And by what her son had just hinted was the case, even the queen of Ylesuin daren’t put up holiday lights outside her own rooms, or hold holiday dancing or pass out festive cakes outside her own chambers, for fear of what Quinalt priests would say. There were bloody wars in the history of the Bryaltines and Quinaltines. There were riots, and murders. His father was king, but apparently even the queen didn’t dare do what she wanted, or speak her mind; nor could Aewyn, so that should warn him.
It appeared a grim sort of holiday, already. And the clothes by no means comforted him. The supper he’d had with Aewyn, so blithe and happy with naive plans an hour ago, sat uneasily on his stomach. But he was well sure that Paisi, who had spent his time in Lord Crissand’s halls, and in Lord Tristen’s service, was a clever man and generally good at finding out things, and very quick to warn him about things that could go wrong. The matter of the king’s gift had Paisi baffled, that much was clear: Paisi was warning him to walk carefully, and Paisi had found no way to ask deeper into the matter without, as Paisi might put it, starting every hare in the hedge.
He had to do the next asking, was what. Aewyn would likely sleep until noon— it was not at all uncommon. But Aewyn, when he did wake tomorrow, was the best person to ask— Paisi was right: he could get to Aewyn, easy as that, and if Aewyn himself said wear the clothes and ask no questions, well, then that was the Prince’s order, wasn’t it, and as high as he could reasonably reach.
So that was the wisest thing to do. He made up his mind to it. And he looked sidelong at Paisi, putting complete confidence into his voice. “I have no great worry about it. Aewyn will solve it when he gets up. And if it’s wrong— I can trust him to smooth things over.”
“He brung ye here. Ye ain’t fallen out, ha’ ye? He’s agreein’ t’ ye bein’ wi’
the family.”
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“Oh, he’s happy about it. He says— he says we only have to get through Festival, then we’ll take the horses afi eld and ride out to a hunting lodge he may have someday. He showed me the maps. And while we’re there, it’ll be the Bryalt festival, well, at least the last of it, and he says we can put up evergreen and candles. It’s five days. Just five days, and we can go.”
Paisi gave a deep sigh, as if that settled matters. “Well, if we ain’t neck deep in snow by then, which it’s lookin’ like out there, tonight.”
“We’ll go, all the same. We’ll camp in the lodge and cook for ourselves and not worry about whoever might be listening, because it won’t be anybody but you and Aewyn’s guard.”
“Oh, now, you be careful wi’ that notion there, lad. If there’s anybody reports to ’Is Majesty, it’s that lot.”
“Well, but we won’t do anything to deserve reporting, will we? We’ll just eat sausages and holiday cakes— I think I can make them, myself, fair enough, if we have the makings— and we’ll have a good time and wear plain clothes, and you won’t have to call me m’lord there, either, because there won’t be servants. I’ll just be Otter again.”
Paisi grinned. “Ain’t no difference where we sit, I’m bound to be your man, m’lord, until we’re back under Gran’s roof, an’ who knows? We’re still here, an’ things is goin’ right well for ye. If ye please your father an’ win them colors proper, maybe I’ll be your man after.”
“Never after, Paisi.”
“Now ye mind your words, there. You was born a king’s son, m’lord, ye was, no question, an’ if justice is done, an’ if ’e’s truly bent on sayin’ so in public, then, so— ye ain’t just Otter, ever again.”
“I’m not sure I want that, Paisi.”
“Of course you do. An’ how ’m I t’ stay with any king’s son except I’m a rare good servant? Which I was! I was Master Emuin’s helper, and Lord Tristen’s man, an’ it was Lord Tristen himself set me to watch you, wasn’t it?
So I ain’t goin’ against his word, no, I ain’t. I’m stayin’ what I was told to be,
’cause I ain’t facin’ him to say no, no sir, I give up.”
It was a glum and sobering thought, never to be Otter again. But he was verging on a man’s estate, his voice already changed, and his upper lip needed just a touch of Paisi’s razor now and again— there was no hope yet of more.
