Round and round they went, one dance and another, until the music ran down, quite, until the dancers were out of breath, and he and his bride were in the center of the floor, all eyes toward them.
He had stolen an acorn from an oak bough, in the festoons and boughs about the columns as they passed. He gave it to his bride, with a bow, the finish of the dance, a Guelen peasant’s gift to his lass in autumn, a wish for prosperity and children. The onlookers, those that could see, hung upon the gesture; and Ninévrisë, knowing or not (though he thought she knew) tucked it in her bosom to the applause of those around.
Applause spread, and whispers. The gesture was unexpected, it was common, daring, and native to their land. The dreaded Elwynim cherished the seed of a Guelen oak, the hope of children, and the old wives and the lords of Marisyn and Marisal and Isin nodded together, smiling, whatever glum thoughts Murandys and Ryssand might hold. The talk among certain lords of the middle provinces would denounce the act, and their ladies would say, Oh, but did you see how they love one another…
Then the lords would be more glum. Nor could he convince himself that he would bend the like of Nelefreíssan, Ryssand, Murandys. The ladies of those
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provinces might laugh and applaud with their sisters of the middle provinces, but they were Guelen, and more skilled than their menfolk at dissembling.
They would have to say to themselves, with barbed jealousy, How beautiful she is!
But later they would say among themselves—his eye caught the unanticipated presence—Did you mark the Patriarch’s stare?
Gods, when had the patriarch decided to attend? And for that exhibition…
Did you see the look on the Patriarch’s face? The word would run the whole town by morning, along with: The king’s brother was not smiling.
Efanor was worried, that was certain.
And when Cefwyn drew Ninévrisë back up the two steps to sit and take a sip of wine, he stared at his younger, his pious Quinalt brother in glaring disapproval of the stiff-backed Quinalt priest who dogged him everywhere; at the Patriarch he dared not glare.
Efanor stared back, but not so fiercely; worried indeed, and seeking to signal him with that glance.
Something was wrong. Cefwyn gave a lift of the chin, a look.
Efanor came up the step and bent close. “The Patriarch is here,”
Efanor said in a quiet voice. “The Quinaltine. A lightning bolt has struck the roof. And a Sihhë coin has turned up in the offering.”
His wits were still reeling from the dance, from the touch of Ninévrisë’s hand, still resting in his, his so-ready distrust of his brother, his repentance of that failing. The significance of the lightning strike was appalling…expensive. A donative for roof repair indeed, at a time approaching winter.
A Sihhë coin. Omen, on penny day. The other words had reached him late.
176 / C. J. CHERRYH
“What damage to the roof?”
“The roof? The sheeting is burned clean through. But the coin…”
“It was not Tristen’s. However it came there, it was not Tristen’s!”
“However it came there, the lightning struck, brother, and the penny offering is tainted. His Holiness has come here…”
“Someone has done this against me and against him. ” Temper had not served their father well. Efanor visibly flinched back, the hapless servants stood appalled; voices stayed scarcely in whispers, as the musicians played a stately madannel.
“They could not manage the lightning!” Efanor said.
“They had already done the other! This is treason. This is treason, and His Holiness damned well knows the likely hands that put that coin there.”
“Brother,” Efanor said, urgently, pleadingly…like looking into a mirror, Efanor’s close presence, the two of them bearded, blond, blue-eyed and royal; but there was only a princely circlet on Efanor’s brow, not the weighty, galling crown, which at this instant was pressing on a throbbing vein. Efanor’s face was going red. So, likely, was his. “In nowise could a cheat manage the lightning! That is somewhat beyond a mortal man, you must admit it. And do not say damned with His Holiness!”
“Tristen did not do this,” Cefwyn said through gritted teeth.
“If it is wizardry, would he damn himself and leave a coin to prove his guilt?”
“I admit I would not think it.”
“No sane man would think it!”
“But what enemy of his in Guelessar would touch FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 177
such a thing? The Quinalt? And there is the lightning. They had turned out the offering. And the lightning struck, just then.”
