Fortress of Owls

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Shall I send for the Holy Father?”

  “I want him there till he’s found out something. Advise him so. Get those men with him in hand. I count that a necessity.

  Damn them for deserters. Damn all they say.”

  “And the patriarch of Amefel?”

  “A knottier problem. One the Holy Father will have to solve.

  One he’d damned well better solve. Can you get that to him?”

  “I’ll attend to it,” Idrys said, and left. His armor had just dried from the last foray out into the wretched weather. It was unlikely he would stop this time to obtain a cloak.

  There were layers of command over the Guelens, the various companies jealous of their prerogatives, the Guelens, the Dragons, the Prince’s Guard, all, all with officers reassigned and no little sorting out of men after his accession, Captain Gwywyn going to Efanor’s guard,

  348 / C. J. CHERRYH

  Idrys becoming Lord Commander in Gwywyn’s place, and no great love spent on either side of that transaction. Lord Maudyn was a civilian commander on the river, where most of the Guelens were assigned, and some of the Dragons. He hoped Idrys might lay hands on the Guelens that had come in, but there was a delicate matter of protocols involved, and it was credit to Idrys’ oversight that the one man who had reported in had gained Idrys’ immediate attention—averting disaster, Cefwyn thought.

  And if they had any more men sifting into Guelessar from Tristen’s command, well to send them immediately to the riverside, to work out their disaffections within sobering sight of the enemy shore.

  Ninévrisë arrived in the doorway, robed for evening, her hair about her shoulders; he had not come to bed. She had waited, and he had no idea how long.

  But it was not offense which had brought her.

  “A page said there were dispatches.”

  “Anwyll’s report,” he said, knowing Ninévrisë ached for any message, any shred or scrap of news about her kin, her people, her land and her estates, such as remained of them. “It just arrived. And a letter from Tristen.”

  “All at once?” She folded her robes close about her and came to sit and see the letters, not knowing the other things. She read Anwyll’s letter first, brief as it was, and then Tristen’s, a long letter, for him.

  “Cevulirn has gone there,” Ninévrisë said.

  “And this is all we have,” Cefwyn said. “Look you. Not: Cevulirn arrived…or Cevulirn came to me from Guelessar or a damned scrap of information does he give! He writes worse letters than my brother!”

  “He’s building a wall…”

  “A royal decree, several laws, and a treaty down at a stroke.

  It’s the Sihhë wall he means.”

  FORTRESS OF OWLS / 349

  “Gods bless him!” Ninévrisë exclaimed, laying a hand on her heart. “I have made provision for those fleeing the capital since its fall; and also for armed men loyal to Her Grace who may escape. Them I will save if I can…He understands! He’s moved to help them. A place where my men can come.” Her eyes were bright as lamps as she looked at him, and how could he say Tristen was wrong? “He can, do you think? He can have them come!”

  “He might well,” he said. He envisioned an Elwynim army, the army he had hoped would rise from the villages along Ninévrisë’s route into Elwynor, but gathering in Amefel, far to the south.

  Small chance the remnant of the loyal army would come east to cast themselves on Guelessar’s mercy, or that of Murandys.

  They would go to Tristen.

  And Ninévrisë’s eyes were aglow with hope, for the first time since the news had come to them.

  “Tasmôrden’s men will loot everything they can,” Ninévrisë

  said. “Aséyneddin had some good men, but Tasmôrden scoured the leavings of three armies. He’ll be in Ilefínian till he’s looted what’s there, and he’ll not have his army sober again until they’ve done their worst…so there’ll be no pursuing anyone.

  They have a chance.”

  And failing that, there was a wall at Modeyneth, gods save them: the old Sihhë defense, for Althalen of the last High King had had no walls, only Barrakkêth’s defenses, that wall that ran among the hills of Amefel. It had fallen into ruin even by the latter days of the Sihhë High Kings.

  Now a band of Amefin peasants wielding picks and axes were remaking it. And was it chance that Tristen had thought of that wall?

  Barrakkêth. First of the Sihhë-lords, Barrakkêth the warlord…whose black banners had swept every 350 / C. J. CHERRYH

  field, whose iron hand had struck down his enemies without pity.

