Gods save Gran, he thought. Tears made the room swim. And he was too distraught to face Aewyn before he left, or to try to explain. His father would hear a worse report from the priests than he had already gotten.
Aewyn might protest, but his father would lay down the law and run him out at night, for fear of appearances, and he just had to go, that was all. He had to.
He went straight back to the clothespress, took his second - best cloak, wrapped up all his changes of linen, all the food laid out on the table in that, and his outdoor boots, and put on his third - best cloak.
That was all he took. The Quinalt amulet, he laid on the table. It was Prince Efanor’s, and it was silver, and he would not be accused of stealing it.
For the rest, he tucked up the bundle under his cloak and left, only hoping to all the kindlier and more numerous Bryaltine gods that no one noticed him.
He headed not toward the west, the stable side of the Guelesfort, but down the eastern servants’ stairs, and out the eastern door.
Then he crossed along by the iron fence and the hedges, in what had begun to be a thick snowfall. He ignored the hulking shadow of the Quinaltine that loomed above, and when he passed the outward bow of the building, into the little courtyard, he refused to look toward the windows of the second story, either, one of which was his father’s.
He had to brave the stables, all the same, so he took care not to be seen at all as he came around the western fl ank of the keep, and approached the stable fences. He kept his head down and his face shadowed by the hood as he slipped along the outer fence into the stable itself, where the few courier horses and the king’s own horses alone had not gone down to pasture. In the near dark of the interior he lifted a plain leather halter and ordinary lead rope from its peg beside the nearest stall, ignored the inquisitive blazed nose that poked out to sniff the air around the theft, and was gone out the door again, down by the main Guelesfort gate, which was, by day, not usually shut.
Here he expected to pretend to be a serving boy on an errand; but the guards were inside the guardhouse, out of the weather, and paid no attention as he simply walked out.
In the town streets, he lengthened his stride, taking only moderate care to keep his head down and keep the wind from blowing the hood half - back.
He kept the cloak clutched about him and the halter and the large bundle 1 4 5
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under it, and hoped for at least as much luck as he entered the lower city and approached the town gates.
Here, too, the thick snow obscured a mere straggle of farmerfolk and craftsmen going in and out on ordinary business. He simply walked close in the tracks of a pair of craftsmen, head bowed. With them, he passed beyond the gates, out onto the road that led through a scattered few craftsmen’s dwellings, past a few fences, and then took a brisk stride along beside snowy winter orchards and fields and pasturages, leaving other traffi c behind.
Oxen and cattle huddled near haystacks, or in the lee of shelter walls. He saw horses in pasture, a few, but he had his mind set on one horse, the one to which he had some legitimate claim, at least, not to be called a thief.
He wished he had been able to bring Paisi’s own bridle, and most of all his saddle, which were stored in the tack room up above. But that had been too great a risk, and someone would have stopped him. He hoped the halter would fit, or that he could make it fit. He was cold to the bone, and his feet were numb by the time he reached that pasture where Tammis ranged.
The sky was gray and the whole world else was white, and he feared that no sensible creature would come to a call in this weather. He stepped through the rails and trudged out into the midst of the pasture. They had learned a whistle for Tammis— none worked on Feiny— and when he whistled into the blowing wind, once and three times, then he saw, indeed a dark head come out of the little copse of trees a distance away.
He had no apple for a bribe, but in his bundle he had honey sweets he had saved from the table, and when Tammis had nosed up to him, he could deliver a small offering.
He slipped the lead - line over Tammis’s neck to be sure of him while he was enjoying his treat, and cold - numb fingers managed, with some little difficulty, to get the ill - fitting, cold - stiff halter over the piebald’s poll and settled behind his ears.
Then he could lead Tammis toward the gate. Tammis had no notion he was being stolen. He went cheerfully enough. There was little else he could give him, he knew, but the bread, if a horse would eat it. And how they should feed him when he reached Gran’s, not to mention his own horse’s appetite, he had no idea. He supposed he should take both Feiny and Tammis up the hill once he got home and turn them over to Lord Crissand, praying him to send them home to his father, so he and Paisi should not be obliged any further.
The thought hurt. He wanted not to think that far ahead.
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had lectured him and Paisi very strictly about gates, as if he and Paisi had not come to Guelessar knowing that already, regarding Gran’s goats, who could manage most latches for themselves.
And there, in the snowy lane, he seized Tammis’s shaggy mane, poised himself, and vaulted for his back, bundle and all, the way the stableboys did. The first attempt, encumbered by the bundle, he slid right off Tammis’s rump and woolly side, but it was close enough to encourage him: the second try, in which he brought Tammis close to the fence and shifted his bundle to the hand that gripped the mane and the rein, let him make a leap, wriggle his knee across Tammis’s well - padded backbone, and thence ease astride, Tammis being a fairly patient horse.
Off they went, then, Tammis ambling along in no great hurry at fi rst, then warming into a jog that kept them both warm. They reached the highroad, and Tammis was sure at that point that they would be going north, toward town, but he reined him about in a wide circle and turned southward, as the merchants traveled, with no one in sight north or south, in the threatening weather.
