Fortress in the Eye of Time

by C. J. Cherryh

  The prince tucked the small missives in his shirt and measured his wine consumption, while Heryn drank far too much and Umanon far too little to be pleasant.

  Sovrag leaned up the table, jeopardizing a goblet. “M’lord Prince! D’ the Elwynim know about this Sihhë lad?”

  “I wager they will,” he called back.

  “Ye wisht ’em t’ know, m’lord? We can ’complish that by mornin’, an ye will.”

  “I think we can wait, m’lord Sovrag, on the ordinary flow of gossip. On the other hand—” A thought came to him, not a new thought, but new to the moment.

  “Eh?” A page was serving sweetmeats. Sovrag’s fist seized a full share and two, and Sovrag never moved from staring at him.

  “Eh, m’lord?”

  “Bridges! I’d know for certain about those bridges!”

  “Along the Elwynim reach, me lord?”

  “Oh, aye, on the Elwynim reach. No, I was asking for the Arachim’s bridges! I’d know if there’s preparation for decking—such as could be brought up quickly, laid on or taken off.”

  Sovrag grinned. “Well, I passed right under Emwy’s, and 335

  saw nothing—but, then I wasn’t looking for decking stowed out of sight. I could have a boat have a look there and on upstream, m’lord Prince, if you was to promise ’em lads a sovereign.”

  “You have it,” he said, to the scandal of lord Umanon, past whom the unlordly barter flowed. “Two sovereigns if they don’t tell the Elwynim!”

  Sovrag pounded the table and laughed aloud. “Ye got ’er, m’lord, ye got ’er! Brigoth!” He summoned his man close, seized him by the front of his doublet to bring him closer, and shouted into his ear something about a boat and launching by moonset.

  “Idrys,” Cefwyn said, and Idrys leaned into range. “Two sovereigns.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The stress on his title said what Umanon’s silent outrage said, that the Prince of Ylesuin had no need to haggle with a subject lord, or to pay him for his services.

  But the two sovereigns would find their way to Sovrag’s purse, he was well certain, and he by the gods liked a lord who for once put a simple price on his work.

  “He seems a pleasant enough witchling!” Sovrag said next.

  “He don’t look more ’n a lad.”

  “He’s honest,” Cefwyn said back, knowing the voices were carrying. “And fair-minded.”

  “Mauryl always dealt fair,” Sovrag said. “If he come by Mauryl’s will, and if the gold from that trade be done, then what he says is so, the old man’s gone. So say I. And him sworn t’

  you, me lord, and to the King?”

  “By his oath, sir, yes.”

  “’At’s a neat trick,” Sovrag said, at which there were several shocked faces. And then seized a page. “Pour for the Sihhë lord,”

  Sovrag said. “A health for His Lordship of the Sihhë!”

  The page ran to do as he was bidden, by a man of Sovrag’s size. Lie down with hounds, Cefwyn said to himself, sorry now he’d set the man in motion, but, refusing to be set aback by the riverlord’s raucous good will, he rose himself and 336

  proposed the health, of the King first, of the company second, of the Sihhë lord third.

  Annas himself poured Sovrag’s cup full, one of the big ones, at each toast, and at each health, after his prince’s own lengthy praise of the King, of the company, and of Mauryl’s unexpected heir, Sovrag drained his cup to the dregs.

  Cefwyn proposed the health of their Amefin hosts, at last, not mentioning Heryn, who doubtless smoldered in indignation.

  Which saved him the decision, finally, whether to toast Heryn last, for Sovrag collapsed off the bench, and he had drunk every toast, himself.

  But started with fewer. Which, he heard remarked as the banquet dwindled down to the determined drinkers, might well become legend, how Prince Cefwyn, standing, had drunk Sovrag of the Olmernmen under the table.

  It was not at all the report he wished his royal father to receive.

  But the evening, he judged, when he declared the lords all duly welcomed, was otherwise a success.

  Still, afterward, walking up the stairs to his apartment with Tristen at his side and Idrys and Uwen Lewen’s-son at his back, he could not shake the conviction that the evening had not gone quite as well as he would have wished, and that the lords liked each other no better than they had in the beginning.

