Fortress of Owls

by C. J. Cherryh

  And was it lack of courage, he asked himself, that he did not tonight go down and dare that black middle of the eastern hall?

  Was it, instead, prudence, that he did not directly challenge what at the moment was doing no harm…and what had, with the whole town, resisted whatever his foolish curiosity had roused out of the dark.

  He traced the one compromised windowsill, drawing the Line with his finger, and willing it sound and safe.

  Then he could say, with some assurance. “I’m sure now. Go back to bed. Go back to bed, all of you. The threat is gone.”

  The night guards went, quietly and doubtless to talk among themselves once they reached the hall. Uwen’s reflection remained, pale ghost against the dark that now filled the window.

  “I dreamed of Owl,” he said to Uwen. “There’s wizardry abroad.”

  “Aye, m’lord, that I rather guessed.”

  It struck his fancy, Uwen’s quiet humor. It touched his heart with a relief almost to tears, that Uwen still dared deal with him as friend and guide, and he would not profane that offering or examine it.

  “I don’t think it’s a danger tonight.” He turned and faced Uwen’s solid presence with his own, and handed Uwen the sword he held, for he did not trust his own steadiness to sheathe it: his eyes were still bemazed by the vision of Ilefínian and of Henas’amef, and the black banner and the Lines. “Tasmôrden is flying the banner of Althalen.”

  “Is he?” Uwen failed to ask how he had seen that, and simply heard it for the truth. “He ain’t right wise, 402 / C. J. CHERRYH

  then, is he, m’lord? You an’ His Majesty will have summat to say on that score, I fancy.”

  “That we will,” Tristen said, not without thinking of Auld Syes’ birds, and the use to which he had put Althalen’s ruins.

  Tasmôrden thought to claim back or kill those who had fled his brutal seizure of their land; and by that banner Tasmôrden thought to claim not merely the Regency but the High Kingship, the office the Sihhë-lords had last held and which Cefwyn himself did not aspire to hold.

  And did he fly it defiantly above the devastation of Her Grace’s capital and the murder of its citizens?

  “Go to bed,” he said to Uwen. “Forgive me the commotion.”

  “Forgive you, m’lord, when I persuade ye to sleep an’ the whole night turns on its ear? If something’s amiss out there, it certainly ain’t your doin’.”

  “Nor mine. I know now I didn’t draw the lightning stroke on the Quinalt roof. And Cefwyn had to send me here. I had to come. The Quinalt father has gone where he has to go, and Aeself and his company have all come where they have to be.

  Lord of Althalen and Ynefel: that’s what I am.”

  “Spooky to think of, m’lord, an’ odd as it is.”

  “The truth,” he said, with the sudden conviction that all the world would have bent itself to achieve that one thing. He could not resist it any more than he could have resisted Mauryl’s summoning.

  Mauryl’s handiwork? he asked himself. Had it always been?

  Or was it yet?

  “Will ye go to bed?” Uwen asked meekly. “Or dare ye? If ye wish ’t, I’ll watch.”

  It was a draw, his concern, Uwen’s. And after such debate, and thinking on it, he found himself wearier than he had thought, and after many late nights, at last very inclined to sleep, as if he had waited for this

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  event, and now it had happened, he could let go.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I will.”

  “Ye’re sure.”

  “I am sure. Good night to you. A peaceful night.”

  “An’ to you, m’lord.” Uwen remained dubious. He wished Uwen a peaceful night, wished it with wizardly force, so that he hoped Uwen would sleep soundly and take no chances with such things as wandered the night.

  He himself went back to bed—Orien’s bed, Heryn’s bed, he could never forget it, and the dragons loomed above him with claws outstretched and brazen wings spread.

  Dreaming of Owl was better than some dreams, and better than the lack of them, for he had no imagination of the time to come, such as he understood Men had: it was his misfortune to see only time present and the recollections of his brief year thus far, but any notion of where he was going, any imagination of the year after this still appeared to him in conjectures and fragments, and he had no notion how much Men knew of their life to come.

  An unwritten slate, Mauryl had called him once; and in some regards that was still so, and truths were still finding space in the blank ground.

