That hung in the air, and occasioned immediate reconsiderations and retrenchment: “Your Majesty is in our devotions constantly. We only suggest possibilities.”
“We value your goodwill, Holy Father.”
“And who will say, if this is sorcery, that there may not be another, fatal attempt? if it is sorcery that directed the lightning, I pray Your Majesty come to sober thought that, as you may believe, I did not direct it. Your Majesty wishes a wedding free of omens. I cannot again countenance the banners in the holy sanctuary, my lord king!”
“You cannot countenance!”
“In the name of the gods, I cannot countenance them. The gods bless and keep Your Majesty and Her Grace of FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 197
Elwynor. The Tower and Checker will have our blessing. But I cannot abandon every principle of the faith! Even the Star and Tower we will bless at need…and, yes, defend as an ally, perilous though it be.” Was it a shudder he saw? Had the man sensibilities and scruples after all? “But not in every service, on every holy day dare we keep that banner in the sanctuary, Your Majesty. We dare not provoke wizardry to cross the river, if wizardry it was, as I do very much fear. And alliance with the Lord Warden may cost us far more than we yet reckon. These things have a cost!”
Fear. There was the word. His Holiness was not the young priest who had stood with his grandfather, or exorcised ghosts from the Guelesfort stairs.
Cefwyn stared at him in bleak consideration, leaned forward, chin on fist, and stared longer.
And longer, while his heart beat hard with anger and his eyes refused to see except through a dark pall. Something thumped into place; it felt that way. Safety for Tristen—power to his southern lords—comeuppance for Ryssand.
“Amefel is vacant,” he said at last, out of that moil of shadow, and saw his brother open his mouth.
And shut it.
“Tristen might do very well in Amefel,” Cefwyn said with a deeper breath, and leaned back in the seat of judgement, regarding all before him. “What says Your Holiness?”
“To make this creature lord of a province?”
“He is already lord of Althalen and Ynefel, within the selfsame province. You wish no untoward doings; I wish a peaceful wedding and an end of talk about the roof. Dare we agree that we agree?”
Again, a hesitation. A quaver in the voice. A man 198 / C. J. CHERRYH
who had danced with lightning was, whatever his other faults, grateful for simple things. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Never mistake me,” Cefwyn said, and left a long silence.
“Never mistake me, Holy Father. As I shall never mistake you.
We each have our domains. Never cross into mine.”
Stare met stare. But the Patriarch did not state the converse.
There was a measurable difference, then, in what they dared.
He had, he hoped, just made that everlastingly clear. And he would have himself, wed, and Tristen—
Tristen.
“Tomorrow,” he said. Wounds were best done quickly, thoroughly. He had no wish to contemplate the issue. And knew what he had done, in anger and what he had to do, for a winter’s peace. And did his enemies know, as Idrys knew, what Tristen was? “Tomorrow, in the Quinaltine, he will swear.
Roof or no roof you will witness his oath.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good rest, Holy Father. I trust you have adequate escort.
A wrap against the weather outside.”
“Completely adequate,” the Patriarch said, and took the cue, saying nothing regarding prophecies, Kings to Come, or the Elwynim Regency.
Efanor saw the Patriarch as far as the door, but he lingered.
Idrys did not remotely think of leaving.
“My lord king.” Idrys broke the silence. “Amefel?”
“Tristen has a chance,” Efanor cried, “a mere chance, to rescue his soul. And you are damning him! You are giving him over to a sorcerous province, where he has no shield but magic, when here he had a chance at holiness!”
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This last was a curious proposition, the only genuine question of faith he had heard in the last quarter hour. The first was only the surface of the question that ran, at depth, Has my king taken leave of his wits?
“Where else can I secure him a livelihood, if you please?
Ynefel and Althalen are ruins. I have him where my servants and my guards can provide for him…but that also places him near me, near Ninévrisë, near very sensitive matters. I can call him back at need. I shall call him back, and meanwhile I provide him a banner they cannot fault.”