  Heryn was the poison, he said to himself. Heryn had no reason to be pleased with the evening, far less reason to be pleased with Tristen’s appearance under forbidden arms and, what had surely galled Heryn, Tristen’s health being drunk quite willingly by the other lords.

  And least of all could Heryn be happy in the slights heaped on him by the prince under his roof and in the failure of the southern lords, especially the lesser lords of Amefel, traditionally fractious against the Marhanen, to rise in support of his challenge. That such a man as Heryn had accepted the 337

  humiliation of apology was not incredible after the rest of Heryn’s performance; the sincerity of it, however, was far from credible, and he felt uneasy even with the guards around. He asked himself how he had fallen into the trap of accepting Heryn’s public contrition, or how he had gone from being certain he wished to be rid of Heryn to envisioning ways to keep Heryn, momentarily forgetting his sins of taxation, in favor of the functions Heryn and his predecessors had very aptly performed for the Marhanen, namely keeping a key and very troublesome province quiet. Heryn knew the Amefin rebels well enough to prevent any untimely rising. In point of fact, Heryn might have no interest whatever in rebellion against the whole Marhanen line. It was most particularly Cefwyn Marhanen that Heryn wished dead: Cefwyn who was onto his tricks, Cefwyn who had probed into his books, Cefwyn who would be far too active and aggressive a Marhanen king. If Efanor became King, Efanor, who hated the borderlands, would never visit here, and that would suit Heryn Aswydd well. As their royal father had suited the Aswydds—until he produced an heir perhaps too forward in his opinions and too public in his excesses, an heir whose edges King Ináreddrin wished to blunt against provincial obdur-acy and the facts of rule in an unwilling and witch-haunted border district.

  But Heryn was (postponing the decision on Heryn’s fate, at least) safely under guard. His sisters, ordinarily the bright moths to lordly flame, had flittered away to guarded quarters and lordly virtue was safe under this roof tonight, at least from the Aswyddim.

  They reached the crest of the stairs, the safe territory, the vast torchlit hall stretching away into intermittent darkness. They walked together in separate silences until the guard which escorted Tristen necessarily parted company from that which stayed about him, going to the opposite side of the hall.

  Then he realized how very absorbed in his own thoughts he had been, and looked up to bid Tristen good night, to—as he 338

  realized he should—tell him his hours of study with Annas had done well for him.

  But he had waited an instant too long. Tristen had his back to him now, and walked on with Uwen and his escort, head bowed, a tall, formidable shape, did one not know how gentle-spirited—black sparked with silver, under the dim light of the wall-sconces, which seemed far too grim a color for their childlike guest.

  So somber Tristen seemed, so strangely sad and defenseless in that company of soldiers, though he towered over the most of them.

  Elfwyn, the thought came unbidden, and a chill came over him. Feckless, murdered Sihhë king.

  Elfwyn would not even fight for his own life, at the last. He would not leave his hall or his studies until the Marhanen soldiers came for him, to bring him out to die. Elfwyn had cared only for his books, and they had burned those with Althalen.

  So, so much knowledge and lore of the Sihhë had been lost there.

  He had launched war—or peace—this night. He had raised the standard his grandfather and his father alike had banned for fear of Elwynim pretenders.

  But he had granted what he had granted to Tristen
even to the good of the Elwynim. In Tristen, in this sonless dwindling of the Regents’ line in Elwynor, he had a chance for peace and resolution of the old dispute, and Mauryl had sent it to him, perhaps a test of Ylesuin’s willingness for peace—and a test of his kingship, what he would be, what he might be, if he could settle that old dispute and make a lasting peace with the realm of Elwynor—itself containing six provinces—that had once, with Ylesuin, Amefel, Marna, and lands west and south, constituted the Sihhë domains.

  The chained men at his door jarred his muddled thoughts: the Olmern lad and the Ivanim were still on watch. He saw the boy’s eyes glassy in the glare of candles.

  He stopped.