  Perilous to write on, Mauryl had said that of him, too, but many people had written their truths in his heart: Mauryl, Emuin, Cefwyn…Uwen, even, and Tassand, and Lusin and the rest. Crissand. Orien Aswydd, in her way. And Ninévrisë. It was why he gathered up Aman and Nedras, the gate-guards, and young Paisi, whose wizardry was a candleflame in a strong gale, and apt to go out if he ventured away from safe walls, or flare up in wizardous fire if he someday touched the right substance.

  There was Cook, who had fed him, Haman, who had provided him an example of honest work and good 404 / C. J. CHERRYH

  management…all these men and women who had given their skills to him, now he ruled, and managed, and attempted to manage wisely and honestly.

  He had stood on a hill in Guelessar not so long ago wondering what it would be to remember far back in years he did not have; and what it would be like to imagine forward from the moment of his standing on that hill.

  He could not have imagined this, or ever foreseen that he would return here.

  He still could not imagine with complete confidence that he would see the spring, or that the Zeide and Henas’amef would not swallow him down in its long memories.

  Had not Emuin said that the Midwinter was the hinge of the year, when all things done turned again and the year began to fold back on itself? Then, if ever, did not magic have its moment, when all things swung into a new path and all things were possible?

  And in mid-spring, his year of life would be complete. And would he have another? Despite Emuin’s assurances, it was never promised him. Mauryl had called him into the world in spring and by summer he had done all that Mauryl purposed…had he not?

  Had he not? Or was it still shaping itself, and moving through the world?

  The gray space roiled gently with Emuin’s contemplation of that question, and of him.

  But Emuin said not a word to him of why all the wards of the town had flared at once.

  INTERLUDE

  Stitch and stitch, pearls and more mounds of blue and white…since Murandys’ colors, blue, the Quinalt sigil on a white field, bend or, were very like those of Ninévrisë’s own house of Syrillas. None of the stitchers, inching their way pearl by pearl across plains and hills of satin, could miss the irony in that coincidence.

  Least of all did Ninévrisë miss it. She dreamed at times of the more pleasant hours of her own preparation, and the candlelit glow of her wedding in the great, echoing Quinalt shrine.

  Luriel of Murandys, applying cordings to a satin sleeve, maintained her delicate posture between affront to her former betrothed’s wife and praise of the lordly bargain she had in her current betrothed…wise, since the gentleman’s sister, Brusanne of Panys, was seated close by her, another and prior member of their small society. Luriel professed herself utterly charmed by Rusyn of Panys…had never, in fact, considered him as a suitor, but now that he put himself forward, why, he was fine and handsome and witty, he had become quite the young man, and she thought she might be falling in love…an extravagance of charity, perhaps, but a brave effort.

  The peaceful meetings would have been intolerable if Luriel were a fool, but she was not, thank the gods.

  Nor did Ninévrisë intend to be one. If jealousy reared itself in her heart it was not because Cefwyn had ever loved this lady—in fact she was convinced that Cefwyn had never cared for Luriel at all beyond the chivalry he had for all ladies who had ever drawn

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  his eye. The marriage he had almost made with Luriel had been an affair of state, the same necessity Efanor now faced—and if Ninévrisë was jealous, it was jealousy that this bride of a minor noble, while she drew the inevitable darts of Bonden-on-Wyk, seemed so in command of the court…her court. That was a situation she had not foreseen, and one which she meant to remedy, but had not yet discovered how.

  Stitch and stitch, and tongues flew rapid as the silver needles, la! the sins of Artisane, the ambitions of Artisane, the onetime leader of the malice in the court, were now under intimate examination. The ladies smiled to Luriel’s face, gossiped absent Artisane to her least flaw of taste and wit, and the barbs sped.

  And believe that Artisane was the only subject of their talk?

  No. Ninévrisë was sure there were other topics…the only pillar of sober sense in the women’s court being Dame Margolis, the armorer’s lady, who would say the truth, and the honest truth, and tolerate none of the more wicked gossip.