“Many another man in difficulty,” said Idrys, “one appoints a small pension and a village sinecure. A province does seem extravagant.”
It was perhaps the measure of his mood tonight that only Idrys could set him in a better humor. And Idrys did not say the half of what he was sure was on Idrys’ mind.
“He cannot fend for himself,” Efanor said. “How can he manage a province two hundred of the king’s best troops cannot keep in order?”
“And where else shall he be safe?” The temper rose again.
“If you were less familiar with priests and more with me, brother—” No, that was not fair. “Forgive me. But this entire business is connivance.”
“The lightning stroke—”
“Bother the lightning stroke! It happened and that old fox had already planned to trot out that blaspheming coin! I’ll warrant he had one in the hoard he keeps, his own coffers.”
“Brother, that is blasphemous.”
“Mark me, mark me, that is a villainous man. You heard him.
I shall have my wedding if I banish Tristen. Does that measure the true depth of his conviction?
200 / C. J. CHERRYH
Mark the day. I shall have within a fortnight a request for his cousin Sulriggan, his reinstatement in my favor.”
“You need not grant it.”
“Did you not hear? Threats fell left and right. That is a malevolent man, who hounded our grandfather with fear of hell, our father with fear of me, and drove our father to his death with his suspicions, brother! Piece the account together, for the gods’ love! Our father would not have trusted Heryn Aswydd if he had not trusted the Holy Father first.”
“That is extravagant.” Efanor’s face was white as death.
Efanor had seen the Holy Father at his political worst and heard the truth tonight.
“Words kill, brother. They need not be sorcerous.”
“But the lightning stroke, I say—”
“Brother,—”
“My lord king,” Idrys said in his calm, even voice, “the court, meanwhile, will be in doubt.”
The hall and the dancing. He drew a breath. “Brother,” he said more moderately, even pleadingly, “open your eyes. I grant you your lightning bolt if you grant me that this coin is political, not godly, and we are in mortal danger of this man’s ambitions and his determination to keep what power he has. Your priest may be godly. But the Patriarch is no honest priest.”
“I think you provoked him too far, sir.”
“I? I provoked?”
“My lord king,” Idrys said.
“We have the court to settle,” Cefwyn said, shoving aside all fruitless argument. “My decision stands. Lord of Amefel, successor to the Aswyddim, him and his issue, as they may be, in fealty to the Crown, which he will freely swear. Idrys, send a messenger to him; send to the Patriarch, officially, that tomorrow after
FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 201
noon come wrack, come ruin or a hole in the Quinalt roof, we will stand before the altar, that the banner of Amefel will stand there above those of Ynefel and Althalen, which will be all the comfort we afford His Holiness, and the court will attend in their goodwill on such an occasion.”
He rose, then, and in Efanor’s shocked silence led the way back through the short passage and into the warmth and motion and music of the royal ball.
He
had resumed his perch on the stone-propped seat, alone, before the musicians saw him and tinkled to a stop, with the dancers.
He stood up. The dancers bowed. The one whose head only nodded was Ninévrisë, who came to his outstretched hand, Cevulirn attending her, and received his smile…on which he was conscious the whole room hung.
He handed her toward her seat: she stood beside him.
“The Quinalt roof is not as serious a matter as one might have feared,” he said, and with coldest, most matter-of-fact address of policy, he let his face frown. “But it was meant by Her Grace’s enemies to be far more serious than it was. Sorcery has done its worst, and now, with the Patriarch’s blessing, we shall answer it. We shall ask the Lord Warden of Ynefel to march south to bring Amefel into our hand and to give these sorcery-dabbling rebels a pause for reflection the winter long.
To that intent, with the Patriarch’s blessing—” How he loved taking the Patriarch’s name in vain! “—we create him duke of Amefel and grant him all titles the Aswyddim held. And, with the Patriarch’s blessing, we bid him hold the southern marches.”