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  “Is this man ill?”

  The Ivanim lordling maintained grim silence. The boy said,

  “No, Your Highness.”

  He looked to the Guelen sergeant. “Change guard, sergeant.

  Idrys has, I presume, given you my conditions to them?”

  “Yes, my lord Prince.”

  “They’re to receive the same standard fare and the same watches as your own. Do gently to them if they are gentle men with each other. If one kills the other, report it to me. They know the consequence.”

  “Highness.”

  Cefwyn went into his apartment, seeking the warmth of his own fire. He wrapped his arms close about his sides and stood with head bowed, suddenly feeling the weight of the metal-studded leather. His joints ached.

  “M’lord.”

  Idrys startled him. He had not known Idrys had come in yet.

  “Guards are to remain as set, m’lord Prince?”

  “Gods, yes, they remain.”

  “Yes, my lord Prince.”

  Idrys left him, seeming satisfied. Cefwyn walked into the other room, his bedchamber, his eyes automatically searching the shadows for ambush. It was lifelong habit. He expected to die by assassination—someday. It was the common fate in his house. He did not fear the shadows—as his grandfather had and his father did. He needed no candles. He had no faith in the Quinalt or in candles blessed by priests. It was his inherited nature, perhaps, to grow gloomy and fatalistic.

  But he had perhaps solved Mauryl’s riddle, this Shaping the wizard had cast on the Marhanen doorstep. He was the third generation after Althalen, the generation in which all curses and chances, by all the accounts, ultimately came home. He was the King-to-be of Ylesuin. And Tristen—Tristen could become the surety the Marhanen King had on this border, perhaps a provincial lord, even a tributary king, himself, over a diminished realm, in which men of the east would not be

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  subordinate to Sihhë lords or Sihhë kings. It was peace he had begun to build, it was a settlement of ancient disputes. It was the dream of a kingdom without the need to keep half its peasants constantly under arms, or with weapons within reach; a kingdom without the need to dread their own western provinces as a breeding-place of assassins. He had seen enough of assassins, attended enough executions, seen enough funerals.

  And if his father the King had meant a year here to blunt his heir’s untried edges, then his father equally well might know that granting him an independent command might not bring the two of them into congruency of thought. He grew less, rather than more, like his father. He tinkered with mercy. He temporized with witches. He—gods, only to think of it now as done—had raised the forbidden standard in the sight of the Quinalt and the southern lords.

  He could hear his brother say, Father, he’s lost his wits. He’s bewitched.

  But he could by no means hear his brother say, Father, send me to set things right. Efanor had no liking for Amefel or long discomfort.

  Efanor, younger brother, was sitting well-appointed to Llymaryn, a province where no hint of rebellion stirred the leaves of summer, where vineyards thrived, where pious Quinalt orthodoxy ruled the land and no one had contrary or troubling thoughts. Conscience sat easy on Llymaryn, in the holy heart of a people of entirely Guelen descent, a land without foreign borders to ward, a district where the lords vied with each other only in complimenting the King’s younger son, in telling him he was right, and good, and just, and that divine justice approved him.

  Efanor spent his year of administrative trial in paradise, praised and pampered—and probably still virgin: the Quinalt ruled Llymaryn, and lately it seemed to rule Efanor’s every thought.

  He stripped off the red doublet and dropped it—not on the floor: he had more regard of the pages who likewise suffered 341

  this crucible of his heirship, lads who grew wary, and thin about the cheeks, and learned to go in pairs. “Boy!” he shouted, and a page, sleeping on the bench, leapt up and rushed to catch the garment. And his shirt, after.

  Idrys came in. He heard the outer door shut and heard Idrys stirring about in the other room—heard Idrys talking to one of the pages, probably filling his head with instructions to watch the prince’s guest.

  Idrys did not approve what he had done. But Idrys was not his father’s man. He began to believe that. Idrys had gone very far with him tonight, across a boundary of decision that, now, either admitted them to negotiation with the Elwynim, or committed them if not to war, at least to a period of very unsettled peace. He had the forces now to make the point. He had demonstrated he could summon them. He had demonstrated his willingness to do new things.

