“My name is Emuin,” the old man said, “and yours is Elfwyn.”
Emuin. The Emuin of Gran’s stories was dead. Surely he was dead. That Emuin had been an old, old man, even his whole lifetime ago.
“You doubt my claim?” the old man asked, with the arch of a brow.
“I’d heard you were dead.”
A chuckle now, gentle and distant, as the old man gazed into the fi re and grew somber. “I had heard you had gone to Guelemara. And then you came home to Amefel. Or did you? Didn’t you run from Guelemara? I think you’re given to running before the fact.”
Straight to the heart, which beat hard, like a trapped thing. “How did you hear, sir?”
“Oh, a wayward bird.” A light and careless answer, to a question carefully guarded. “And directly from your father, who arranged a message you weren’t in any wise supposed to act on.”
“He didn’t.”
“Oh, but he did. He wanted to get the Quinalt fellow out of your way and get you home to Gran before there was more trouble of a magical sort.
And he ever so greatly regrets that letter.”
“Where did you meet my father?”
“Oh, here and there, through the years, on the stairs, in the hall, in the scullery and the courtyard . . .”
“Just last. Where did you meet him, sir?”
A slow smile moved amid the mustaches, a darting look of very thoughtful eyes.
“Cautious lad.”
“I must be, sir. I have to be. People I would believe have lied to me.”
“Elfwyn. Elfwyn. Elfwyn,” the old man said, and Elfwyn felt a band close about his chest, and loose again. “A fey name. The name of an ancient king, a dead and betrayed ancient king. But you, who bear that name, play at stableboy in a cottage.”
“I’m not meant to be a king,” he said. “I’m illegitimate.” That wasn’t the 3 4 8
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word he’d used all his life. He’d learned illegitimate in Guelemara. “I don’t want to be a king.”
“Do you say so?” The old man reached a straw into the fire and let it burn, delicately. A draft wafted the little flame toward the fire as it consumed the straw. It burned right to the old man’s fi ngers.
And died with a little curl of smoke that flowed away as the fl ame had bent away from his hand.
“Do you say so?” the old man asked again.
“Where did you meet my father recently?”
A little frown knit white brows. The old man said, faintly, a wisp of a sound: “In the Zeide, in the Zeide just now. But I didn’t stay for Tristen— the fool boy. The whole world is astir, and he’s lost himself somewhere, and here you go trudging off through the snow. For what purpose?”
“To find Lord Tristen.”
“To find Tristen, is it? Why?”
He had not thought of the reason of his quest in hours. He had struggled so to live he had not thought until that exact instant of the book he carried next to his skin, and now it seemed the most dangerous thing in the world to have in this man’s close presence. He felt it tingle, like the ring. And he wanted to take Aewyn, ride to Ynefel, and put that terrible thing somewhere safe and never touch it again.
“Why should a boy search for Tristen, at peril of his life?”
He looked away. He had no wish to meet the old man’s eyes: guilt for theft and folly overwhelmed him. He looked into the fire, and saw the ruin of old wood: he saw castles and fortifications of fire, crumbling in the heat.
“He will be by now where you were,” the old man said. “Where I had rather be, this chilly night, instead of this place. Dash off into the dark, indeed. Dash off into storms the like of which your little wisp of a life has never seen. Have you ever seen the like of this weather?”
“No, sir,” he said, bewildered into a glance toward the old man, which caught him, snared him, held him. “I never have.”
“I have seen worse. Do you think it natural, this storm, the storms of this whole winter?”
“I think it very bitter cold.”
“And yet you risked it. You fled. For what?”
He could not but think of the thing against his ribs. He didn’t want to think about it.
“I know,” the old man said. “Do you think I do not? What would your gran say? Why didn’t you take it home?”
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He was shaken. And angry. “If you’re Master Emuin, you know my gran is dead. I have no home.”
“Otter,” the old man said, surprising him. “Slippery as an otter. Diving into dark places. Being the fool only for others’ amusement.”
That drew a frown. “I may be. But I look for advice from people I trust, not from strangers who may not be who they say they are.”
“And you have very sharp teeth.”
“Only if someone comes at me.”
“Otter . . . or Spider? Which had you rather be?”
“Otter, thank you. Spiders live in nasty holes.”
“Fastidious, then. You have a prince’s tastes.”
“No prince. A bastard, is all.”
“His brother.” This, the old man said with a gesture at Aewyn, whose fair hair curled in grimy ringlets about his unconscious face.
It was not a notice he wished to bring on Aewyn. If he could humor the old man until his bones warmed, until the horses were recovered, until the sun rose and dispelled this wizardous haunt, he would do that, and hope to keep Aewyn out of the old man’s thoughts entirely until he waked. This man could conjure: he had seen that, and it was beyond him to deal with such a man, a wizard, who might have been drawn to them by what he had stolen and what he carried . . .
“A true prince of Ylesuin,” the old man said. “The prince of Ylesuin. His father fears for him. And fears for you.”