“Not every enemy of the Marhanen is a Quinalt painted saint, brother, and I would not exclude Sulriggan from this act.”
“He would not! And there is the lightning! ”
“Sulriggan would sell his mother’s bones as relics, never mistake it.” He saw, behind Efanor’s shoulder, His Holiness, Sulriggan’s cousin, ready to approach him, in public. “What have we? A damned procession? Fly the banners, shall we?”
The musicians still played, but the conference on the dais had drawn all attention, and conversation and dancing flagged throughout the hall. The king’s dancing was over if he attended this importunate storm of priestly anguish now.
And if he withdrew prematurely to face some controversy over ill omens and sorcerous miracles, he knew exactly the kind of flutter ready to break forth, the gossip of servants and minor priests who were always in the fringes with ears aprick, and who had stood just near enough, in the way of things. Even his Guard, his faithful Guard, was not immune.
More, he would leave a roomful of the very lords and ladies no other event of the season would assemble until the wedding, lords and ladies who would talk, of course, about the only thing worth their speculation: what the Patriarch had wanted that was so urgent. And about his bride. And about the country dance. And about Tristen…and the coin. And the weather.
Give them the space of a single dance to have the news out of some servant and give them two dances more to have the tale embroidered into sorcerous manifestations over in the Quinaltine, with the smell of 178 / C. J. CHERRYH
Althalen’s haunted fire and his grandfather’s ghost.
He beckoned with a crooked finger, a finger that bore his father’s ring, now his, as the whole burden of Ylesuin was his, and only his. Efanor supported him, Yes, had come to him in this, but Efanor had not used his wits to keep the Holy Father from bringing the matter here, oh, gods, no, Efanor’s ordinarily keen wits scattered to the several winds when His Holiness willed this or wanted that… yes, Your Holiness, gods preserve Your Holiness…kiss your robe, Your Holiness. A year younger than he, Efanor was in his period of youthful credulity, of piety, of devout belief riding hard for a fall: he had spent his own time of easy belief, thank the gods, chasing women and believing himself all-wise, to far greater profit to the realm.
“Your Majesty,” the Patriarch said, trembling: well he might tremble.
“Your Holiness.” He kept his voice low. Even yet, despite the hush, only the servants might hear; and Efanor, leaning close; and Ninévrisë, whose hand he must abandon, sitting beside him, she could hear it all.
“There was…” A monk had attended His Holiness as far as the dais, unbidden, and the Patriarch summoned him—which was no one’s damned right, to summon someone else into the king’s presence; but His Holiness, being overwrought, had the gods to excuse his lèse-majesté. His face remained white and thin-lipped as the monk came near and unfolded a small white cloth which, indeed, contained not the king’s bronze penny, but a silver coin of some age and, indeed, Sihhë origin. The Star and Tower were quite clear to see, age-worn and bright on tarnished metal.
“Distressing,” Cefwyn agreed, “but in nowise attributable to the lightning.”
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“The coin appears as what it truly is, Your Majesty. It could not maintain a sorcero
us guise in the offering box. The gods—”
“The gods have raised a seasonal storm over our heads, and the banner-tower has been hit at least six times in my recollection, so why not the Quinalt roof? That it coincides with a sly act of treason—which is what this is, Holy Father—is happenstance. It was a terrible crack—we heard it here, and more than one; but you are not a man to jump at a stroke of thunder. I’ve known you far steadier. Bear up.”
“Someone has worked sorcery, Your Majesty. The penny is the offering for the roof and the lightning blasted a great hole in it!”
“And whom do you accuse? Make an accusation, Holy Father. Or are we to assume what the dastard that did this wished us to assume? I am defender of the faith. Before you invoke me, be sure, I charge you be sure, or say you do not know.”
The Holy Father knew exactly what was meant on every hand. And there was deep silence.
Cefwyn waved his hand, dismissing monk and coin. “It is not his. I don’t know whose it is, but it is not Tristen’s.”
“Your Majesty—”
“We gave the Warden of Ynefel a penny, a good Guelen penny.”
