All these things. The carved back of a chair, with each imprecision of a carver’s art, the small ripples against the grain where the intent had clearly been a smooth line, but the natural wood had thwarted it: he had watched carvers at work, how the sweet, pungent curls of wood flew so thick and fast it was a wonder, and the smell was heady as wine. An oak grew in the forest, keeping its inner heart secret, for very many years; and a man thought of a horse as he carved and that horse in a man’s mind added itself to the secrets of the oak’s heart and made something that was neither horse nor oak. In such a way the world of Men grew. His fingers traced the carver’s work, and his own skin was a miracle of subtle color, the working of bone and sinew was a miracle as his hand found the imperfections in the representation… itself a sort of spell.
“Lord Warden?”
Dared a man force an oak into such a pattern?
Dared a wizard force a soul into a new shape? Or, direr question, couldone do it?
And was it a horse in essence, shaped by man, or was it an oak? Was it a Man’s thought of a horse, potent with freedom, rendered substantial, or was it in its true, its wizardous essence, still a tree, responsive to all that a tree was, aged and steady and deep? When one enchanted such a thing, to which did the wizard appeal?
He trembled, in that thought. What had Mauryl wrought, in him… what had Mauryl changed, and not changed? Yes, men said he was Barrakkêth, first of the Sihhë-lords, who had warred against Men and had no mercy. So Hasufin had said, too, and even Mauryl had called him flawed. But, following Mauryl’s example, hesaid that he was Tristen, and that the sum of him was changed, whatever the grain of the wood from which Mauryl had wrought.
“Lord Warden.” Efanor had risen and stood beside him, and pressed some small object into his hand.
He lifted it, saw his own flesh and the Quinaltine emblem alike pale with the morning sunlight or with the burning intensity of his seeing. The medallion was a disk about the size of a large coin and wrought into it was a lump of glass with something curious and dark inside.
“It doesn’t burn you, thank the gods. Keep that with you.” Efanor made his fingers close on it. “Put it about your neck, in the gods’ good name, and let all men see it. Gods forfend you fall in such a fit in the Quinaltine. You have had none of your falling fits for months. Gods save us from the hour.”
“I had a Teranthine medal,” he said faintly, for it was true. “I still have it, forged to my sword, now, when master Peygan remade it. Cefwyn gave it to me. I value it extremely.”
“Keep it. Add this to its blessing and wear it day and night. Gods save us, put it over your head, so—if one protection serves, two may be stronger, in the gods’ name…”
Efanor’s speech had grown distracted, fervid, and frightening to him as he slipped the chain over his head, settled it beneath his hair and outside the small folded ruff of his shirt which rose above the doublet. The medallion rested on his chest, doing him no harm, but no good either, as far as he could tell.
He realized then that it was made of silver, and doubtless precious in some eyes; but silver had magical meaning as well. In Efanor’s goodwill, he was given two gifts now, a book and a piece of silver, and it struck him that such gifts were exactly such as Mauryl had once given him. Was it like the horse, and the oak, and did the semblance of Mauryl’s gifts to him create a bond of another kind, himself magically allied with Efanor? Yet he already had the silver near his heart before that thought had come to him.
“You must wear this in full view,” Efanor said, “when you go into the Quinaltine. Show everyone you can wear it. But dareyou go into the Quinaltine when the candles are lit and the gods are invoked? You were at the oath-taking. Were you there throughout?”
“Yes, sir. I was. ” He had found the place oppressive and had slipped back to the door, behind the columns, that day. But in the intent of Efanor’s question he had been there.
Efanor looked at him closely as if he were estimating his strength, or his character, or both, and with fear in his eyes. “I value that medal greatly,” Efanor said in the hush of their small area near the window. “And you would not mistreat it, nor use it in any magic, would you? I pray you not, whatever you wrought with the sword.”
“No, sir. I would never, if you ask it. Or I will give it back if you had rather.” He made to take it off and almost succeeded in returning the gift; but Efanor’s hand closed on his urgently.
“You have far more need of it. Wear it. Read the book daily. Think on the gods morning and evening. Pray for their help. There may be hope for you. I know there is good in you.” Efanor found it necessary then to amend it: “I believethere is good in you, lord of Ynefel; I wish with all my heart to believe it.”
“That is a kindness I shall remember.” Efanor, fearful, anxious, muttering entreaties to the gods he revered, had pressed on with a courage far surpassing the people of Wys, with great goodwill, even concern for his welfare and Cefwyn’s. And for that he wished the greatest good to Efanor, and counted him at least among those he loved, or wished to love, if so much fear did not stand between them. For Cefwyn’s sake he would put up the appearance Cefwyn asked for, he would do what Men did and attend the Quinalt, as resolutely and with as little joy as he would brave a battle line. But for Efanor’s sake he would venture the little book that claimed Men were evil, and he would see if there were answers in it, or if there was a hope of his making peace with the Quinalt once and for all.
“Please, sit down. Take a cup of tea, sir. If you would. Explain the manners I have to use.”
With evident relief Efanor began to expound the gods’ authority. They were deep into the question of the moon and the stars when Uwen came out of his room, distressed.
“So what arethe stars?” he had just asked, and Efanor had seemed not to know the answer. But Efanor leapt up, seeming to take the interruption for a rescue from what he feared was too difficult a question.
“Uwen Lewen’s-son,” Efanor said. “You’ll be near His Grace in services, —at least nearby.”
“Aye, Your Highness.”
“Good,” Efanor said. “Very good. Pray Your Grace keep the amulet close, and think on it, and read and study, and if Your Grace does have more questions I very earnestly urge, no, I commandYour Grace come to me, and not ask others.” This, with a look toward Uwen. “Of the gods’ mercy ask no one else. I cannot guess the damage.”
“I thank you,” Tristen said. “I thank Your Highness, very much.”
“Accept the gods’ guidance,” Efanor said, half under his breath, seeking to leave. “The gods’ will. The gods’ will, in all things. Gods attend.”
Perhaps it was his asking about the stars. Perhaps Efanor had business he had to attend. But in that state of glum anxiousness Efanor left, Tassand and the servants standing by in respect of their royal visitor. Tassand still looked worried as he fussed the empty tea service away.
Uwen, too, was distressed. “I wisht I’d known His Highness had come in. I wouldn’t have slept for the world.”
“Emuin approved it.”
“Did he, m’lord?”
“He knew, at least. I don’t think he entirely approved. But he saw no harm in it. ”
“All the same, m’lord, ye should take a great care what ye say wi’ His Highness, who trusts priests an’ talks to his, every night. Ye might scare a man wi’ your questions. Ye truly might, not intending it. And I think ye may ha’ done it.”
“I know,” Tristen said in a low voice, and showed him the little book, scarcely the size of his hand, and the medallion. “He said this would keep me safe and I must read the book. Do you think so? Dare I?”