But Idrys’ advice he already knew, and asked him no questions.

Idrys escorted the wobbling youth to the care of the assigned guards—one could take that for granted, as Idrys knew his duties.

And for no particular—and more than one—reason, Cefwyn wandered to the clothes press in his bedroom, and to a chest that, with a turn of the key set in its lock, yielded up a small oval plaque set in gold, with a chain woven through with pearls.

Ivory, on which an Elwynim artist had rendered black hair, green gown, a face-    A face lovely enough to make a man believe the artist was bewitched himself. A face fair enough to make a man believe in Elwynim offers of peace and alliance, while Elwynim bones bleached above the gate for trying to cut short his tenure in Henas’amef.

A face of which one could believe gentleness and intelligence, wit and resolve alike. Could such clear eyes countenance assassins? Could such beauty threaten?

There might for all the prince knew be a bewitchment, not on the artist, but on the piece itself, which warmed to his hand. He should have sent the piece back with the last dagger-wielding fool, or flung it in the river, but he had not. He had not been fool enough to reply to it, save by the means of word passed to suspected spies that he wished to hear more—how should a man or a prince wish not to hear more of such a face, even from his mortal enemies?—but no answer had come, either floating the river, flying pigeon-fashion, or trudging down Amefin roads.

And, failing such elaboration—he should have tossed the miniature out the window, lost it, forgotten it at least, and kept the chest, which was finely done, of carved wood and brass.

But at certain moments he still resorted to it, asking himself—that in fact was this offer of the Regent in Ilefinian, what was the scheme that had the sonless Regent offering his only daughter to prevent a war his lords and advisors seemed bent on provoking, a war the Elwynim march lords invited in daggers, in poison, in cattle-theft? Count the ways:

Elwynim found occasions to make his tenure difficult, and he counted this proposal among the tactics, a way to ruin his father’s digestion did he even mention it in court in Guelemara.

Perhaps, on the other hand, Elwynor thought to create a better chance for its assassins, and that was why the chest had come to him secretly, by an Amefin carter, who said a man had given him the box and said the prince in Henas’amef would pay more than Heryn Aswydd to have the piece.

That was the truth. One wondered what other rules of commerce the Amefin commons had understood.

The door opened and shut. Idrys walked back in.

“Ah,” Idrys said, having caught him temporizing again with the border.

“Ah, yourself,” Cefwyn said. “I take oath that he knows nothing of Elwynor.”

“Oh, that one? Sir mooncalf? I take oath he knows nothing Mauryl did not tell him.”

He had, in fact, rewarded the messenger handsomely for this ivory miniature, carried to him from the border by an Amefin peasant. And he doubted not at all that Heryn Aswydd wished to have intercepted that  box.

But no paintings in ivory comprised Heryn’s offer of alliance. Heryn’s offer came straight to his bed. Often. And twice over.

Cefwyn tossed the miniature back into the chest and closed the lid and locked it, insofar as the lock could serve to protect it from general knowledge.

“Is there a reason,” Idrys asked, “my lord contemplates such Elwynim gifts, on the eve of a ride so near the border?”

“I might, of course, wed Orien instead. Or Tarien. It would secure the province.”

“My lord jests, of course.”

“Heryn counts it no jest. Nor does Orien. As my Lord Commander knows.” Cefwyn walked to the window, where the sun went down into sullen dark. The window showed the far horizon and a seam of red light.

One could not see Ynefel from here. One could not know for certain, except as one believed Tristen’s tale, that the fortress had fallen. And one did, in such unsettled times, want to know what the situation was, bordering Marna, and what the locals saw and surmised about changes in their sheep-meadows.

Though in the wizardly fashion in which Emuin knew things, Emuin had confirmed it was so, that Ynefel and its master had indeed fallen-and a prince could become so utterly dependent on such attesters as Emuin, and Heryn, and even Idrys, with all his attachments and private reasons.

By far less arcane means a prince knew that the twins had their own designs, independent of Heryn, and knew that their brother Heryn, who could not keep his tax accounts in one book, had his private reasons, and his none-so-private ambitions. And all the cursed pack of them, Elwynim, Amefin Aswyddim, and the Elwynim barons, had a notion how to secure in bed and by other connivance what they could not win of Inéreddrin’s heir in war—unless Inéreddrin’s heir grew careless about personally verifying the reports others gave him.

One wondered what effect Mauryl’s fall had had on the border—or if they were remotely aware of it.

Or what the inhabitants of such villages as Emwy thought their taxes were, that Heryn collected for the Crown.

And how far the Crown Prince of the kingdom of Ylesuin should ignore the situation.

It was given as truth among every borderer that Ylesuin would eventually have to marry and mistress some sort of agreement to settle the ancient question of the border heritance. That such an agreement was imminent and due in this generation was an article of faith among borderers; that the Prince of Ylesuin had no more choice in the matter than Lord Amefel’s sisters had was an article of faith on his father’s part—but the heir of Ylesuin did not accept that role yet: the heir of all Ylesuin had other ideas, which involved bedding the Aswydd twins, enjoying the labor, and affording the Aswyddim the confidence that their habitually rebel province had secured useful influence.

And if the heir of Ylesuin was bedding the Aswydd twins, the heir of Ylesuin thus became too valuable to offend or assassinate, at least for the Aswydd partisans in Amefel, if not the other Amefin nobles who hated Heryn and his taxes.

It was thus far a comfortable and tacit bargain, one he was certain the Aswyddim had no wish to see the Elwynim outbid with a marriageable daughter. Heryn Aswydd had lately betrayed two Elwynim assassins who thought they could rely on Aswydd aid; and thus far (at least until, at his pleasure, the matter of Aswydd taxes racketed to Guelemara and the King’s exchequer) Heryn’s sisters, particularly Orien, the eldest, were a pleasant dalliance, so long as Aswydd excesses and Aswydd ambition stayed in bounds. It was all Amefin sheep Heryn Aswydd sheared, and thus far none of them had complained to the Crown.

But now Mauryl entered the game, with this wizardling—for that was a very good guess what the youth was—casting his own sort of feckless spell over sane men’s credence and doubts, and saying, all unexpected, Believe in me, lord Prince. Cast aside your other plans, lord Prince. Mind your former allies, Marhanen Prince, in Ynefel.

“He might be Sihhé,” Idrys said, out of long silence, and sent a chill down the princely spine.

“He might well,” Cefwyn said, looking still into the gathering dark, at the last red seam left of the sky, far, far toward Ynefel. “But Mauryl did serve us.”

“Mauryl Kingmaker. Mauryl the sorcerer.”

“Wizard.”

“The Quinalt will have apoplexies.”

“Priests seem to recover quite handily.”

“Three bids, Cefwyn prince. Do you realize? The Elwynim, the Aswyddim, —now Mauryl. How many directions can you face at once?”

He made no answer for a moment. The light was going. To see the horizon became, through the distortion of the crown glass, a test of vision.

He said, then, “Only guard my back, master crow. I’ll care for the  rest.”