“And did Cuthan say that I was coming, sir?”

“No, my lord. I swear he did not.” Drumman shook his head, and so did Azant.

“And did he advise Edwyll?”

“No one knows what he advised Edwyll. The hour was on us. And Cuthan warned us. But Edwyll had already seized the king’s messenger the hour he rode into town. And we were all in fear then.”

Tasmôrden had moved his forces on Ilefínian, sent a message across the river to create as much confusion as possible… it needed no wizardry to effect a message, none to poison a party of men by accident. But wizards thrived on chance and accident, and worked best through vengeful men. The deeds of kind ones were more self-determined.

“So Cuthan is not your friend,” Tristen said.

“Nor yours, Your Grace,” Drumman said.

“Nor anyone’s,” Azant said.

“Whose man is he, do you suppose? And why did he hate Edwyll so?”

“Heryn Aswydd,” Drumman said. “He is Lord Heryn’s man.”

Tristen drew in a breath. “Edwyll was Aswydd.”

“And notLord Heryn’s man, nor ever was. Hence His Majesty never exiled him. He never supported Lord Heryn’s policies, Your Grace, but opposed them in council, opposed them to the edge of loyalty to the Marhanen, which Edwyll would not grant.”

“Cuthan was offered the duchy.”

Azant shook his head. “Cuthan would never swear to the Marhanen. He cultivated Lord Parsynan because it served his needs. And Parsynan warned himof all of us, thinking him a loyal man, the hour the rebellion broke.” Azant likewise fell to his knees. “My lord, we have been desperate men. We held back, we joined you, my lord, intending to save Lord Edwyll, and we had done it, until Parsynan took it in his hands to settle grudges… we were never rebels against you, my lord.”

“And do you speak for Cuthan?”

“He is still,” Drumman murmured, “still Lord Heryn’s man.”

Tristen considered the two lords, kneeling, as Amefin did not customarily kneel… turned his hand, where it rested on the throne, and signaled them both to rise.

“Go home,” he said quietly, “in peace.”

“Lord Sihhë,” Drumman whispered, and bowed, and with Azant, went away.

The room was still after. His guards did not move from their places. Nor did Uwen.

“Lord Cuthan may come to me as these lords came, tonight,” Tristen said in a moment more, “or he may have a horse and all his household, tonight, and cross the river by whatever means he can find. There are boats, I think, at Maldy village. Because he is an old man, he wants help getting there.”

“M’lord,” Uwen said.

“I am notOwl,” he said, doubtless to Uwen’s bewilderment. He had gazed at the far end of the room, where he saw not the vision that troubled his dreams these last nights, that of the old mews with light shining through broken planks, a place astir with wings and dusty years. “I will see Earl Crissand, now, if you will, Uwen. I have questions for him, but none so strict as those I have for Lord Cuthan.”

CHAPTER 8

Emuin arrived a week late, in a gust of snow, toward the mid-afternoon. The bell rang, advising of an important visitor, and Ness, from the gate, arrived to say so; and soon the train of ox-drawn carts and wagons and pack-bearing mules began to make a commotion in the stable yard. Master Emuin would not leave it despite the falling snow, which did not surprise Tristen in the least. Every bird’s nest and bottle would find its way to master Emuin’s tower, which was vacant, and swept: Tristen had foreseen that necessity, and that master Emuin would simply begin sending baggage upstairs, or go himself, expecting it.

“Good day, sir,” Tristen said from the west outside stairs, looking down, and finding master Emuin in the midst of chaos. All of the cobbles except the patch where master Emuin stood were trampled snow obscured with offset baggage. Some, off-loaded, were going out the open ironwork gate; more were coming in, including a wagon, which was having difficulty.

“There you are!” Emuin said sharply. “Do we find the town burned down? The cellars plundered?”

Tristen came down the steps, with Lusin and the guards behind him. “Did the lord viceroy say so?”

“He gave me dire reports of disorder. I expect ashes, at least active conflagration.”

“The town is quiet,” he said. “The Bryaltine abbot came this afternoon. The Quinaltine father here is far friendlier than the Patriarch in Guelessar. He sent a basket of apples.”

“A relief, a decided relief.”

“Earl Edwyll is dead. His son has the earldom. Earl Cuthan fled to Elwynor, by boat; we found Mauryl’s papers in his possession, little use he could make of them. I think he only meant me not to have them.”

Emuin gave him a sharp look, and looked longer.

“I had to make decisions,” Tristen said, “and made them, sir.” It was no place to discuss details of policy, this swirling, bawling yard, but it was common knowledge now through all the town.

“Well,” Emuin said, seeming only moderately surprised. “Well,” he said again, and said no more about it, choosing instead to shout at a servant to be careful with the boxes.

“You would not advise me, sir,” Tristen said, not without asperity.

“So I did not,” Emuin said. “Stand in the path of Mauryl’s working? I? I have come to provide counsel— not direction, young lord, as lord you are.”

“ Mauryl’sworking? Dare you say so, sir?”

“That is all I dare. You have made your path, young lord. NowI am here. Not before.”

The wagon finally gained the courtyard, with Tassand and the others of his servants, whom he was glad to see, and to whom he only needed say, “Orien’s apartment,” to have Tassand completely informed, and immediately busy, and his baggage and belongings destined for upstairs.

He went inside, then, into the noise and confusion of arriving baggage, of a hundred more Guelen troops to be housed, and clerks finding their accommodations. Boxes and bundles passed him. He retreated to the safety of the upper floors, leaving master Emuin to call on him when he pleased, since he knew he could never persuade master Emuin to leave his precious boxes—only two months removed from the tower, and now coming back again— in the hands of servants.

His household was complete, wizard, wardrobe, and all.

He settled again to the table on which the appeals and petitions waited, and took up those he hoped to accept. Master Rosyn, the tailor, was one who had served Cefwyn, and who now begged to deliver “werk of most excellent qualitie.” Master Rosyn had written the letter in his own hand. And he was a good and diligent man. Tristen put that down as something he might simply give to Tassand to arrange. Red and black was the banner under which the commons of Amefel had marched to Lewen field, and red was, in one of those small definite notions of his mind, the color of Amefel, the Aswydds only holders of it by conquest.

And whence that knowledge? For a moment he saw the hill on which the fortress of the Zeide sat as girded by winter wilderness, only the smallest hint of the town, and the sense of direction said that that town, almost a village, had stood where now the more remote stables were, exactly there. It was a night, and lights showed at the Zeide gate; and where the long, sprawling streets of the town went down now to the outer walls of a populous town, now there were only a few trees, a road that wended up to a wall little different from that which stood today, but gates of iron and oak.

“My lord duke,” Tassand said, arriving with another load of baggage, snow in his disheveled hair. “Will ye mind the comin’ an’ goin’?”

“Not in the least,” he said. The stir of servants dispelled the vision, wrought its own magic. Tassand went to the window, drew the green draperies wide, let in both sun and chill. The light outside was white, white the adjacent roof, and blinding white the sky.