“Watered wine,” Paisi said, sliding down off the bed. “There’s the proper cure for a troublin’ night and a howlin’ cold wind. Maybe wi’ just a little less water ’n usual, it bein’ late. What d’ ye say?”
“I’d drink it,” he said. And Paisi poured it, with only a little water, and 3 6
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they went back to the warmth of the hearthside and drank it, while Paisi heated coals in a bedwarmer, and took the pan to warm the sheets— there never was such a fine thing in Gran’s house, but then, Gran’s house was all one room, and the fireside never far, so their bed there never took such a chill as this one could, in its separate room. Paisi had a second cup, he added wine himself— which was very much hedging Gran’s strict instructions to keep the measure of water in the cup at two of water and one of wine— and they took themselves to bed.
To the same bed, there being ample room for both. It was the way they were accustomed to sleep at home in winter— all their lives were in that one room, the comfortable kitchen nook, their bed and Gran’s. No sleeping in the guards’ post for Paisi, though they mussed the bed there daily to make the servants think they had town manners, and laughed about it.
Tomorrow’s troubles for tomorrow, Gran would say, and Paisi very soon snored. Otter found the exact center of the warmed spot for his cold feet, in sheets otherwise smooth and fi ne as ice itself, and listened to the wind prying about the fine windows. No one stood guard over them, as bodyguards stood guard over the king and Prince Aewyn and every lord and lady under the Guelesfort roof. They themselves had no enemies except the general sort who fi ercely deplored Amefi n folk and Bryaltines, and none of those, Otter was sure, would care to risk the guards who stood watch over the Guelesfort.
Or even raise their voices too much when he appeared with Aewyn.
So they slept, innocent, under the king’s roof.
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late to bed, and far too much wine, cefwyn decided, when he and his queen, Ninévrisë, reached the sitting room. She had been more prudent at supper— but too long speech - making from the duke of Osenan and a tendency to moralize on the part of the Patriarch, on this eve of the holidays, had driven him to his old bad habits. He hoped no one had noticed.
And being far too heated from the desire to cut the Holy Father off short, he had smiled, and had a second dessert, which he regretted more than the wine.
“Tedious old man, the Holy Father,” he said to his queen, with a kiss on the cheek and a long embrace, which somehow alleviated the weariness. “I wish we were both in Elwynor. Or he was.”
“Oh, never afflict my kingdom with your priest,” Ninévrisë said, her 3 7
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hands slipping to his arms. Those wonderful eyes stared straight into his.
“You tolerate him.”
“He’s an old, old man. There’s no mending him at this point. And the Crown needs no contests. Not now.”
“With this son of yours visiting, no, by no means.”
“Are you at ease with this? Are you truly at ease with him going to services?”
Those great eyes blinked, once, twice. And never wavered. “I held him when he was born. He had no choice in mothers. Of pity for her, however— I have little.”
“I have none at all. Nor would ever, ever offend you in bringing him to Festival. He could have gone home. He still might. Be sure. Be sure, now.
Later— would be very hard.”
“I held him, I say. He looked like any baby.”
“The gods know what he is. He’s quick. He’s clever.”
“He’s Otter. And he could go on being Otter, if you sent him back . . .
but that would be hard, now. What
you do— what you do, be ever so sure of.
For my own part—”
“What, for your part?” He had yearned for Ninévrisë’s true opinion on the matter of this son of his— and never felt he had it.
“He’s respectful, and modest. A good Bryalt lad.”
“If only he were only that.”
“Whatever he is, he makes our son laugh.”
“I have greatest reliance on the old woman. I believe her. But what I risk by believing this much in her—”
“It’s Tristen you believe in,” Ninévrisë said. “Isn’t it, after all? And Tristen said you should spare that woman, and he said you should take care of this boy. Me, he never advised in that regard . . . so I think my part is simply to watch you both and be on my guard. And I find he has a good face.”
“His mother’s eyes.”