He had gotten away clear. He was going home, the same way Paisi had gone, and he would keep faith with Gran, at least. If she wanted him to go back again, he would tell Gran that the ways of Guelessar were not for him, that he was homesick, that he might see his brother later, on his regular visit— all such excuses as he could contrive.
And maybe his father would indeed come riding past with Aewyn as they always had, and maybe after much of a year had passed, they could exchange greetings and he could pay his respects to his father and patch things as if nothing very bad had happened.
Or maybe there would only be soldiers, to collect the horses, and bid him stay away from Guelessar forever, since he had done things so badly and made trouble with the priests. That notion, which he thought more likely, settled like a leaden weight in his chest.
He had dreamed of Guelessar in his childhood, and thoroughly enjoyed his first days in the Guelesfort, oh, so full of wonders; and with Aewyn for his friend. But they had taken a dark turn in the Quinaltine, at Festival, and he had no wish to see all the good memories go sour, or do further harm to his father’s reputation or to Aewyn’s. He wished no one ill— wished no harm, even to Brother Trassin, who had wanted to pray for him and save his soul, but he felt the urgent need, for this hour, to be far from here as fast as he could persuade Tammis to travel before the tangle grew deeper and darker. He just had to get home and be sure Gran was all right.
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What he would do then— then, and forever afterward, he had no scrap of a notion. He had planned everything toward Guelessar, toward his father. Now he found himself not quite a man and no longer a child— even his time with Gran had become perilous, perhaps on the verge of passing. She was very old, and frail, and he and Paisi both knew she might leave them someday soon.
Then what? Then what, and where?
And what will I be, if I come home too late this time?
Gran had sent h
im out to find his fortune. His time with Aewyn, and among the books, had all been aimed at growing up and becoming a man who could support the family: Aewyn had been so convinced they would grow up together, and be allies, and now all that plan was gone, he began to realize it was not Otter the child who was coming home to Gran. Otter had grown up in his winter in Guelessar, grown up and gone away and looked to have very grown - up men angry with him and fearful of him.
Lord Crissand might not be as well - disposed as before, either.
Where was safety for them, then?
Tammis’s hooves found packed snow in a track where carts had passed, and thumped along good - naturedly, his breath frosting on the wind. Snow turning his shaggy mane white. Tammis carried him home, not at all the Otter who had left, but another creature altogether, one he hoped had, on this last day, grown warier and become harder to catch.
iv
it could not be true. it could not possibly be true, what the bodyguards whispered among themselves.
“Who said Otter should go away?” Aewyn asked, breaking into his guards’ privacy in the little chamber in the hallway and standing squarely in the door.
The men— grown men, his father’s men— were all caught, and there was no graceful way to dislodge him without answering his questions.
“Your Highness,” Selmyn, seniormost, said, with a grave manner, “we very much regret to be the bearers of news His Majesty surely wished to deliver . . .”
“Why would my father send him away,” Aewyn cried, “when my father brought him here in the fi rst place?”
“There seems to be some trouble,” Selmyn said, “Your Highness.”
“What trouble? What trouble would it be?”
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“We don’t know,” Selmyn said, red - faced, clearly embarrassed. “But word is out that he has to leave— there’s a Guard contingent to ride escort tomorrow morning, Dragon Guard, Your Highness. He was to go to Amefel before the sun comes up. And watchers we know are running up and down the stairs in some haste.”
“The hell!” It was not language he was permitted to use, but Aewyn said it, and stormed out of the doorway and out into the hall and across the grand stairway landing to reach Otter’s rooms, his guard trailing him.
Why? he intended to ask Otter, first off and without preamble. Whatever trouble Otter had gotten into, there had to be time for cooler tempers to prevail. His father had gotten the family temper from his father and his father from his grandfather, and Aewyn had his own. They could all shout and threaten, but a quiet few words with Otter first would settle his stomach.
Then they could both go and talk to his father, and his father would listen to him. He knew it.
But when he opened Otter’s door and walked in, he found the fi re still burning, but no sign of Otter, not in any of the rooms, only a book on the floor and a piece of paper beside it.
He picked it up. He read it, and things came half - clear, at last. Lord Idrys.
Master Crow, no less. That was not just a problem. It might be deadly.
“Where is he?” he demanded of his useless guards. For the first time he was frightened.
“We have no idea, Your Highness,” Selmyn said, and Aewyn brushed right past him and headed back the way he had come, and on to his father’s rooms.
More guardsmen, standing outside the doors, came to abrupt attention as he headed straight through their midst.
The last, seniormost, had the temerity to lower a hand, barring his progress.
“I’ll see my father!” Aewyn said. “I’ll see him now!”
His guards had overtaken him. His guards and his father’s cast combative looks at each other, and the seniormost signed for silence and slipped inside properly to inquire if the king could possibly be interrupted.
Aewyn shoved the door open and walked in without leave. The guard’s quick move saved the door from banging.