The first saying he easily accepted, that his father feared for Aewyn, though he by no means took for granted that this old man was his father’s old tutor, or even his father’s friend. The second thing stung. If his situation had risen to any care of his father’s, it could never match his father’s love for Aewyn, and he knew his brother’s danger was all of his making. He was being led, and if he made a mistake in judgment of this old man and grew softheaded in his desire to hear what he wanted to hear, it could be his last mistake.
“You doubt your father loves you?”
“He has no particular reason to love me,” Elfwyn said, every word like broken glass. “I’ve stolen. I’ve run away. As you say— I’m good at it. Slippery.
The rest, you know nothing about.”
“I know your begetting and your birth, your upbringing—and your talents.”
“I have no talents except for getting in trouble.”
“You are Aswydd.”
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“Not on the right side of the blanket.”
“Born to a sorceress and a king and nurtured by a witch. But none of these is the source of your Gift.”
“I’ve no Gift at all,” he said, wanting to veer away from this topic. He shivered, cold despite the fire. “Nor wish to have. What times I’ve tried to do wizardry, I’ve failed. Do you think this storm will be done by morning?”
“Shoving at the world again. Tristen, now, Tristen could budge the weather.”
“Can you stop the wind?”
The ancient fingers stirred, a ripple of a dismissive gesture. “I’m a wizard. That means a wise man. I never try.”
It answered his secret question, the one he feared to ask: did you raise this storm? But he grew bold enough to challenge what he saw. “There weren’t any bowls, before,” he said. “I’d have seen them.”
“Did you expect to find any?” the old man asked.
“No,” he said.
“I did.” A shrug, the ghost of a smile. “Best expect, if you spend the effort of looking. But do it sparingly. I assure you, the joy of some surprises isn’t worth the risk of others.”
Riddles
with Gran’s kind of sense at the core. Wizard, indeed, and by that advice, what answers did he reasonably expect to find in this old man?
Vision, Lord Tristen had said. Vision was one of his two words, and what did he see with a close look at this suddenly immaculate stranger?
Danger.
Power beyond what Gran had had. Even, perhaps, more power than his mother’s.
Emuin, he claimed to be. And if he was that famous wizard, he might indeed raise a storm if he really wanted to. And there were not that many wizards, ever, more powerful than his mother. Emuin was indeed one possible answer to the riddle, if he was not a haunt.
Haunts, however, were not in the habit of coming up with bowls and grain.
“Maybe you could conjure us some cakes to finish with,” he said, and the old man tilted back his head.
“Cakes, is it?”
“Well, if you looked for them . . . and expected them . . .”
“Impertinent boy!”
“Well, but you can do that, can’t you?”
“Wishing for more than one needs is wasteful.”
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“Wasteful of what?”
A forefinger lifted. “Now there is a wise question. Of what? Of what indeed? Of effort, of soul, of spirit, of thought and life itself. Needing what one wants— now there’s a wicked trap. Wanting what one needs, that can be a trap, too. Poverty can lead a lad from despair to envy, from envy to bad behavior. Knowing exactly what one needs, and working to get it, there’s the wisdom. Your gran taught you that.”
Gran would use plainer words. “Wishes won’t draw fl ies. Sweat will.” It had made him laugh, then. Now it reminded him of her, and of her old eyes, far kinder than these. This man, he thought, if living man he is, has seen hard things. He is harder. And far more dangerous.
“I’m still cold,” he said.
“Then move nearer the fire, fool,” the old man said. “Don’t be afraid.”
It set him nearer the old man, who had the best spot, but he did, easing up onto the hearthstones, which had grown warm. The heat comforted his ankles and his feet.
“There,” the old man said. “Is that better?”
“Better, yes.” But he had a greater tremor in his limbs. It was fear, and he liked that less than the cold.
“Let me see the book.”
His heart gave a thump. For the first time he was sure they were trapped here, that he was outmatched by far, and that this man knew exactly what he was looking for.
“Book?” he asked blankly, and the old man sadly shook his head.
“Oh, I had so hoped for more cleverness.”
He had a knife. He knew how to lay wards, too, but had he done that? He had not, despite the night and the storm and them sleeping in a place not his own. He felt the fool. “Maybe I left it somewhere.”
“Maybe you didn’t.”
“I mean to give it to Lord Tristen, and sooner or later he will know about it, if he doesn’t right now. And if he wants it, he could take it whenever he wants. So I suppose it really doesn’t matter if you should take it. It’s his, and you ought to be very careful.”
“It’s certainly not yours, fool. And if he could have taken it, he would have done so, long since. Whence came it, and who gave it to you?”
From underneath a table, in a wall in the library, he recalled, as vividly as if he were in that place, under the very fear and the suffocating compulsion he had had in that moment. It was dreams, again, dreams, that had made him find it . . .
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“Where did you fi nd it?”
“Why should it matter?” he asked, and the old man looked at him from under his eyebrows in a way that made his hands sweat despite the cold.
“Who gave it to you?” the old man asked again.
“I don’t know. I found it.”
“Found it! Are you a fool?”
“No, sir.” His jaw set. “I hope I am not.”
“Lady Tarien. Does that name touch you?”
