He lay in his bed, beneath the painted sky. A staff faithful to him was sleeping all around. Uwen was there, his day guards, too, asleep, while the night guards stood their posts. He felt the presence of a full score lives, knew their solid, mortal faithfulness to him, a precious attendance, and frail, and protecting all he was. He could fight battles and lead armies. But the simplest of his servants was wiser in the world than he, and understood, perhaps, the questions he would never answer.

In bestowing Ynefel on him and not on Emuin, who would have been the more reasoned choice, Cefwyn had cast far too much on his understanding, and it still was so scant. Emuin would say, always, Judge for yourself, young sir.

Or, Gods know.

Did they, indeed?

CHAPTER 5

Dry leaves wandered, amazingly so, and flew even over the walls of the Guelesfort, stark, stone precinct that it was, lodging in such unlikely places as against the little ledge of the study window where the disapproved pigeons gathered. Through the open side pane, Tristen plucked a leaf from its resting place, and fed breakfast crumbs to the birds that crowded up at the little window, careful to see they each had their share. They fluttered and they flapped. They were greedy birds, and could be unintentionally cruel to the weakest.

They had no respect of the Quinalt porch, or the Five Gods, and he tried to think what to do about it. The pigeons had no respect of him, either, not a bit. That was why he courted their presence, because for all their sudden fears and frights, they had no respect for him. They or their cousins had been at Ynefel and at Henas’amef, doing no worse than here. But the Quinalt’s dignity was too frail for them, so now he must send them away, if he could find the means. He wished he knew how to tell them he was sorry. He would wish them home, if any had come from Ynefel. He would wish them a safe flight over Marna, and safe lodgings in the loft.

But would a boy bring them the stale bread, and sit in the loft and try to read?

Perhaps he still would. Or did. Or they would find their way to that place and those days. He was far from certain. He only wished them safety, and if he might draw a little of the light of the gray place out to touch them, and protect them—

“His Highness Prince Efanor,” a servant darted near to say, and startled the pigeons into a cloud of cold, sunlight-silvered wings. Magic unraveled.

He had not expected Efanor so early in the day. Uwen had waked red-eyed and looking miserable this morning and at his behest had gone back to bed… rather too much of autumn ale last night, Uwen had said, greatly begging his pardon. Uwen would be chagrined when he knew their visitor had come and his guard still abed.

He had forewarned Tassand, his chief of household, that Efanor might come… he had not, however, imagined that Efanor would arrive on the clearing of breakfast from the table. He had not yet heard from Idrys… though Emuin had said he would say yes when Idrys asked. And had Cefwyn made a special point of telling Efanor beforeIdrys had roused master Emuin? Efanor was a great deal easier to set in motion than was master Emuin.

It was unkind to think so. But Cefwyn did have such ways. It went with being king, he supposed, and with being sometimes too clever for his own good.

So here was Efanor, early, and after a late evening when any man might be excused a certain sluggishness, Efanor’s face shone with a daunting cheerfulness.

“Good morning to Your Highness,” Tristen said.

“Good morning to you, Your Grace.” Efanor had brought with him, Tristen saw, a small book, the contents of which he suspected. Efanor had given such a gift to Ninévrisë.

“If it please Your Highness,” he said. Everyone observed formality, with Efanor, as if he were somehow fragile. “I’m sure there’s tea, easily, and I think there might be cakes. The fireside is the most comfortable place. The red chair is the best one.”

“I have a gift for you,” Efanor said just before they settled, and presented him the tiny book, an exquisitely bound and jeweled little book with the Quinalt sigil worked in gold.

“This is beautiful,” Tristen said with sincerity. He was very fond of books of all sorts, and it was one of the prettiest he had ever seen. The writing inside was that intricate sort priests favored, but which he had learned to read. “Thank you very much, Your Highness.”

“A book of devotions,” Efanor said. They sat down next the moderate warmth of the fire, Efanor in the red chair. “I hope Your Grace will consider them as more than a convenience of state. I know my royal brother’s notions. He bids me show you the forms and he cautions me against confusing you, intending of course that I teach you nothing. But I will give you honest, earnest answers, Your Grace, if you wish the honest truth. I would be pleased to give you honest answers.”

“I would be interested in the truth, sir, thank you.” He felt awkward in the extreme, though he was relieved to know Cefwyn had been honest with Efanor. “What do the priests know about gods? That seems a place to begin.”

“May I ask… Your Grace.” A clearing of the throat. “Tell me. To begin. —What do you yourself hold about the gods?”

“I wish to see one.”

“One would hardly expect to see one, Your Grace. That is, ordinary men would hardly see them.”

“Perhaps, however, I might.” He had already resolved not to tell His Highness about the gray place. Emuin had always held that secret. So had everyone who could go there… unless praying sent one to some special place he failed to go.

Efanor’s troubled countenance, however, said that he might have misspoken even this early in their dealing. “That you are Sihhë would be no advantage at all in seeing them, I fear.”

“I may be Sihhë,” he corrected Efanor gently. “I am almost certain and everyone says so, but there are other possibilities.”

“As—”

“Galasieni, perhaps.” He named Mauryl’s lost people. “It’s possible. Though I think Sihhë is more likely.”

“Neither would make it easy for you to approach the gods. Nor the chance that you may be Barrakketh, and an enchanted soul, a despiser of the gods.”

“Perhaps,” he said. It might be true. It was more likely than other origins. He himself concluded nothing, accepted no past name, and perhaps by that refusal made his own essence chancier in the world, more difficult to seize on. “But I am Tristen. Mauryl named me when he Called me, and I should not say differently, Your Highness. Knowing less than Mauryl knew, I should never change my name.”

Efanor seemed more and more distressed. “Tristen, then. But magic is not your way to the gods. Believe me that it opposes your salvation.”

Was there indeed a way to leap over his origins and seize on a life such as other men had? And were gods the way to live past the spring? Emuin had complained he had lost his salvation, taking up wizardry again. But he would not discuss Emuin’s affairs, told to him in confidence, with Efanor. “And what would favor it?” he asked Efanor.

“Faith. Good deeds. Prayer. The gods’ good grace and mercy.”

None of that seemed difficult, or even daunting. “It hardly seems difficult. Except finding the gods.”

“You cannot do it by wizardry.”

“I understand so.”

“Nor by magic.”

“How, then?”

“Pray and listen. Pray and listen. One hears them in one’s heart.”

There at last was a hint. Magic needed the heart and the will and the inborn gift. “So one need not be bornhearing them.”

Efanor hesitated. “Men can learn. Whether their power could extend to a Sihhë, no one knows. I asked my priest what I should say to you, and he was entirely at a loss. A very learned man. A very fine scholar. But he knows nothing, nothing that he finds of help. There is a chance, a chance that His Holiness may receive a word, and find a blessing especially for the Warden of Ynefel, considering Your Grace’s office and goodwill to the kingdom. There is no question of your being malevolent, none, sir. Even His Holiness admits your services to the realm, as indicating a type of divine calling.”