And he supposed if they gave him breakfast they were going to take care of him and that if they took care of him he must have duties of some kind that he was neglecting lying abed.

So he rolled stiffly out onto his feet and wrapped his tangled sheet about him as he cast about looking for his clothes.

“Have your breakfast first,” Idrys said, so without demur he went and looked over a far too abundant table of cheeses and fruit and cold bread, while Idrys, never rising from his chair, watched him with that same dark, half-lidded stare.

He gestured at the table. “Do you not want some too, sir?”

“I do not eat with His Highness’ guests.”

That seemed as much conversation as Idrys was willing to grant to him, and Idrys seemed impatient that he had even asked. In embarrassment and confusion, he sat down, gathered up a bit of bread, buttered it, and ate it with diminished appetite, for he had little stomach left after days of hunger, and he felt Idrys’ eyes on him all the time he was eating.

He drank a little, and had a piece of fruit, and had had enough.

“I am done, sir.” He was appalled at the waste of such delicate food.

“I could hardly eat so much. Will you eat, now?”

“Dress,” said Idrys, and pointed to a corner where a stack of, as he supposed, towels rested on a table.

He found it clean linens and clothing—not his own dirty and torn clothes, but wonderful, soft new clothing of purest white and soft brown—along with a basin and ewer, a wonderful mirror that showed his image in glass, and all such other things as he could imagine need of. But most pleasant surprise, he found his own silver mirror and razor and whetstone, which he thought the gate-guards had taken for themselves; he was very glad to have the little kit back, since Mauryl had given it to him.

And all the while there was Idrys at his back, arms folded, watching his every move. He tried to ignore the presence as he reached for the razor and tried to ignore the stare on his back as he began, however inexpertly, to clean his face of the morning stubble. Idrys remained unmoved, a wavery image in the silver mirror he chose to use.

He combed his hair and dressed in the clothing that lay ready for him, which fit very close and had many complications and required servants to help him. It was not as comfortable as his ordinary clothing.

What they had provided him was like the fine clothing that Idrys wore, like that Cefwyn had worn: gray hose, a shirt of white cloth, boots of soft brown leather, a doublet of brown velvet, —far, far finer and more delicate cloth than that Mauryl had given him, and his fingers were entranced by the feeling of the clothing. But he would have rather the things he knew, and the clothing Mauryl had given him, and Mauryl with him to tell him not to spoil his shirt. It was a thought that brought a lump to his throat.

“Your own had to be burned,” Idrys told him when he asked diffidently where his own things were. And he wished they had not had to burn what Mauryl had given him, and thought them very wasteful of good food and clothes, and candles, which Mauryl had said were not easily come by. But he dared not argue with the people who fed him and sheltered him. He supposed there were new rules for this Place, in which such things counted less.

Idrys regarded him with the same coldness when he had finished and when he stood shaved, combed, and dressed. He found no clue to tell him whether it was fault Idrys found or whether it was impatience with his awkwardness, or merely—it was possible—boredom.

“What shall I do now, sir?” Tristen asked. He hoped for answers to his questions, for a settling of his place and duties in this keep—perhaps to speak at length with master Emuin, who reminded him most of Mauryl.

“Rest,” Idrys said. “Do as you wish to do. Pay my presence no heed. I shall stay at least until His Highness calls me. He will probably sleep late.”

“Did you sleep, master Idrys?”

“I do not sleep on duty,” Idrys said, arms folded.

Tristen wandered back to the table and found the little food he had taken, and perhaps Idrys’ at least moderate and reasonable answer to him, had further stirred his appetite. He sat down and buttered another bit of bread and cut a very thin bit of cheese. Idrys had settled in a chair nearby, still watching him the way Owl might watch a mouse.

“Master Idrys,” he found courage to say. “If you please, —what is the name of this place?”

“The town? Henas’amef. The castle is the Zeide.”

“Kathseide.”

“So men used to call it. Did Mauryl tell you that?”

“No, sir. Master Idrys.” Tristen swallowed a suddenly dry bit of bread, still terrified of this grim man, and was very glad that Idrys’ mood had passed from annoyance to this sullen, idle companionship.

“Why have you come?” Idrys asked him, then, as swift as Owl’s strike.

“For help, master Idrys.”

Idrys only stared at him. There seemed one reasonable thing to say to Idrys, and to all the people whose sleep he had disturbed.

“Or if you will only let me go,” Tristen said in a small, respectful voice, “I will go away. If I knew where to go. —Am I in the wrong place?

Do you know, master Idrys?”

Idrys’ face remained unchanged, and in that silence Tristen’s heart beat painfully. Idrys finally said, “Ifs count nothing.” But Tristen did not take it for his answer, only a sign that Idrys had heard his offer and, pointedly perhaps, ignored his real question regarding his permanent disposition.

But in that moment came a rap at the door, and Idrys rose and went to see to it. There was some ado there: servants, Tristen thought, were waiting outside, or perhaps guards; but the fuss came inside with an opening of the inner doors, and it was Emuin.

He rose from the table, glad to see the old man, who had listened to him patiently last night, who had been kind and pleasant to him and kept his promises to bring him to the master of the keep. Emuin smiled at him gently now and dismissed Idrys to wait outside—as behind Emuin came Cefwyn himself, whom he was not quite so glad to see, and who looked reluctant and unhappy to enter. Cefwyn clapped Idrys on the shoulder in passing and spoke some quiet word to him, after which Idrys nodded and left.

The door closed. Tristen stood still, looking for some cue what to do, what to say, what to expect of them both or what they expected of him.

“Much the better,” Cefwyn murmured then, looking him up and down. “Did you rest well?”  “Yes, master Cefwyn.”

Cefwyn looked askance at that greeting; Tristen at once knew he had spoken amiss and amended it with, “My lord Cefwyn,” as Cefwyn sat down in the same chair Idrys had lately held. Emuin settled on a chair near the table, and Tristen turned the chair he had been using and sat down quietly and respectfully.

“You may sit,” Cefwyn said dryly, in that very tone Mauryl would use when he had done something premature and foolish.

“Yes, sir.” So he had been mistaken to sit. But now Cefwyn said he should. He had no idea what to do with his hands. He tucked them under his arms to keep them out of trouble and sat waiting for someone to tell him what he was to do here.

“We come to unpleasant questions this morning,” said Emuin gently.

“But they must be asked. Tristen, lad, is there nothing more you can tell me of Mauryl’s instruction to you?”

“No, sir, nothing that I know, beyond to read the Book and follow the Road where it would lead me.”

“But you cannot read the Book.”

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“And what was Mauryl’s work? What was the nature of it? Did he  say?”

“He never told me, sir.”

“How can he not have known?” Cefwyn snapped, but Emuin shook his head.

“He is very young. Far younger than you think. Not all seemings are true. Listen to him. —Tell me, Tristen, lad, do you remember Snow?”