“The coin then—”
“Dare you say it? Again, be sure. ”
The patriarch took in his breath. “The meaning of it I can name, Your Highness. It’s a curse, a working against the Quinaltine, a strike at the very sanctity of the holy precinct.”
“The meaning is someone who would gain by it, 180 / C. J. CHERRYH
someone wishing to harm me, harm the Lord Warden, and mislead Your Holiness, if it were possible, which I trust it is not, Your Holiness being no gullible or common man.” He spoke sharply, harshly, his tone exactly his father’s when he was crossed: he had that gift, he had the stare, he had been informed of its use since his boyhood, and he used it now like a weapon, knowing with a sinking heart that whatever he did in this hall, gossip was already flying between the Quinalt precinct to the Guelesfort kitchens and it was a short step to every noble house in every province—by fast riders, if they believed the whole of it. The music stopped. The dancers stood waiting, listening, all but leaning forward, awaiting some definition of the moment, some characterization of the news from him and from the Patriarch, the temporal and the spiritual pillars of their lives.
Where in hell was Idrys? His captain had stepped out of the hall, as he was in the habit of coming and going in his duties.
And damned ill timed, this absence.
“I will tell you,” he said to the Patriarch in deadly calm, and the utter stillness as the nobles as one body, on one breath, attempted to overhear their voices. “Some enemy has done this, and if he has employed sorcery—” He gathered all his wits, seeing a hole in the Quinalt roof as not subject to denial, only interpretation. He reaimed the lightning bolt, in a word. “—it came from across the river, as has the hand that did this, no friend of Her Grace, but her bitter enemy. Considering there is Sihhë coinage scattered in hoards all over whatever lands the Sihhë-lords once ruled, why, no great difficulty obtaining such things. But who would do such a thing?” Quiet as his voice was, he let it rise just a little, to give some well-judged reward to the eavesdroppers. “Who would
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practice sorcery against us? Who stands to gain?” Oh, he had his own notions on that score, pious Ryssand not excluded, but he named the ones that served his purpose. “All that might gain by preventing us are across the river, fomenting rebellion against Her Grace and harm against our people, which I will not countenance. The Lord Warden gave the penny I gave him to give, nor has any store of coin at all. I am sure of him. I am sure of my lady. We need look further, to someone both cunning and with something to gain.”
Murmuring broke out, the hindmost of the eaves-droppers wanting to know what was said, drowning all voices. Idrys had come back, thank the gods, using that small door beside the throne by which the king and his intimates might come and go in other than formal entrances; and that look and slight lift of Idry’s head told him that Idrys had news he should hear immediately, and aside, in the room.
Damn, Damn the timing. There was danger here, grave danger: and the heart of Guelessar was not the simple court of Amefel, where the king could do very much as he pleased and know himself upheld by the five barons of the south and the lord viceroy of Amefel, if not by the Amefin peasantry.
But the barons of the north had been his father’s men and would far more gladly have been pious Efanor’s. Here, in extremity, he had to call, not on Cevulirn, who would stand by him with a clear loyalty, but on such pillars of the Quinalt faith as the duke of Murandys, Lord Prichwarrin, accustomed to having his father’s ear for every triviality and resenting him bitterly for refusing to grant him all the favors his father had granted. His grandfather had known how uneasy the crown rested on a usurper; his father had held it more 182 / C. J. CHERRYH
legitimately, but had placated the lords of the north in his reign.
Now they were accustomed to being cajoled, led by their desires and their purses, their pride coddled, their ambitions satisfied, often by the one power that could rule Guelenfolk and Ryssandim alike, the one unifying element in all the provinces.
And that one unifying element was not the Marhanen kings.
It was, and ever had been, the Quinalt, and the Patriarch.
And damned if all the Patriarch’s disposition had not hied him here on the genuine fright of a levin bolt and the mountebank slip of a coin. His Holiness had Efanor unnerved. He could see his brother’s face—insanely gullible where it came to the Quinalt and religion. Where, oh, where, was the brother he had plotted with as a child?
But the lightning stroke, Efanor had said again and again.
