“Yes, m’lord Prince.” Tristen made a bow, on his best manners. “Thank you.” He went with Uwen, who lingered for a bow of his own, and so to the doors, which Uwen opened, and let them out to the foyer.

The inner doors closed behind Tristen and his man.

The outer doors closed, after that, assuring privacy within the apartment.

Alone with Idrys, Cefwyn looked in his direction, finding exactly the expression he expected to find—which was no expression at all.

“Well?” Cefwyn asked.

“I do not dispute my lord’s decision,” Idrys said softly.

“Only his wisdom.”

“Not even that, my lord Prince. I find it a clever move. Even a ruthless move. You astonish me. The Aswyddim and the Elwynim set down at one stroke. —Do you give him the bride-offer portrait, too?”

“You heard him. He knows the meaning of a promise. And you saw that he bears me no ill will.”

“I doubt that he knows what an oath is,” Idrys said.

“And is more bound by what he promises than Heryn Aswydd sitting on a heap of holy relics.”

“Oh, indeed, my prince, I’d believe his lightest word above Heryn’s solemn oath, if ever one word he says he has the knowing governance of.

Perhaps he will serve you wholly. But he is defenseless now, my lord Prince. Wear him for armor and something will, through him, find your heart. He is still Mauryl’s. I still advise, wait for Emuin, and do not release Uwen Lewen’s-son. He likes Mauryl’s piece of work too well.

This blade will turn in your hand.’

“If Emuin will bestir himself and make haste I shall consult Emuin.

But the lords of the south will ask about Tristen’s standing in my company, and soon, —and I have to tell them something.”

“And will you raise his standard? The arms you’ve granted him cannot be displayed, m’lord Prince, by the King’s law, they cannot be raised—here in Amefel, most particularly.”  “And are, throughout the province.’

“On farmhouses! Not under this roof! Not in the prince’s grant of honors!”

“He is the promised king. He is the King the Elwynim look for, by your own reckoning.”

“He is Sihhé. And mild and good as Elfwyn may have been, not all their line was so civilized: good gods, m’lord Prince, of the five true Sihhé kings of legend, Harosyn flung his father on his mother’s pyre, Sarynan hunted his two brothers like deer through his woods. Barrakkêth immured his enemies alive in Ynefel’s walls, and his son Ashyel added to the collection with half a score of his less pleasing lords, among them an ancestor of the Marhanen line, for no fault but riding before him at the hunt. So they say. I’ve not seen the faces, but Olmern folk swear they exist, and move, at times, and in recent days I hold fewer doubts than ever I brought to this benighted province. I would most gladly see you home to Guelemara, my lord Prince, without an Elwynim bride, without a wizard tutor, most of all without a friend with a claim on the Sihhé throne.”

“Emuin said, Win his love.”

“Master Emuin is not here to advise. Master Emuin is not here to see the imminent result of his advice. Love has not prevented Sihhé excesses.”

“Black silk for Dame Margolis. Black silk and white. Silver thread. I trust there will be such in the Zeide’s ample warehouses.”

“My lord, I agreed to this wild plan. But the arms you grant him cannot be displayed, not without royal dispensation.”

“I give it. I am my father’s voice in this province, if some do forget it.”

“Send to your father before you raise the Sihhi5 standard at Henas’amef. Even if it were the best of plans, you are not King. Perhaps he will approve your plan. But you will do far more wisely not to take this on your own advisement. Even with the royal command you hold, you dare not repeal your grandfather’s order.”

“I cannot lose a province, either. Ask which my lord father would countenance.”

“We are not to that, m’lord Prince. We are far from that and have much more resource.”

“Then I will send tonight advising him. I shall say that I have all confidence of his approval—it will secure this border. It will do what my royal father set me here to do, and I know that the Quinalt will buzz about him like an overset hive, and I know that they will be at my father’s ears before my lord father can think through this matter. He gave me to rule this province and to hold it against all threat. I take it that includes levying troops to defend it.”

“I am not so certain it extends to nullifying a royal decree.”

“He will bear the arms of Ynefel.”

“Better you should style him with the phoenix. Do we add the crown?”

“Your wit lacks, sir.”

“It has a point. I still stay—do not surprise your father in this matter.”

“Apply to Margolis. Say I have need Of this most urgently. Say if she or her maids betray me I’ll marry them to Haman’s louts. See to it.”

“The message,” Idrys said, “to His Majesty the King, my lord Prince.”

“Master crow, you do try my patience.”

“By your father’s order, m’lord Prince. The letter.”

He went to the table. He wrote, Most Gracious Majesty and dearest father, I have won on Emuin’s advice the allegiance and oath of fealty of the King for whom the Elwynim have waited, and have granted him rights and lands and the raising of his own standard. I pray you trust me whatever you may have reported to you that I bear you filial affection and all loyalty.

That too he sealed with wax and stamped with his signet.

“For what good you can wring of it. He may not like my success. But there you are, master crow. I may yet disappoint him sorely, and win over my enemies instead of dying here.”

“He is not your enemy, m’lord Prince. He is no fool, to set aside his heir.”

“So you dare say. But I am not his favorite son.” He cast himself into the chair at the table and extended the scrolled message. “By the time this reaches him—I will be right, or most fatally wrong.”

There was a to-do among the servants and the guards that Uwen was dealing with, and by the darkened window, which showed a very little gray slate beyond the rippled panes of the bedchamber, Tristen stood finding new textures in the glass, new shapes of candle-shadow about the walls.

Servants. Silk and velvet. He thought of the pigeons which, haunting the window on the floor above, on the other side of the building, must have missed the bits of bread days ago. He was sorry for that. He missed them. He hoped they would be clever enough to find this window. He always seemed to be moving on, always seemed to be finding a new bed, a new window, a new arrangement for his life, which unfolded with a swiftness that foiled his ability to plan for anything, do anything, hope for anything.

But Cefwyn had called him his friend tonight. Cefwyn had hugged him, not tentatively like Emuin, but as warmly as Mauryl once had, and he had been afraid no one would ever do that again.

Cefwyn had filled his head with Words and Names and told him what he had to do, as Mauryl had. Cefwyn had placed demands of obedience on him as Mauryl had. In one hour the world seemed to have reeled back to an older, more comfortable night, when the walls were not bright white, casting back the candlelight, when the air had been dank and dusty and Mauryl’s pen scratched away at the parchments, louder than the crackle of the fire in the hearth, Mauryl telling him Words until the air hummed with them.

But then, then, Go to bed, lad, Mauryl would tell him; and he would take the candle. Mauryl would send him aloft to light all the candles on the balconies, at which time the faces would seem to move, or to change.

Swear, Cefwyn had said, and named Names that meant nothing to him as yet, but they might, in the way of things that came closer and closer and then unfolded themselves wide around him.

Cefwyn had named Names and said Words until the unshuttered dark of his new room seethed with them.