“Oh, no such thing. They’re gray. Sihhë gray.”
“That didn’t come from my house.”
“That may be. But he has none of her wicked ways. Not a lie, not a prank—”
“Except our own son instigated them.”
Ninévrisë laughed the laugh that could cure his darkest mood and laid her head against his shoulder. “Daily,” she said, and looked up. “Wit and grace, both. Have you noticed? Aewyn has taken to books, under his infl uence.”
“More than his tutors ever managed. The last, I hear, went into cloister.”
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“A good place for him.” Ninévrisë cast herself down in the chair by the fire, looking up at him. “He was dull and far too full of catechism. And the one before that was ambitious.”
“Ambitious, do you say?”
“Trust my word. Ambitious. I never liked him. Now he eels his way into the Patriarch’s service. He may be a good clerk, but what he writes I would never trust.”
“Efanor is too clever for him.”
“So was Aewyn.”
“That I have always maintained.” Cefwyn sank into the other chair, with the warmth of the fire instant on his outstretched feet as he folded his hands across his middle. “Otter. Elfwyn, as he is and will be— what would you think, Nevris, were I to send him to Elwynor to study?”
Brows lifted. “Take him from the old woman and our son?”
“A difficulty. An admitted difficulty. But he’s at that age. He has to fi nd his way in the world. And he could rise in scholarly ranks, he well could. He has the wit, he has the skill, and he has the discretion to be very valuable to our son someday. Or to our daughter.”
Ninévrisë frowned, thinking on it— before a distant baby’s cry rose above the crackling of the fire. Aemaryen had waked. The nurse was with the baby, in the next room. But Ninévrisë rose from her chair to open the door and bade the nurse bring in the little princess— a red - faced and angry little bundle, who wanted her mother and generally got her way in the world.
Ninévrisë took the baby, and Cefwyn got up to touch the little face, which frowned at the light and squinted up at him— not half a year old, and already with her own notions of royal prerogatives. She was Elwynor’s longed - for heir. He would lose her entirely to Elwynor when she gained her majority, and she would spend more and more time in that land as she grew.
Already he mourned that future, but it was for the peace, and for the future of both his children . . . all his children.
The tiny princess collected a kiss from her father and screwed up her face in protest, wanting less light and her mother’s attention.
“He might certainly go to Elwynor,” Ninévrisë said, finishing their former conversation. “With my blessing.” She offered a bent finger to the baby’s furious grasp. Pink, tiny fingers turned white, holding tight. “Hush, hush, Maryen. There’s a dear.”
Aemaryen shrieked.
“The Marhanen temper,” her father said ruefully.
“And Syrillas stubbornness in one,” Ninévrisë said, hugging the baby 3 9
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against her shoulder, which produced no diminution of the cries. “La, Saleyn, open the door.”
Conversation was over. Ninévrisë carried the Princess away, diminishing into quiet, and Saleyn shut the door, restoring peace, at least in the king’s chambers.
He missed the quiet evenings. He looked forward to the time, however brief, when the little princess would be up and about, eyes shining, fi nding wonder in everything new— he had had fifteen, now sixteen years between children, and Aemaryen their second and likely last, born when Aewyn was about to be a man. Everything they had learned with Aewyn they attempted with Aemaryen, and nothing quite applied. Aewyn had been so deceptively placid, well, until his young feet hit the ground, and this one— this one had come into the world demanding her way.
Perhaps she would become sweet - tempered once she could walk and do things with her own hands. Perhaps she would be the model of her mother, and that anger would be only at what she could not yet do.
Did it ever apply? he wondered. Were ever two infants quite the same?
This one would never, he feared, be a complacent child— this babe destined to be Regent in Elwynor, as her brother would be king over Ylesuin . . .
and when this child reigned, Ylesuin might well award her the title of queen, the fi rst ruler in her own name since the Sihhë kings. The peace he and Ninévrisë had tried to make would be all at risk in the generations to come, and everything rested on these two children and their affection for each other.