  Of course, it meant when Margolis was in attendance one learned less, too…and by now the rumor of a royal message to Ryssand had broken in various houses, with a clamor that was worth hearing…if not for Margolis’ presence. All the court was sure this message meant negotiation and reconciliation with the king.

  And that meant all alliances, some newly formed and unprecedented, were now to reconsider.

  Might Ryssand return, and in some chastened new connection to the throne? Might Ryssand have found a means to come back intact, and, la! what might Artisane do, having thus affronted the Royal Consort? Would there be redemption? A nunnery, perhaps? There were shudders at that, for none of these young women fancied the contemplative life, bereft of festi FORTRESS OF OWLS / 407

  vals and dancing…Quinalt that they were, there was not a one who could say what she thought by reason of her philosophy, only by rote learning of what she must avoid.

  Curious, Ninévrisë thought, making small, neat stitches on her rival’s hem. Curious that the soul and sense of all these Quinalt maidens’ morality was not to be seen to love. La! it might be witchcraft that the king had given his bride an acorn as countryfolk did, and witchcraft and wizardry were what the Bryaltines did, oh, and did anyone mark how the Bryalt father ran his fingers round the rim of his wine cup at the feast?

  Her maid had told her that yesterday, since the ladies had not remarked the maid’s presence before they began to talk. In anyone else that gesture with the cup was insignificant: but in Father Benwyn’s case, oh, certainly a strange Bryalt practice, warding his cup from poisons, and, la! who would poison the Bryalt father, who truly was an inoffensive sort…though a heretic, of course. Or nearly so.

  So her maid, Fiselle, a girl of good sense, had reported to her.

  So the days drew on, pearl by pearl, stitch by stitch. She smiled at Luriel every day, and saw troops and bridges to Elwynor.

  Every night was love, unthought and measureless, a warmth of candlelight and a lover’s passionate embrace. They were mad things, she and Cefwyn. They burrowed beneath blankets and invented their own kingdom to explore. Then everything was wonderful.

  But every sun came up on the world and measured it with a cold, wintry eye. She had headaches, and craved raspberries, which could not be had, and did not confess the desire, but measured herself in her mirror and wondered, desperately, to what wild chance of fate she had committed herself.

  408 / C. J. CHERRYH

  Every day her people died and still the needles flew, seeding pearls and schemes in a world of virgins and matrons. Efanor courted Artisane, Cefwyn redeemed Murandys, and rebuilt the walls of his kingdom.

  I bear you no ill will, Ninévrisë had said to Luriel, early in their meeting, in their one conversation on the matter of old loves.

  “Your Grace is generous,” Luriel had said, “beyond all women.”

  And then Luriel had added, in that deadly honesty that partook a little of contempt, “I could not be, were I in your place.”

  It warned her, then and from the start, that neither generosity nor love had made it possible for them to sit side by side. It was that they both were set on separate campaigns, both desperate, both under the weight of censure, both willing to endure any other affront to secure what they wished…and their wishes were not mutually exclusive. On that slender point, peace rested.

  She had not retorted, Because you cannot be generous, you are not in my place…although that was what she thought. Luriel had stinted Cefwyn of her love, her troth, her loyalty, and Cefwyn, not being a fool, had never given her his. Cefwyn could not love this woman, and the closer he had grown to Luriel the more he had known it.

  Ninévrisë had thought that, too, on that occasion, and had not said it.

  But she had taken that conversation for her one moment to tell some truth to Luriel of Murandys. “What I do,” she had said,

  “I do for my husband’s sake. Never mistake my tolerance for folly.” And having said that, she never placed her trust in Luriel.

  Stitch and stitch. In the patterns one could lose oneself. In the making of stitches, small and precise, there was no tomorrow and no yesterday, only the need to count threads and remember.

  The prattle of schemes

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  and suppositions was only idle noise. Outside, the weather spat, and drizzled, then burned bright blue and icy cold. Cravings for raspberries turned to dishes of custard, which she had had as a child, and could not well describe to the cook, though her tongue remembered the taste exquisitely. Custard after custard failed her expectation.

  “Did you hear?” Odrinian came in saying, one morning.