  He sat with Ninévrisë considering the letters. He sent a page for hot tea, against the chill of the dark. Rain made a cold, rattling sound against the windows.

  “He might bring them to him,” Ninévrisë said. “He might even wish them there, once he knows.”

  And could he say it was wrong, what Tristen had done?

  “Never say so,” Cefwyn said, “even in the sodden father’s hearing, but I hope he does.”

  The world had gone differently since his grandfather’s day, when his grandfather had used wizards’ help to win his war…much differently than the Sihhë-lord Tashânen’s day, when wizard-work had exceeded siegecraft.

  Once magic entered the lists, the advantage shifted incalculably.

  Running feet, a boy’s feet. It was not the tea that arrived, but more news in the rainy night.

  “His Holiness,” a page said from the door. “My lord king, Your Grace, excuse me. His Holiness is coming up the stairs.”

  In this weather?

  “Bring a lap robe, mulled wine…Where’s the damned tea, do you know?”

  “No, my lord king, please you.”

  “Then find it! Bring me what I ordered!”

  The boy fled. He had shouted at the lad. He had not meant to.

  But if the Patriarch of the Quinalt had met with the patriarch of Amefel and had something to say to him, he wanted nothing out of joint. He went swiftly to the door, leaned out it to shout again. “Boy! Advise Annas! Get me my guard!”

  “He’s heard from the priests in Amefel,” Ninévrisë said faintly, from her chair.

  FORTRESS OF OWLS / 351

  “Oh, I don’t doubt he has.” He returned to his seat. The page, forbidden to shout in the royal apartments, ran, steps echoing in the hall. “Don’t fear. Idrys will have it all in hand.

  The Patriarch himself isn’t to trifle with, and he’s on our side, or I’ll see to it Sulriggan sits on a bridge this winter.”

  The tea arrived at the same time the head of his bodyguard came in, Nydas, on night watch, who never excelled at soft-footed approach, and he came in a hurry. The hall had more traffic than High Street at noonday.

  “My lord king.”

  “Tell Idrys the Patriarch’s here. That’s all. He’ll know what this is about.”

  Annas had appeared behind Nydas, a head and shoulders shorter.

  “Annas. The Patriarch.”

  “Yes, my lord king.”

  “Shall I stay?” Ninévrisë asked, with more prudence than he had thought of, and made him suddenly realize, gods, no, the Patriarch would not confess before a Bryaltine and a foreigner and a woman. His Holiness was bought, sealed, and paid for, but Annas and Efanor were the limit of his tolerance for such meetings: guards, pages, and priests failed to count as persons…Idrys not excepted, in that sense. But Ninévrisë…no.

  “Love,” he said, catching her hands. “Love, Nevris, heart of my heart—go. You’ll have the entire sordid report, whatever it is, from me. But you’re right. Grant me this.”

  She pressed his hands, nothing more, and went out in a whisper of footsteps, calling her maids and her own guard outside, and little time to spare, for a breathless page came back to report His Holiness in the corridor outside.

  352 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “And white as a ghost, Your Majesty.”

  “Well, gods, move chairs by the fire.”

&nb
sp; “Here?”

  “Here, goose! Don’t breathe like a hound at the chase, just move the chairs. Seemly, now! With grace, there.”

  Annas habitually kept a poker hot in the coals and warming bricks on the hearth, and had arranged two cups of mulled wine on a tray before the Patriarch reached the outer doors of the apartment, and had heated bricks for the Patriarch’s feet on the hearth before he arrived.

  The man was white as a ghost. His white hair was plastered to his face, and his shoulders were soaked. He had brought no one with him but a young lay brother, who saw His Holiness’s cloak robe off, and the warm dry robe about him, and set His Holiness’s feet on the warm bricks.

  Annas needed do nothing more than offer the wine, of which the old man took a great swallow.

  “Your Holiness,” Cefwyn began, as Annas shooed the lay brother out with the pages and servant staff. “Dare I guess. The Amefin patriarch.”

  “Too far. He’s gone much too far, Your Majesty. You must call him to heel.”

  “The Amefin patriarch?”

  “The lord of Amefel, Your Majesty, I beg you don’t make light of this.”

