And if his father the King had meant a year here to blunt his heir’s untried edges, then his father equally well might know that granting him an independent command might not bring the two of them into congruency of thought. He grew less, rather than more, like his father. He tinkered with mercy. He temporized with witches. He—gods, only to think of it now as done—had raised the forbidden standard in the sight of the Quinalt and the southern lords.

He could hear his brother say, Father, he’s lost his wits. He’s bewitched.

But he could by no means hear his brother say, Father, send me to set things right. Efanor had no liking for Amefel or long discomfort.

Efanor, younger brother, was sitting well-appointed to Llymaryn, a province where no hint of rebellion stirred the leaves of summer, where vineyards thrived, where pious Quinalt orthodoxy ruled the land and no one had contrary or troubling thoughts. Conscience sat easy on Llymaryn, in the holy heart of a people of entirely Guelen descent, a land without foreign borders to ward, a district where the lords vied with each other only in complimenting the King’s younger son, in telling him he was right, and good, and just, and that divine justice approved him.

Efanor spent his year of administrative trial in paradise, praised and pampered—and probably still virgin: the Quinalt ruled Llymaryn, and lately it seemed to rule Efanor’s every thought.

He stripped off the red doublet and dropped it—not on the floor: he had more regard of the pages who likewise suffered this crucible of his heirship, lads who grew wary, and thin about the cheeks, and learned to go in pairs. “Boy!” he shouted, and a page, sleeping on the bench, leapt up and rushed to catch the garment. And his shirt, after.

Idrys came in. He heard the outer door shut and heard Idrys stirring about in the other room—heard Idrys talking to one of the pages, probably filling his head with instructions to watch the prince’s guest.

Idrys did not approve what he had done. But Idrys was not his father’s man. He began to believe that. Idrys had gone very far with him tonight, across a boundary of decision that, now, either admitted them to negotiation with the Elwynim, or committed them if not to war, at least to a period of very unsettled peace. He had the forces now to make the point.

He had demonstrated he could summon them. He had demonstrated his willingness to do new things.

He would be interested to see what Sovrag’s lads turned up, whether there were, as he feared, bridges built or reinforced, ready to receive decking which could be brought up very quickly, and whether the Elwynim were in fact preparing for war, behind the cover of this bride-offering.

He would, he resolved, see whether the bride was still waiting, or what Elwynor’s Regent would do, once he knew the Sihhé King-to-Be was in Marhanen hands.

Chapter 20  

Te sun flooded through the panes of a room grown familiar over days of confinement. The pigeons were far less frequent on this straighter side of the building, where ledges and slants were less convenient and fewer. Tristen lay a time abed and stared at the daylight through the glass, seeing no reason this morning that he should rise from bed, no particular reason that he should do anything. He had performed last night as Annas wished. He supposed that he had pleased Cefwyn. He supposed he had pleased the lords Annas had named to him, and perhaps even the lord regarding whom Annas had warned him.

But that was done. He had no permission to do anything. There had not, at least, been such permission yesterday; he expected none today.

Hearing the servants stir about, and hearing Uwen’s voice, he knew that Uwen would be walking in, attempting to be cheerful, asking him-as he had asked him in days past—what he would do today, and making idle talk to fill the time.

He was grateful for Uwen. And he would send Uwen down to the library to bring him another book of philosophy or poetry, since Cefwyn denied him books of other sort. He would attempt to read Mauryl’s own Book, of which he had less and less hope.

He told himself, or had told himself once, that if he could read it, all conditions would change, and he would become wise, and make no more mistakes, so that Cefwyn would approve him, and he would become, as Cefwyn had said he would be, his friend.

But since he had agreed to be Cefwyn’s friend, he had heard a great deal of how he should bear himself and what he should answer, and how not to make mistakes—and he had seen very much of Annas, who was kindly, and patient—but very little of Cefwyn.

A prince was busy a great deal of the time, so Uwen said.

A prince had a great many people wanting his time and his attention.

Mauryl had been busy with his calculations—and he had learned to be content just that Mauryl was there. He should be content that Cefwyn was there, that was all.

And that was too anxious a thought to stay in bed with. He gathered himself out of the sheets, crossed the cool floor barefoot to the fireplace and poked up the small fire, a pile of ash and ember dwarfed by the size of the hearth, that let them brew tea and warm water, —all of which servants would gladly bring from downstairs. But then it was cool by the time it reached him; and sometimes it came so late he had forgotten any want for it. He much preferred to do that duty for himself, and liked the fireside; he had seen that Cefwyn maintained a small kettle, too, in his very fine apartment, with all the servants at his beck and call, so he decided no one minded.

Uwen came in before the servants, and wished him good morning.

Waiting for the water to warm, he shaved himself with mostly cold water, a task he would not allow to the servants, while Uwen chose his clothing for him and servants stood by to offer it. He washed. He saw his reflection not in the large glass mirror the room afforded, but the little silver one Mauryl had given him, which he had kept through all the changes of accommodations. And it showed him a soberer, a more thoughtful face than it had first reflected on the day that Mauryl had given it to him. It was his mirror of truth. Small as it was, it showed him only his face, not the fine clothing, not the change of room. It showed him the changes in himself, not in what men gave him, or lent him, or the manners others showed to him.

He wondered if Mauryl would approve of what it showed.

He longed to take his books to the garden. They allowed him no such excursions nowadays. They allowed, they allowed, and did not allow, he insisted to think, but he knew in truth that it was not they, it was Cefwyn who did and did not allow. The they who disallowed his wishes and pent him in this room had assumed a faceless impersonality in which he cloaked all Cefwyn’s less kind acts. Cefwyn had been kind to him.

Cefwyn had hugged him about the shoulders. Cefwyn had treated him as he treated important men. They forbade him to go to the garden.

They could without much stretch of imagination at all include Idrys, whose resentment and distrust of him he knew.

They could well embrace the stranger-lords, who breathed war and violence and, last night, had compelled Cefwyn to be like them. He was not certain he liked them.

They could encompass the servants and the guards, who wished him kept out of sight, out of mischief, out of the way of doing foolish things. Mistakes when he was with Mauryl had threatened his safety and Mauryl’s, so Mauryl had warned him; now he perceived that his mistakes might have caused the deaths of the men up by Emwy village—he was not certain, but something had caused such things to happen, and mischief was (at least it had been so in Ynefel) his fault, of his inexperience.

So he knew that he might have been at fault, and that his continued confinement might well be justified, or even precautionary, because he was foolish, even though for the brief while on the ride to Emwy, and even afterward, he had had the conviction he knew what to do. That absolute conviction had often led him straight to a fall.