?”

“Why, good success. I should applaud it, since I cannot counsel you against this Sihhé gift. And if your Lord Warden of Ynefel should instead join with your more numerous enemies across the river—at least your enemies will all be facing you, not standing at your back.”

He drew a deep breath. “And as we spin out this skein of distrust, what should we do with Emuin?”

“Oh, by all means, bring Emuin here. Your Sihhé lord might well need him and his shrine.”  “Idrys, —”

“I am entirely serious, and I pray you take me so. Any other course may make your reign a short one.”

“Already men of my father’s court think I had a hand in my father’s death.”

“I have not heard that said today.”

“Oh, but it was said often yesterday. It was the reason of Efanor’s coming to Henas’amef, master of all suspicion! Maybe it was an empty court my brother hoped to find, where he could ensconce himself and his Quinalt advisers, while Father caught me consorting with Elwynim and Amefin sorcerers. Maybe he was honest in his hope to save me from sorcery and heresy. Killing Heryn did not prevent my enemies from shaping their own belief, nor will it in future. So shall I likewise murder my brother, my black and bloody counselor? A pious and believing man Efanor may be, but he is no innocent in intrigue. He and I survived my grandfather together, and my uncle is in his grave. Do not talk to me of courtiers besieging Efanor’s sweet innocence! I will not have you of all people fall under his spell!”

“I am not unaware of his abilities, nor blind to his ambitions—nor to his Quinalt supporters. Do what you will. You are King. When you are an old king, none will dare remember it to you.”

“I would remember. And they would write it, after I am dead.”

“What care you then? Likely they will write it anyway.”

“But I would know. I have to sleep of nights. I love my brother, damn you! Is that a fault in me?”

“My lord King, leave this place, leave Amefel and all its influences.

There is too much of the Old Kingdom here. You belong eastward, in Guelemara. When you can breathe that air, you will forget all these morose thoughts—and this Sihhé revenant.”

“Are you afraid, Idrys? Have I finally gone where you fear to follow?

Have I possibly gotten ahead of you?”  “I am my lord’s man.”

“Your advice to me once had more than retreat in it.”

“Shall I give you the advice I like best? Kill Efanor, kill the Sihhé, and be rid of Emuin all at one stroke. But you would never hear that. Kill Orien Aswydd and her sister. But you will not. Kill Heryn’s four feckless cousins, who will lie down with conspirators and get up with ideas, but you will not.”

“No,” he conceded. “I will not.”

Idrys frowned. “So. Who is to the fore now, m’lord King? I, or you?”

“There is yet,” Cefwyn said, “no news from Sovrag?”

“No, my lord. Nothing.”

“It is possible, you know, that even Tristen’s fears are born of too much rich dessert and a disposition to dream of that place on uneasy nights. It may be nothing. He may come back on his own, confounding us all.”

“You dismiss all my advice out of hand, then complain I am too timid.

What shall I say else? Dream, my King, of a safe and pleasant province.”

“I hear you, Idrys. I warn myself by everything you’ve said. And hear me, now: I would rather my brother in court with the northern barons about him than to see him command the southern barons in the field.

These marchlanders, excluding Amefel, are the most formidable troops in the whole of Ylesuin, and Efanor is far more to Amefel’s liking than I; I know it; Efanor is everywhere better loved than I—”

“How not? He has never had to use the hard edge of authority: he can be fair weather to every man. Prince Efanor simply listens and lets every man shape his own desires about him. A reigning king has no such luxury.”

“So there is no remedy.”

“No, no, no, m’lord King. Give Efanor real authority. Give it too much and too early. Let him fail—save his life. Then he will also appear in your debt.”

“What, fail at the cost of my southern lords? Of this border? If he did try to general the south, provoked a war with the Elwynim, and decimated the best troops we have, —then where should we be, Idrys, thou and I? In the capital, —with battalions of courtiers?” The leg hurt at a sudden shift of weight; he winced and eased it, and shook his head. “I will not give him the south.”

“Ah, but release the lords home. They’d not answer a second summons this season. It’s coming up harvest-time, and winter. They will sit in their capitals. Meanwhile let him loose his Quinalt legalists on the Amefin, and he’ll not be the beloved prince by spring. Not in Amefel.”

“Let him loose the Quinalt on the Amefin and I won’t able to hold Amefel.”

“My lord, —”

“I have made up my mind, Idrys.” He waved a hand at the table. “I have signed orders for levies on the villages and master Tamurin has made you lists, names and ages. I do not invoke them yet, understand.

But they are there, against need, and can go out at any hour, as faithful a list as the Aswydds’ taxmen own. —Ah! and speaking of Orien and Tarien—”

“Yes, m’lord King?”

“The ladies Aswydd are mortally penitent, have you heard? They apply to be freed of arrest.”

“Surely Your Majesty jests.”

“Oh, I am considering it. Better them than their rivals, whose account books we have not discovered. —And the mayor of the town wishes to see me. So do various of the Amefin thanes, earls, lords.., whatever they style themselves and however they relate to the Aswydds, who’ve been in every bed in the province. Likewise the local patriarch of the Quinalt wishes audience—I can guess that matter. I shall make donations for ser vices in the capital. And, no, I’ll not send my father’s body with Efanor when he goes—I stand by my word in council. No funeral until I bring our father home, no chance for Efanor to display his extravagant grief in public show, even unintended, to raise hopes of him and rumors about me, have no fear. —Gods! I find this gruesome.”