But the lightning stroke—
He had to answer the matter. “Your Holiness,” he said, “I shall see you in the privy chamber directly.—Your Grace,” he said to Ninévrisë reaching his hand to hers, where it rested on the arm of her chair. “I shall have the roof patched and someone hanged, if I find the culprit. We have guards to set, and messengers to send to the bridges and the riverward villages in case your enemies have any remote gain in this circumstance. We will not require any long conference to do that.—Ivanor.” He had all attention, and had used it, summoning Cevulirn forward. “At the king’s pleasure, you pipers. Play, play.” He rose, drew Ninévrisë by the hand as Efanor and the priest cleared a seemly path. “Dance. Sip wine. Trust Cevulirn.” He passed Ninévrisë’s hand into Cevulirn’s, a gesture not wasted on the jealous northern barons; and by that transit all FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 183
the display of finery and all the scores of days of women’s work was saved, in his not curtailing the evening. Certainly it was a breach of custom for the festivities to continue without the king, and certainly he dared not set Ninévrisë in any authority over the hall…but the confidence that the matter the Patriarch brought was being answered without an inconvenience to the court brought a relief and if not a mood of outright celebration in the wiser lords present, at least a willingness in the company to maintain themselves assembled and within reach of information. The young, whose whole consideration was very much the dancing, might take the floor with Her Grace and Ivanor.
The musicians limped into unison and the drums struck up a modest paselle. The duke of the Ivanim bowed, Ninévrisë
bowed, and every head in the hall inclined, furnishing his moment of escape as Idrys held the door beside the dais, and his personal guard fell in, quickly.
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Where were you?’ he asked Idrys in displeasure as they walked in the shadows of the passage, His Holiness, with Efanor, being obliged to a more circuitous route to the privy chamber. “More to the point, where is Tristen? Gods give us witnesses. Tell me he is with witnesses the last hour.”
“Tristen is closeted with Emuin,” Idrys hissed back. “Lusin and Syllan are with him. And Uwen.”
Cefwyn stopped so quickly that the guards behind them brought up desperately
short. Idrys was a shadow against the few candles in the privy chamber beyond the tapestried passage, a dark and ominous shadow. It had always been Idrys’ business to know all that went on. And Idrys knew, within the Guelesfort, where Tristen was, and what was happening. But the Quinaltine and its doings were all but impenetrable territory to Idrys’ men.
“Tristen left his apartment,” Cefwyn reiterated.
“With a train of Your Majesty’s guards and his own man all the while. The guards are sitting outside Emuin’s door in his tower. Tristen is inside.”
“Emuin himself is not pure in their eyes. We dare not have this break out. Damn! Where were you? Why did you permit this?”
“I heard the commotion with the Quinalt. The 184
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damage to the place is extensive. And I regret the Lord Warden went to the tower this evening. But that is not the worst. We have a courier from the river. Tasmôrden has moved his army south at dawn today.”
Devastating news. He caught a deliberate, a difficult breath.
“Is that what you were about?”
“I was down in the guardroom, I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.”
Idrys rarely had to. “The shore-fire was lit, one fire, after dawn this morning, and since that hour, a courier has come from the shore to us. We assume the direction of movement is toward Ilefínian, if the observers saw it clearly, if he was not hindered in lighting a second beacon.”
A partisan of Her Grace of Elwynor, on the far shore of the Lenúalim, had risked his life to bring them that much, lighting one of a combination of fires that their posts on this side could see. One fire, southerly, meant alarm and movement toward the south. Gods send mud, was his thought, thick mud with this downpour, on the roads between Tasmôrden and the capital of Elwynor. Gods send sleet and snow and ice to shield Her Grace’s capital. Her partisans would be slaughtered to a man once Tasmôrden breached the gates and got into the town: few of her supporters could maintain their secrecy, though the wiser ones would hie them out the gates and southward as fat as they could. And if the Elwynim rebels had moved and (considering Efanor’s damned levin bolt) if sorcery had risen in very fact, and ridden this storm—then gods save them.
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