  “Far from it.” He rested in his chair, the old man sitting wrapped in his robes, looking at death’s door tonight. “The duke of Amefel wrote to me. Oddly enough, his letter and the patriarch arrived the same night.”

  “The patriarch and these soldiers waited their chance, when Lord Tristen had gone out of the town; they fled as far as Clusyn, and they were there when a FORTRESS OF OWLS / 353

  messenger overtook them and went on without rest. They chased the messenger all the way, fearing what that message would say or request of Your Majesty—But His Reverence fell in the ditch.” The wine had spread a modicum of warmth. The Patriarch took a larger breath. “His Reverence ordered the soldiers with him to ride on and overtake the messenger, but when they tried, His Reverence couldn’t prevent his own horse running. His Reverence believes the horse was bewitched.”

  “I would laugh, Your Holiness,” Cefwyn said, with a finger braced across his lips precisely to prevent that, “save the gravity of the situation. Horses follow horses. It’s their nature.”

  “No luck accrues to anyone crossing his lordship of Amefel.

  Horses may follow horses, Your Majesty, but disaster follows Lord Tristen.”

  “Disaster? Only to his enemies. He owes us only good. We two should be quite lucky, should we not, Your Holiness?”

  “Don’t make light of it, if you please. What His Reverence reports is grimly serious.”

  Now he listened. “Say on.”

  “First, the people hail him Lord Sihhë…”

  “So they did when I was there, and His Reverence knew it.

  That’s no news. He probably is. What of it?”

  “The appearance of it—”

  “What am I to do? Come down with troops on my friend because cobblers and shopkeepers call out in the street? My enemy is across the river laying curses on me daily. I save my efforts for Tasmôrden.”

  “The law—”

  His temper flared. He restrained it. “He’s failed in some minute particular of doctrine, probably two and four times daily, not being a good Quinalt. But so does the Bryalt abbot!

  What of it? We both know Amefel is

  354 / C. J. CHERRYH

  exempt from the ordinances, and is so by treaty and observance.

  If Tristen chooses to use those exemptions, he is entitled.”

  “Witches. Witches have appeared. Witches traffic in the marketplace, the forbidden tokens are sold without fear of rebuke…”

  “They did that when I was there, too. Reprehensible, but hardly new, and His Reverence saw all of it. Had he news, or a history?”

  “His Reverence witnessed witchcraft. Lord Tristen has promoted thieves to household service, has displayed the black banners, has consorted with witches, has…” Coughing overwhelmed the old man’s vehemence. “He’s conspired with Ivanor to gather an army and preferred Amefin officers over honest Guelenmen.”

  “It is Amefel, the black banners are my grant to him, written down in the Book of the Kingdom, and locally sanctioned by His Reverence, to boot, who’s seen them fly before this.

  Cevulirn left here: I don’t wonder he’s paid a visit to Tristen.

  In fact I’m glad he has. So what sent the patriarch of Amefel breakneck to Guelemara, and what has a man I counted honorable and holy to do with deserters?”

  “The captain of the Guelen garrison—”

  “A deserter, with the other, who skulked away when Tristen was out of the town serving my interests! A deserter, sir, and with the kingdom at war. Tell me how I should deal with them?

  Shall I encourage every man who has a quarrel with his lord take to his heels? Every man who disagrees with his sergeant?”

  “The point is—”

  “The point is these men are not credible.”

  “But the report they have…” The Patriarch drew an old man’s deep breath, seeming to fight for wind. “Majesty, take this seriously. In the hearing of wit FORTRESS OF OWLS / 355

  nesses, of the Guelen Guard, out in the country, a witch hailed him and prophesied to him. And directly after, the lord of Ivanor appeared as if magic had summoned him.”

  “A witch, you say?”

  “Up from the roots of a great oak, that seven men couldn’t span with their arms: the tree fell, the witch appeared in a great burst of snow and a wind of hell.”

  “I think I know the witch.”

  “Majesty?”

  “Auld Syes. The witch of Emwy. Dead or alive’s a guess.

  She’s a harbinger of trouble.”

  “And Ivanor came.”

  “I don’t wonder at that.”