“My mother.”
“She’s no longer a prisoner. Do you know that?”
He didn’t. He didn’t truly believe it. He didn’t know what to believe tonight.
“I’ll give you another name. Orien Aswydd. Does that mean anything to you?”
An Aswydd name he had heard a handful of times, but it told him nothing in particular. He shook his head.
“Your mother’s twin sister,” the old man said. “Entombed below the lower hall, near the haunt, right beneath her prison.”
Now the fire could not help the cold. He thought about the bad feeling in that little stairway that went nowhere, the place the haunt had fl ung him.
“She’s gone, too, right along with your mother. Her tomb burst open and there was nothing inside, not even bones. They’re both fled to the winds.”
“Why should I believe you?” he cried, moving away and scrambling to his feet, and Emuin unwound like a serpent, rising like a much younger man and towering over him like a shadow before the fire, between him and his sleeping brother.
“Because I am your friend, boy, and that book in your hands is deadly dangerous.”
Breath seemed short.
“Would it be better in yours?” he asked, and saw, for the first time, the least doubt— the same doubt he felt about having the book. That alone made him think this terrible man might be telling him the truth, and that shook him as deeply as any threat to their lives.
“If I have such a thing,” he said, “don’t take it. Help me give it to Lord Tristen myself. Then I’ll know you are Master Emuin.”
“A dire thing, for a boy’s hands.”
“Almost a man.”
“A very young man, then, who forgets to lay his wards.”
That stung. “I forgot. But I’m no wizard.”
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“No,” the old man said— Emuin, if it was Emuin. “You are not. You’re something else.”
“I don’t want my mother’s Gift.” It blurted out of him, without his willing it. “I don’t want it at all!”
“No,” the old man said sharply, cutting him off. “You don’t want your mother’s Gift, your mother’s foolishness, or your mother’s greed. But the Gift you already have, you might manage better— far better than you have.
Can you read the book?”
“No.”
“Not surprising. You won’t, until you want to, though doing so lies within your Gift.”
“It makes no sense to me! I tried. The letters move.”
“They evade you. But not for long. You have very little time to be innocent, boy, because what you guard is not innocent. It’s a handbook, Mauryl Gestaurien’s darkest work, Mauryl, who Shaped Tristen himself, and whose magic keeps him here, for all I can tell. The secret of it may lie in that book.
Do you guess how very many forces in this world would like to lay hands on it?”
“Then help me! If it’s so dangerous, then maybe you shouldn’t take it either. I won’t let you have it. I’ll fight you, if I have to.”
“Oh, lad.” The forbidding shadow shifted, and became an old man leaning on his staff and looking down pensively at the floor. “Lad. Ninévrisë
Syrillas held you in her arms sixteen years ago, and wished you your father’s grace.”
“Her Majesty.”
“The same woman. While she carried Aewyn within her, she wished you well. Lord Tristen himself laid hands on you and wished you well. These are strong bonds, perhaps the stronger now that you know them.” Emuin settled to the floor with a sigh, leaning heavily on the staff. “Ignorance is never safe.”
“The queen. And Lord Tristen.”
“And Gran, an excellent woman. She has not faded. Believe me, she is in good company.”
Elfwyn sat down again, refusing belief, refusing anything that touched what he so wanted to believe . . . but unwilling to lose that thread, either.
“No, no.” The old man sank down and leaned his staff against the fi reside. “Not the sort of haunt that’s within the Zeide, that much is certain.
She was never discontent; but protective of her boys, oh, that she is.”
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“She’s dead.”
“Indisputably.”
“I don’t believe you even knew her! I never saw you there.”
“I never came under Gran’s roof,” the old man said. “But meet her, yes, more often than any other in these years. I came to consult with her, oh, many times at the fence, when she was weeding the herb garden, or out in the meadow, when she was herding goats. I came until you started to grow inquisitive. You don’t remember that, do you?”
He did remember a ragged old man at the fence, an old man with a staff— a customer, like many others who wanted Gran’s cures. But if his mother could conjure dreams, this old man, this wizard— what could he do with memories?
“Then why, like any honest visitor, didn’t you come inside?”
“You were not of an age to keep secrets well.”
“Why did it matter?”
“How often did you see your mother?”
“Once a year.” He didn’t see how that answered his question, and then did.
“Once a year, on my birthday. I’d see her, and the duke would give me a present. I didn’t know other boys didn’t get presents from the duke. But I thought it was peculiar that my mother lived in a tower and hated everyone.”
A smile turned the old man’s face gentle. He reached out a long, thin arm and put a small log on the fi re.
“I suppose you could keep that one burning all night, if you wanted,”
Elfwyn said.
“Oh, perhaps I could, but why want what you already have? The wood is there. I use it, much more easily than that, I assure you. Do you think wizard - work is easy?”
“If you wanted to, you could have kept Gran from going hungry.”
“If Gran wanted to, I’m sure she could do the same, but she didn’t. She wanted as little of your mother’s attention as she could have, and she never would have allowed your visits to the tower, except it was the agreement with your mother, and to breach that, breached other things.”
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