‘“Or,” said Umanon, “we throw the Elwynim into confusion, and we attack across the river.”

“Look at the map, Your Grace. Having conquered all of Elwynor, shall we arm twelve-year-old maids and send them out to stand duty?

Elwynor is a vast, vast land, as great as our own kingdom. We do not do well to pull the dragon’s tail.”

“Empty land. Pasturage. It is not that populous.”

“But it is not now hostile and we are not in it. How far apart must our patrols ride through these pastures to prevent seditions? And if we found one nest of sedition, would they not move into the unpatrolled land? We cannot occupy Elwynor, sir. You dream.”

Cefwyn was right, Tristen thought. But there was more. He burned to say so, but the argument was already bitter.

“Fear,” said Umanon, “makes fewer patrols necessary.”

“I cannot agree,” Cefwyn said. “And I will not be disputed in this. To take Elwynor would be a disaster to us.”  “Not if they fear us.”

“Sirs.” Tristen could bear it no longer. “Sirs, there’s more than Elwynor. There’s Ynefel.”

“Who is this stranger,” asked Umanon, “that we should trust him?

He’s Sihhé, you say, and does he not most properly stand with the Amefin—at best?”

“We trust him,” Cefwyn said, “because he saved our life. Because he drove the attackers off the field and saved the lives of all of us near my lord father.”

“He did that,” a captain said.

“But,” said a finely-dressed lord Tristen did not know, one who had come with Cefwyn’s father, “does he stand as a member of this council, my lord King? He has no real holdings. Althalen and Ynefel are a domain of mice and owls.”

“Lord of Murandys,” Cefwyn said softly, leaning forward, “his titles are by my grant, and by inheritance—titles by blood, m’lord.”  There was chill silence.

“Or something like unto it,” Efanor muttered.

“Brother,” Cefwyn said.

Efanor ducked his head and folded his arms, the image of Idrys.

“My lords,” Cefwyn said, “I have not slept tonight, nor have you. I have sent messengers informing the northern lords of my father’s death, and of my resolution to hold this town and settle matters on the borders before returning to the capital. The press of events here affords me no respite for an official mourning nor for the receiving of their formal oaths, which I hope they will tender in intent, at least, by messenger. The danger to the realm is here, whether in Amefel, whether on the river. Our decision is made. My father—” Cefwyn’s voice faltered. “My father will be interred here—”

“M’lord!” Efanor’s head lifted.

“Here, I say, in a Quinalt shrine earliest of all Quinalt shrines in Amefel, a place of great import, great and historic sanctity, and presided over by the southern Patriarch, who will conduct the services as soon as we have built an appropriate vault, brother, in which our father may lie until I have dealt with his murderers! The King of Ylesuin will not be carried home, sirs, murdered, and with no penalty dealt his killers. The Kings of Ylesuin living and dead will not quit this province until they have justice, sirs, and on that I take holy oath! You will not dissuade me.”

Heads bowed, even Efanor’s, in the face of Cefwyn’s anger. Tristen ducked his head, too, but he had caught Cefwyn’s eye, and Cefwyn seemed not angry at him, nor as passionate as his voice had sounded.

“The rest, the rest, sirs, I shall inform you after I’ve taken more sleep than I have yet. Good night to you. Gods give you peaceful rest.”

The lords bowed, murmuring polite formalities. Tristen wondered if Cefwyn had changed his mind and wished him to leave, too, but when he had caught Cefwyn’s eye, Cefwyn shook his head and caught his arm.

Efanor also remained, exempt from the order, it seemed; and Idrys—constantly Idrys stayed at Cefwyn’s shoulder.

The door shut. They were alone, save the Guelen guard.

“Efanor,” Cefwyn appealed to his brother.

“Have we secrets to share at last?” Efanor asked. “Now am I in your counsel, brother? Am I at least privy to the secrets you bestow on the Sihhé?”

Cefwyn made a curt motion of his hand: the guard withdrew and closed the door.

Then Cefwyn leaned on the table, head bowed above the map in an attitude of profound weariness. “Efanor, trust me. After the funeral, I shall send you to the capital, while I pursue matters here. Is that not trust? I shall give you highest honor. I forget our quarrels. Only do not ever oppose me in council on matters we two have already discussed, and bear me some small patience now, as I bear it with you.”  “What moves this sudden liberality?”

Cefwyn’s face had been weary. Now it went hard and angry and he straightened his shoulders. “The gods’ grace, Efanor! I cannot fight outside enemies and you at once. Grant me this. Our father’s death will be repaid. I do not say it will be repaid tomorrow, but that it will be repaid—give me this much trust. Give me your affection, if you have it to give. But I shall take your duty, if you offer at least that.”

Efanor’s eyes wandered to Tristen and back again. “Whatever influences work here have mellowed you—or your experience in this land has vastly increased your subtlety.”

“I am tired.” Cefwyn eased a chair behind him, extended his wounded leg, and sat down, holding it. “Gods.”

“Better you had followed your physicians’ advice, Majesty,” said Idrys. “The guards should bear you up to bed.”

“No.” Cefwyn reached to the crown about his brow, rubbed it, where it left a mark and bloodied a cut. He settled it on again. For a moment he rested his eyes against his hand, wiped at them, looked up again. “I have no subtlety left at all, Efanor. This province has undone it. I pray you be my loyal brother, nothing less.”

“I am astonished,” Efanor said dryly. “I am truly astonished. But bear you good faith, I shall, if you bear it to me. I had not expected your trust, Cefwyn.”

“I need all such allies as I can trust. We are under attack. Mauryl-was a grievous loss. —Tristen.”  “Sir.”

“You were out there. Tonight.”

“I saw, sir.”

“It was justice,” Cefwyn said.

“I believe you,” Tristen said, knowing nothing else to say.

“You had news of Emuin. A messenger? To you and not to me? Or what?”

It was not Cefwyn and himself, it was not Cefwyn who could be his friend and bear with his imprecisions and his foolishness.

Nor was he the same as he had been, even days ago. He said, with cold at heart, “No, sir. Emuin does speak to me. He tries to help me. But he can’t, always. I think that’s why he went away.”  “Wizardry,” Efanor said.

“No, sir,” Tristen said, “I don’t think so. I don’t feel so. Just—he hears me.”

“How can you dispute such things?” Efanor demanded, not of him, but of Cefwyn. “How can you countenance such arguments—wizardry and not wizardry? Do natural men hear wizards?”

“We had no natural man at issue in Mauryl,” Cefwyn said in a hard voice, “and damned well we should consult, brother, both Tristen and Emuin, where they have something of significance to say.”  “Consult as you like, then. I’ll none of it!”

“I’11 warrant you’ll hear nothing to imperil your delicate holiness.

Stay. As a wizard, Tristen is gentler than Emuin is.”  “I saw his gentility on the field.”

“And he ours, and yours tonight, brother! Forbear. Father gave me a province next a wizard and Emuin for a counselor to help hold it. Now Mauryl’s fallen, and left me Tristen for a ward—whom Emuin approved.

Tristen swore to be my defender, and kept his oath like a good and godly man, or this realm would have no king, not you, nor me, nor Marhanen at all—and Heryn would lord it over a realm of his own tonight, snugged right close to Elwynor. Wherewith the Regent would go down, some pretender would rise up with the marriageable daughter, and Heryn would become bulwark of an Elwynor no longer held at bay by a river that Mauryl, I have long suspected, defined as their border until his overdue but unwelcome departure from these mortal bounds. That is my fear-that whatever stricture the old man laid on the Elwynim no longer holds.