He hoped for reason. He hoped for a generation, in his two legitimate children, to knit their two kingdoms closer, so that there would never again be war between Quinalt and Bryalt, between eastern, fair- haired Guelenish folk, and the stubborn remnants of the Sihhë reign over the west.
And maybe, in this illegitimate son of his, this son whom Lord Tristen had advised him to hold easily in reach and treat generously— there was some unguessed key to the matter. If the boy they called Otter did make a good scholar, he might become an advisor, traveling between Elwynor and Ylesuin, to counsel both a queen of Elwynor and a king of Ylesuin how to make that peace.
Maybe, with that honest goodwill of his, Otter who was Elfwyn, that un-lucky name, would gain the trust of both kingdoms, or at least learn to walk the sword’s edge of policy and politics. Tristen’s advice always ran deeper than seemed. It came of seeing connections most eyes never saw, Seeing into things yet to come.
Am I right? Am I being a wise king at the moment, old friend?
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Will my daughter be the queen we hope for?
What next, for my two sons?
Gods, that they be, none of them, like me . . .
He had had his misspent youth, out of which Elfwyn had come. He had been, himself, no great scholar, only adequate for a young gentleman. He knew his ciphers only because the Quinalt father in charge of his earliest education reported regularly to the king his father, Ináreddrin. Ináreddrin, a true Marhanen, had had his own temper— and his son had had his own to counter it. A king, being king, could have his son confined to his room if his son did not get a better report on his math—
And he had escaped out the scullery doors, gotten caught, and beaten.
And did it twice and three times more, finally enlisting his brother in his schemes and driving off his tutor in as elaborate and long - fought a series of maneuvers as he had ever contrived.
Then his father had found Master Emuin for his two sons’ betterment.
Emuin, a gray- robed Teranthine priest, had let him get by with nothing and had his own ways of getting a prince to pay attention to his books. Cefwyn, having found someone who listened when he asked that question that doomed him with other tutors, that deadly dangerous word, why?— and equally perilous, why not? — had launched off into old records and acquired a habit of citing them whenever he was angry at priests or nobles.
Contrarily, his father had then decided his elder son was too studious by far, that he
had all the bookwork a Marhanen prince could possibly need.
Ináreddrin had decided it was time for his heir to get the other half of a practical education, to learn not the theory, but the practice of the law, to understand not how bees made their hive, or what made the moon change her shape, or what the Quinalt practices had been before they limited the gods to five— but what the oaths were between the king and each province, and how to provision an army— he wanted his heir to have a practical understanding of how to keep his quartermasters from pilfering the stores, how to break a rebel or train a horse, how to read a map and, from his father’s example, how to hold an angry, unruly people in fealty— thank the gods, in those days, for his bodyguard, who had kept him alive, and for Emuin, who never left him, even when the lessons turned darker and more dangerous and less to his liking.
His younger brother, Efanor, however, had seen the storm clouds fl ashing with paternal lightning, and Efanor, having a religious bent, had become more religious before their father’s attention turned to him. For a few years Efanor had been insufferably righteous, estranged from sin, sinners, and his 4 1
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elder brother. The army, subsequently, had sent back an angry elder prince with the habit of command, with less patience, not more; and things had only gotten worse between him and his father. Efanor had, at the same time, made himself the dutiful, the proper son, favored by the priests and ultimately by both their father and certain lords, sycophants who had had their way with the law and their father. Their father had formed a desire that Efanor should succeed him, and sent his heir to Amefel, a province rife with Elwynim assassins, in hopes of losing an argumentative heir and gaining an excuse for war; but it was Ináreddrin who had died, instead, trusting the wrong men.
Now Ylesuin was under his rule, Efanor was his right hand, and he had gained Elwynor not by war but by treaty and marriage. He had the diffi cult south bound closely to the Amefin, and the rebel Amefin, who were nearer Elwynim than not, bound to him in fealty and friendship, in the person of Lord Crissand— it was all a web of fragile threads they had made.
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