  He would be interested to see what Sovrag’s lads turned up, whether there were, as he feared, bridges built or reinforced, ready to receive decking which could be brought up very quickly, and whether the Elwynim were in fact preparing for war, behind the cover of this bride-offering.

  He would, he resolved, see whether the bride was still waiting, or what Elwynor’s Regent would do, once he knew the Sihhë

  King-to-Be was in Marhanen hands.

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  C H A P T E R 2 0

  T he sun flooded through the panes of a room grown familiar over days of confinement. The pigeons were far less frequent on this straighter side of the building, where ledges and slants were less convenient and fewer. Tristen lay a time abed and stared at the daylight through the glass, seeing no reason this morning that he should rise from bed, no particular reason that he should do anything. He had performed last night as Annas wished. He supposed that he had pleased Cefwyn. He supposed he had pleased the lords Annas had named to him, and perhaps even the lord regarding whom Annas had warned him.

  But that was done. He had no permission to do anything.

  There had not, at least, been such permission yesterday; he expected none today.

  Hearing the servants stir about, and hearing Uwen’s voice, he knew that Uwen would be walking in, attempting to be cheerful, asking him—as he had asked him in days past—what he would do today, and making idle talk to fill the time.

  He was grateful for Uwen. And he would send Uwen down to the library to bring him another book of philosophy or poetry, since Cefwyn denied him books of other sort. He would attempt to read Mauryl’s own Book, of which he had less and less hope.

  He told himself, or had told himself once, that if he could read it, all conditions would change, and he would become wise, and make no more mistakes, so that Cefwyn would approve him, and he would become, as Cefwyn had said he would be, his friend.

  But since he had agreed to be Cefwyn’s friend, he had heard a great deal of how he should bear himself and what he should answer, and how not to make mistakes—and he had 343

  seen very much of Annas, who was kindly, and patient—but very little of Cefwyn.

  A prince was busy a great deal of the time, so Uwen said.

  A prince had a great many people wanting his time and his attention. Mauryl had been busy with his calculations—and he had learned to be content just that Mauryl was there. He should be content that Cefwyn was there, that was all.

  And that was too anxious a thought to stay in bed with. He gathered himself out of the sheets, crossed the cool floor barefoot to the fireplace and poked up the small fire, a pile of ash a
nd ember dwarfed by the size of the hearth, that let them brew tea and warm water,—all of which servants would gladly bring from downstairs. But then it was cool by the time it reached him; and sometimes it came so late he had forgotten any want for it. He much preferred to do that duty for himself, and liked the fireside; he had seen that Cefwyn maintained a small kettle, too, in his very fine apartment, with all the servants at his beck and call, so he decided no one minded.

  Uwen came in before the servants, and wished him good morning. Waiting for the water to warm, he shaved himself with mostly cold water, a task he would not allow to the servants, while Uwen chose his clothing for him and servants stood by to offer it. He washed. He saw his reflection not in the large glass mirror the room afforded, but the little silver one Mauryl had given him, which he had kept through all the changes of accommodations. And it showed him a soberer, a more thoughtful face than it had first reflected on the day that Mauryl had given it to him. It was his mirror of truth. Small as it was, it showed him only his face, not the fine clothing, not the change of room. It showed him the changes in himself, not in what men gave him, or lent him, or the manners others showed to him.

  He wondered if Mauryl would approve of what it showed.

  He longed to take his books to the garden. They allowed him no such excursions nowadays. They allowed, they allowed, and did not allow, he insisted to think, but he knew 344

  in truth that it was not they, it was Cefwyn who did and did not allow. The they who disallowed his wishes and pent him in this room had assumed a faceless impersonality in which he cloaked all Cefwyn’s less kind acts. Cefwyn had been kind to him. Cefwyn had hugged him about the shoulders. Cefwyn had treated him as he treated important men. They forbade him to go to the garden.

  They could without much stretch of imagination at all include Idrys, whose resentment and distrust of him he knew.