“Father?” he called out, and saw the far doors shut, those that barred off the royal apartments, which generally meant a conference in progress.
He headed for them, jerked the first open, and found his father, indeed, in conference with the Lord Chamberlain, who had been leaning over a table full of charts.
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“Aewyn?” his father asked, and rose to his feet— not startled, no. Upset.
Aewyn went at the matter in his father’s own way— head - on. “Where’s Otter?”
“In his rooms, one would have thought.”
Aewyn shook his head. “He’s not. He’s heard. I’ve heard. He got a message from his gran by way of the Lord Commander. And you had already arranged the Guard to go with him in the dead of night, without seeing me!
Why did you not tell me, Father?”
His father turned to the Lord Chancellor.
“My lord king,” the Lord Chancellor said, excusing himself, and Aewyn clamped his lips together and said not a word until witnesses, even the guards, had passed outside the doors.
Alone, his father stared at him until it occurred to him that he would lose, in any test of wills. It was his part to bow his head, unclench his jaw, however difficult, and adopt a milder tone.
“Why was I not informed?” Aewyn asked again, trembling with outrage.
“Where is he?”
“Not in his rooms. The fire’s still burning, but he’s not there. Neither is Brother Fool.”
“He was to leave,” his father said, ignoring the epithet. “Tomorrow. I’ve told the stables to notify the Guard if your brother should try to leave. I was going to speak to him tonight. Or earlier, if he appeared. I was going to send him off with a proper escort, all the help he and his gran could want.” His father drew a deep breath and his brows knit. “There was a message.”
“I read it.”
“It was a lie,” his father said. “Or at least, it was intended to give him an excuse.”
“You did it!”
“I fear I did.”
“Then he’s taken off to help her, and it’s a lie?”
“He won’t have gotten a horse. Or passed the gates. The Guard will bring him back.”
“He’ll have walked out. He’ll have taken Paisi’s horse. He’s out there, in the snow.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because if he couldn’t get a horse at the stables, he knows where Paisi’s is, and he was going to ride him to the lodge.”
“What does the lodge have to do with this?”
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“We were going there, and he was going to ride Paisi’s horse, but I said you’d get him a better. But if he’s gone home, and not asked anyone, then he’s gone down and taken Paisi’s horse from the pasture.”
“Where will he have a saddle?”
“He couldn’t get one.”
“The boy can’t ride!”
“If he has to, he will,” Aewyn declared. He had not a doubt in the world.
“He’d do it, for his gran. He loves her. And he’s not here! Father, how could you?”
His father sank into his chair. He looked tired and downhearted. “It wasn’t my best plan. Damn the luck, sit down. No, sit, I say! If you break into men’s councils, be ready to hear things that may displease you. There was no message. No real one, at least.”
“Then why is the Lord Commander—” he began to ask, but his father lifted a hand.
“Hush. Hush and listen. There is serious trouble. There is trouble in the Quinaltine, beyond the matter of the spilled incense.”
“It was all cleaned up. And that wasn’t his fault!”
“It was not all cleaned up. Beyond it, I say. Marks remain, which some can see. I can’t. You can’t— I trust you can’t.”
“I don’t think so.”
“To your uncle’s eyes, and to your mother’s, and to Otter’s, I’m sure, the spot persists. It reappeared, on the new stone. And trouble is rising. Rumors.
Accusations of sorcery that sit very ill. The Bryaltines are generally a peaceful sect, but the years since the war have brought a certain militancy to part of the sect, that which roots itself in Elwynor . . . in your mother’s kingdom.
Hostilities breaking out between Bryalt and Quinalt in Guelessar is not a good thing for the treaty, for you, and most especially for your mother and your baby sister in any visit this spring. Do you understand me in this?”
“I understand about the Bryaltines. But that’s not Otter’s doing.”
“Most firmly it is not. But the manifestations are visible to your uncle—which, indeed, you are not to say, boy!”
“No, sir.” He was troubled. He knew his uncle was saintly and devout, and had a voice in the Quinaltine, and moved the priests when others couldn’t.
He knew his mother saw things. “But what if there is a spot?”
“It’s not that. It’s an imperfection. A sign. There are haunts within the Quinaltine.”
“Haunts!”
“Something like. Or something worse. Our Otter is not welcome there, 1 5 1
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whether by the dead or the living, whether or not the scratches on the stones were helped along by mortal hands. There is something the matter, Efanor assures me. For his own safety, he should go away for a season— only for a season!— and then, then, I promise you, he will come back when things are quieter. We need not have the heir to Ylesuin involved in any whispers of impropriety, or, gods save us, blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy! He never—”
“Patience. Patience, I say, and we’ll have him back in the summer, or at latest, in the fall: it’s become imperative to have him back, not to have given in to this. He’ll come back a little wiser, better known to the people, to the priests, to the court. And ourselves a little wiser in the meanwhile. We’ll keep him out of the Quinaltine then. And things will have settled. They do, with time. Be patient.”
“I can be patient! It’s all very well for me to be patient! But he’s out in the snow! He’s had dreams about his gran, terrible dreams!”
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