In the general impression, by his fondest hopes, it was now 202 / C. J. CHERRYH
not for the Lord Warden to defend himself against charges of sorcery, but for the Lord Warden to deal with all such sticky questions of sorcerous attacks, as was the Lord Warden’s post when Mauryl had held it. He had, at a stroke, settled Tristen in the one place he had never considered it possible to settle any friendly lord, but where it was most reasonable to settle Tristen, in a land which would welcome him, at a moment when the court, reeling from sorcery, wished protection of a sort that might be effective, but not in their witness.
And in a place where prophecies and sorcery could do their worst: win his love, Emuin had advised him.
There was confused approbation from the young, there were far more sober looks from the old, and perhaps even looks of relief in several faces, Murandys and Ryssand chief among them, who were glad to have the Lord Warden south of them, or in hell, whichever would come soonest. They had won their assault…the king’s friend was leaving. But the king, let them realize it soon, was not pleased with them.
He sat down. Ninévrisë sat beside him.
“Are things as well as that?” she asked softly, who did not know her capital was under attack, and he held her hand and kept a pleasant face to the court, as he waved them to resume their dancing.
“Be brave. Tasmôrden has moved on the capital.”
There was silence. The fingers in his clenched slowly, but he trusted she kept her serenity, as he trusted her in all things else.
“There is no other word from the river,” he said. “Meanwhile the Quinalt roof has a hole in it and the Patriarch calls it sorcery. I am sending Tristen south for all our safety.” He almost said, until the wedding, and then with full force it came to him that, while the
FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 203
appointment at last gave a friend an income of his own and a living land to stand on, it entailed obligations that would keep Tristen from court for far more than a season, if he saw to them in earnest. Win his love, Emuin had advised him. And Emuin himself would not oppose the force that Called a Sihhë-lord from the grave.
Knowing Tristen as he did, yes, Tristen would indeed take those obligations seriously. When had Tristen ever failed an obligation, once he had taken it up? It came to him, among other, more tangled considerations, that he might not so easily get his friend back once he had sent him out—and that thought afflicted him with a sudden melancholy.
Of course he had Tristen’s friendship. Of course he had his loyalty. That was unquestioned. Of friends he had ever had, there was none so sudden, so close, so maddening…none had made such a place in his heart as Tristen had, none ever let him rest so confident as he did, that he could neglect Tristen even a little and take him up again, as bright, as faithful as in the summer—or send him into the heart of wizardry and get him back again untarnished. Of course he could rely on Tristen.
Of course they would always have their friendship. Of course Tristen could come back again, when court was gathered about the king—and if Tristen did rise to rule Elwynor, why, what loss? His bride, all his, her home unharmed, but her loyalty turning entirely to him. That, with Tristen for an ally, a loyal man. It was beyond planning, now. He had advanced the first piece on the board.
But if Ilefínian fell easily to Tasmôrden’s forces and left time before the snows, and if Tasmôrden had some notion of securing southern bridgeheads 204 / C. J. CHERRYH
to outflank Ylesuin’s incursion from the north—two curs chasing each other’s tails, yapping and snapping—why, that lightning strike, if it was Elwynimsent, had just put Tristen square in Tasmôrden’s path. Then let wizardry do its worst; he had no more effective weapon and no stauncher friend.
It still had a cold feeling about it, to have done it all at a stroke, loosing Tristen to do what he would in the south, when he had before this had warnings from Emuin that what Tristen willed to do subtly bent the affairs of other men. Tristen willed very little and had his desires generally satisfied by feeding pigeons.
Dangerous, something still said to him. He should surely have asked Emuin.
And did sorcery strike the Quinaltine and Emuin not send him a warning?
It was the late hour. It was the accumulation of bad news that so set his worst premonitions to wander.