  “After which Lord Tristen has cast down the authority of the garrison, fomented lies against the viceroy…”

  “Tristen is a wretched liar. He knows he is. As for Parsynan, he’ll be lucky if I don’t hang him. That was Ryssand’s choice, mind you. I never should have listened to him. Tristen was restrained in dealing with the man. Don’t give me any blame for that. And don’t trust him.”

  “Your Majesty.” The tone was one of agony. “His Reverence brought men to swear to these things. He saw sorcery. His claims raise questions, Your Majesty, which I cannot counter.

  The orthodoxy, which Ryssand supports…”

  “Ryssand.”

  “Yes, Ryssand.” His Holiness was short of breath, and inhaled deeply before quaffing a great two-handed mouthful of the heated wine. Drops stained his chin, and he wiped them with a trembling hand. “But not only Ryssand. The strict doctrinists…have adherents in the Quinalt Council and the ministries of charity…and they were…they are…adamantly opposed to the appointment of the lord of Althalen and Ynefel to 356 / C. J. CHERRYH

  a province. They are doctrinally opposed to Her Grace’s Bryalt faith, and they demand a sworn conversion and a Quinalt adviser at very least.”

  “They’ll whistle to the wind for that!”

  “I know. I know, Your Majesty, but…but…” Another spate of coughing, another deep draught of wine. “Forgive me. But His Reverence has documents, Bryalt prophecy. In every point, the lord of Amefel fulfills every point of them.”

  “The Quinaltine is promoting a Bryalt prophet?”

  “Listen to me, Your Majesty! The stricter doctrinists—”

  He was wrong to have baited the Holy Father. The old man was greatly agitated, having come here straight from conference with the Amefin father, which might not be the most prudent course to have taken. It was reckless—counting disaffections within the Quinaltine itself. “Sip the wine for your throat, Holiness, and give me the straight of it. I won’t spread it about.

  The doctrinists. Is it Ryssand’s priests stirring this up?”

  The Holy Father shook his head and sipped the wine. He was calmer. A hectic flush had come to his white, water-glazed face, while his hair had begun to dry to a wild nimbus in the fire’s warmth.<
br />
  “Not Ryssand’s urging. Not Ryssand alone. They are patrons of some of the doctrinists, but so are Nelefreissan, Murandys…all the north.”

  “I am aware.”

  “I am an old man. They’re waiting for me to die.”

  “They can go on waiting.”

  “There’s no debate with these absolutists…and they’re not fools. There’s power…power in their hands while they admit no truth but their own. They wish me dead.”

  “The king wishes you alive. I imagine even Tristen does, no matter what ill you’ve done him.”

  FORTRESS OF OWLS / 357

  “I—!”

  “You have the Patriarchate, Holiness. Use it! Be rid of these priests! You have the electors!”

  “I have enough of the electors—but they’re old, too, and divided in their minds. Here we have a displaced patriarch of a provincial shrine, whose authority was not respected, and, having these damning witnesses…witches, Your Majesty…and the people cheering the Sihhë…”

  Idrys had arrived at the door, and at a nod, came in, apprised at least of the last the Patriarch had said. He stood, a bird of ill omen and dark news, with arms folded, rain glistening on the black leather of his shoulders.

  “Well?” Cefwyn asked.

  “The soldiers were legitimately discharged and have written authority to have returned,” Idrys said. “The patriarch of Amefel overtook them after they’d drunk themselves half-insens-ible at Clusyn. He commanded their escort. When the Dragons’

  messenger passed them on the road, they made all haste to overtake him, but His Reverence met with a haystack and a ditch. The Dragons’ messenger not unreasonably thought them bandits and rode for his life.”

  Ludicrous. He could imagine the scene, the descending dark, the patriarch in the mud, the courier, one of the elite regiment, in desperate flight from the patriarch of Amefel.

  “I beg you take this in all seriousness,” His Holiness said.

  “The devout fear this, among the electors, they fear us all endangered by witchcraft and wizardry, and Your Majesty must remember these are honest men, genuinely offended by these goings-on in Amefel…if nothing else.” A cough brought another recourse to the wine cup, which must be nearing its bottom.