  “Someone painted the Quinalt sigil on the street outside Father Benwyn’s door last night.”

  “Did they?” asked Bonden-on-Wyk.

  “Benwyn will lay a curse on them,” Odrinian said.

  “If he sobers enough,” said Brusanne.

  Ninévrisë had said nothing in this exchange. Glances drifted toward her like moths to the forbidden fire, and hers to them.

  Needles stilled. There was the least hint of fear.

  “He’s not a wizard,” Ninévrisë found herself saying. “No such thing. That’s not right.”

  The silence lasted a moment. They never asked her what it was to be Bryaltine, and in fact she failed to practice the faith in any nightly observances. Benwyn did, nightly visiting the shrine, and having his wine flask with him…but most times being sober, since Idrys had lectured Benwyn very sternly.

  He made fine salves, did Benwyn of Amefel. Bonden-on-Wyk used them. Her feet and hands pained her, and she swore Benwyn had given her more relief than the Quinalt with their charms and herbal baths. But Bonden-on-Wyk did not speak up on Benwyn’s behalf now. Only Margolis said, “Well, painting the sigil on streets is no great respect of the Quinalt, either, is it?”

  “No,” said Ninévrisë, gratefully, “it is not.”

  Tristen had acted recklessly: Cefwyn’s letters advised him so; and so did Idrys, which she hoped Tristen would 410 / C. J. CHERRYH

  heed, but one was never sure with him. News of the schism in the Quinalt frightened her. So much was fragile. Elwynor itself had become fragile, poised on the edge of starvation and dissolution. The prophecy of the King To Come might well be fulfilled in Tristen…she saw the signs, and for that she was also afraid…a selfish fear, she had thought at first; but more and more she knew that there was more than need of Guelessar that had turned Cefwyn from crossing the river last summer’s end.

  That he might fulfill the prophecy was something they shared, and then she had been swept by doubts, one time desiring to be queen and not a stranger in Guelessar, one time asking herself dared she stand in the way of prophecy and was she so great a fool?

  But now when she heard the women talk of attacks on her priest she knew another fear, for nowhere in the prophecy of the King To Come did it promise miracles or even salvation for Elwynor. The King To Come was the H
igh King, the King at Althalen…and Elwynor only a province in his hands, nothing said of its safety or its fate when all was done.

  She spoke for Elwynor itself. She secretly nursed a hope within her, as yet untested.

  Meanwhile Efanor courted Artisane, sending her letters and gifts, and Ryssand remained unprecedentedly quiet, while she knew the Holy Father of the Quinalt pursued debates with priests Ryssand sponsored.

  All these things, all these things, troubled her thoughts when her hands fell idle.

  Her heart and her hopes had soared when she heard that Elwynim, her Elwynim, had found safety with Tristen, but oh, there were dangers still. Spring, spring would bring their answers; and in the meanwhile events proved that in Tristen’s hands the prophecy was a dangerous thing, much as she loved him for his innocence and his devotion to Cefwyn.

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  Now the angers pressed in on her, angers she would have been free to satisfy if they had crossed the river this summer and engaged all of Elwynor without warning.

  And at such moments she wondered if it had not been unwise ever to have entangled herself with the Bryaltines instead of the Teranthines, difficult as that had seemed. Benwyn, poor man, had no understanding of the currents that swirled about him.

  Angry Guelenfolk painted signs at his door. They gossiped about him.

  The rare times she had ever talked with the man, it was not philosophy or religion, but herb lore out of Elwynor, and the obscure history of the shrine in Amefel. The sad truth was Benwyn well knew he was hated, and drank when he must face roomfuls of good Quinaltines.

  Consequently he drank often…not the wisest solution, but then, if Benwyn had been wise, he would have confined his ministry to Amefel and not been the only Bryalt priest in Guelessar.

  While she, if she were wise, would have bowed her head and accepted the Teranthine compromise, and never accepted this priest, near as he was to her father’s observances. She saw now what a difficulty it was to force Ylesuin and Elwynor into union, and she knew that if there could not be a peaceful compromise of the Guelen clergy, Ylesuin itself might be rent apart. As might she.