“We must stay an hour, no more,” he said to Ninévrisë. She, better than he, had full cognizance of all it meant when Ilefínian should fall, all the tally of names of men who might be in peril of their lives when Tasmôrden rode in. “Whatever happens, the court must not say we were cast down by the news.”
“This movement of my enemies was almost certain to come,”
Ninévrisë said in a faint voice. Her fingers warmed in his hand, and kept a light hold. “The beacon was lit?”
“That is all we know,” he said. “Idrys is trying to learn more, but there is nothing we can do to prevent Tasmôrden’s march, save hope the skies open and the road bogs.”
“And that certain ones would run for safety,” she said. “But they will not.”
FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 205
“On the other hand,” he said to Ninévrisë, and closed his hand on her fingers which had become rigid, “if there is a bright spot in this, it means Tasmôrden has not lingered to fortify the east shore against our crossing. Tristen coming to the south may disturb his sleep further. I doubt he will have foreseen that. And gods know, Tristen can deal with sorcery.”
“Gods, that we had another month. Or that the snows would come.”
“Gossip be damned. I should get you from this hall.”
“No, my lord. No. Otherwise, I shall have to endure the ladies’ gossip, and their questions. Not yet. Not yet, please you. I wish to be much more settled than I am.” Nails impressed his palm. “On the battlefield one knew one’s enemies. I know them here, but have not a weapon against them, none.”
“Name me them!”
“Oh, Artisane. Artisane, chiefest.”
“Of her I cannot relieve you. Not until—”
“Not until the wedding. Nothing until the wedding. Oh, I mark them down, every one, every petty remark. Men in the field have far more manners.”
“I much doubt it.”
“A man knows there may be blood. These women will shed someone else’s, blithe as jays. Even their fathers they hate. But hate me more. And I endure them. They carry on their Elwynim war with every look, every stitch they sew: ill-wish me? Oh, if they could. And cannot. Clatter, clatter, clatter, the wicked, wicked, foreign woman, and just one petticoat, la! what is one to think?” He heard her second indrawn breath. “If they could sew harm into my wedding gown, they would, ever so gladly.
Every one of them
206 / C. J. CHERRYH
disappointed in their hopes for you, and here am I, the stranger.
I should fear the cups I drink if not for Dame
Margolis.”
“she is a good woman.”
“A good and a brave woman, but her they despise as common. I can do nothing.” The voice he loved, the voice that lifted his spirits, trembled. “Nothing to defend her or myself.”
“After the wedding,” he said in regret. “Then—then they will have affronted me. They should take sober note. Is there no one else you can rely on?”
“None. No one but Margolis. —Perhaps, in small ways, Cleisynde.” There was still a perilous little quaver in her voice, which was a knife in his heart. They had played at ignoring their enemies. He had thought her safe, serene in her wit and her own worth in amongst such little, niggling attacks. He had thought she had ridden above it all, unassailable within the ladies’ court, a battle of petticoats and pearls irrelevant to the damage men did one another in war. She had ridden and camped with soldiers, faced sorcery and ghosts. Needed she guard herself from Ryssand’s sixteen-year-old daughter?
From Artisane’s sallies of wit, good gods? Ninévrisë was Regent of Elwynor.
“Ilefínian,” Ninévrisë said, then, the outwelling of her deepest, most painful thoughts, and her hand felt cold as ice. “Oh, gods save them, gods save them. Ilefínian. ”
C H A P T E R 1 0
In a quick succession of moves, Emuin took three pieces.
Tristen looked at opportunity…regretted winning. It seemed somehow discourteous to the old man. The whole night, since that dreadful shock of thunder, seemed uneasy, tottering with chance and overthrow.
“So?” Emuin asked. The two of them were poised above the scarred board of white wood and red, with counters of opposing color. And the necessity became clear.
Regretfully Tristen skipped his counter from one to the other of Emuin’s pieces, taking every one.
“Oh, pish!” Emuin cried.
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