Fortress of Eagles

by C. J. Cherryh

  “I think you wished me to win,” Tristen said.

  “No such thing,” Emuin said peevishly, and drank a sip more autumn ale. “Set up, set up. Another round.”

  Tristen set up the counters again.

  “Clever of you,” Emuin said, sounding unhappy. “Vastly clever.”

  “If you had rather set aside—”

  “No, no, no, I enjoy a challenge.”

  Emuin was peeved, all the same. And had not seemed entirely surprised until the fifth, sixth, and seventh captures all in one: at that finish, the old man had sat back in his chair, glaring at the board with a slight

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  squint, as he did at times at his scrying bowl.

  Tristen set up quickly, and let master Emuin take the red side this time.

  “Learning quickly, we are,” master Emuin muttered, making his initial moves.

  “I do try, sir.”

  Emuin shot him one of those looks from under his brows.

  The noise from the square below the Guelesfort had been quite loud during the game. Now it had fallen away to a hush. Their candle had burned to the half and the fire sunk in the grate. It was a moment in which all the world seemed to be the round walls, the table, the light on Emuin’s face.

  “So do we all, lad,” Emuin said to him. “So do we all make honest effort, but you are a clever lad in spite of us all.”

  “I had no wish to win, sir.”

  It made Emuin laugh, the crashing together of a thousand wrinkles, and then a quick settling. “It is no contest, else. I know my measure. Learn yours. You will not learn it by cheating for my side, young lord. Play your own.”

  He felt a heaviness in the air then, as if the room had swung round, as if the heavens had wheeled full about, not that a thing was true now that had not been true a moment before, but that he sat at a further remove from the world, looking on a small stone room, piled high with clutter, at a young man and an old one, with a board on the table between them, and all at once the banging of the door below, the clatter of his guards getting to their feet outside and challenging someone.

  Emuin looked toward the door with a playing piece in his hand, and paused. Whoever had come had engaged Uwen and the guards quietly, after clumping

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  up the stairs, and then the latch of the door moved.

  An officer had arrived: Pryas was his name, a king’s messenger.

  “Your lordship,” the man said, and already Tristen had begun to rise from his chair, with the sure foreboding that something had changed in his quiet existence, and that some disaster had befallen. “Your lordship, His Majesty bids you know, although he has had no time to set his seal to it as yet, your lordship is made duke of Amefel, and set over that province, your lordship to be provided troops and staff, wagons and guards, horses to a sufficient number, and all honor. Your lordship must swear to His Majesty tomorrow noon for Amefel, with public ceremony, and depart for your lordship’s capital the same hour.”

  He heard. He felt the wood of the chair under his right hand.

  He was aware of Emuin getting to his feet. Of Uwen regarding him with fear. There was no hint now that Uwen might have drunk any great deal, neither he nor Lusin nor his other guards.

  “How shall I answer?” he asked Emuin, not that he was unwilling to obey Cefwyn, but that the implications of the moment stretched beyond his understanding.

  For two months Amefel had been under the king’s viceroy, Lord Parsynan, and Cefwyn had declined to depose Lady Aswydd in her exile, refusing to change that arrangement to a permanent grant of the province, refusing to decide on any claimant.

  And what of Lady Orien Aswydd? Some had said she should be beheaded. Her brother had been beheaded and burned for his crimes, and Lady Orien was far from innocent of malice against the Crown. Had Cefwyn decided, then, she should die?

  He would be very sorry if that were so.

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  “I shall not advise you,” Emuin said.

  At the same time there arose a great deal more clatter below.

  More men were coming up the winding stairs, and there was no way for more than two men to occupy any step or for more than three to stand in the doorway, even sideways.

  “There’s Annas come in below, m’lord,” Uwen said. “An’

  two of His Majesty’s pages.”

  “His Majesty’s staff,” Pryas said, “His Majesty’s officers to arrange the wagons and all, as many as necessary, all His Majesty’s household to assist your lordship in the particulars and orders tonight”

  “I shall pack, then,” Tristen said, envisioning taking Petelly and Gery, his two light horses, and a bundle of clothes, with Uwen—Uwen would go with him, he was sure of that. But troops and staff, wagons and guards? The enormity of the undertaking began to dawn on him. Should he have Tassand, then? Would he have to leave his servants behind? They were a presence he had come to rely on, even to enjoy for their wit and their company.

  And What would he tell the viceroy in Amefel? That he was dismissed? Or what would become of Orien Aswydd and her sister?

  “Pack, is it?” Emuin said in a faint voice. “Pack, should we?”

  “Shall you go, sir?”

  “pack. Pack for the god’s love! Yes, I shall go. How should I not go? Sends us to Guelessar for two months and sends us back again in a thunderstorm…what in the god’s good mercy is the boy doing?”

  He meant Cefwyn. Emuin was never much on protocols.

  “Do you know why we’re sent, sir?” Tristen asked FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 211

  of the king’s herald, and the man answered quietly,

  “On account of the Quinalt roof, your lordship, as seems likely, but I have no word from His Majesty, except that we need a count of wagons from your lordship, how many your lordship may require.”

  The Quinalt roof, Tristen thought, and when he asked himself what might involve both the Quinalt roof and his sudden dispatch to Amefel, as Emuin had said, in a thunderstorm, then he knew indeed that he great clap of thunder had been more than noise.

  Amefel, then. But it was not as bad as could be. The king was safe. He could not feel any joy in his appointment, nor quite sorrow, either, at being sent south. But Men said winter was a season of little traveling. He contemplated the pieces on the board, thinking that the king had just moved pieces, too, in a strategy directed steadfastly at freeing Elwynor and defeating Tasmôrden. And that was well, too, and he was glad of it.

  He saw movement as on a battlefield. Danger came clear to him, danger in his separation from Cefwyn, and that distressed him; yet there was nothing he could do. He had deluded himself two nights ago with hope of change back to the way things had been, with hope of being invited again into closeness with Cefwyn, and with Ninévrisë, and now, unexpectedly—this.

  But as on a battlefield or a gaming board, not every movement needed be straight to the mark. Many games could come of a fixed number of squares. And not all moves were down a straight line.

  “I shall have your answers, sir,” he said to Pryas, “at least I shall send word about the wagons when I’ve asked my staff.”

  “Your lordship,” Pryas said, and took his leave, as 212 / C. J. CHERRYH

  quietly as a man could on a stairs crowded with his guard.

  But Annas came up then to fill the vacancy, informing him of a thousand things that had to be done immediately. Emuin was clearly distressed, fussing about, putting charts into stacks.

  So all that the two of them had done or thought of doing was upended, every plan set aside. He would not march with the king to the riverside this winter, or even in the spring. No.

  Far from it, he would be in Heryn Aswydd’s place. He would be in charge of the province the Guelenfolk least trusted—and he knew the histories of lords, the bloody necessities, the cruel certainties. He had felt them Unfold to his comprehension as war and the use of a sword had Unfolded to his hand, an
d he knew the duty that was set on him. It rose up like dark waters, it flowed over him, a necessity, a charge from a friend, a duty to the Amefin villages, the people of the town. Cefwyn made this duty his. And could he do otherwise, now, than go to Amefel?

  Annas talked to him of the necessity for provisions, clothing, the ordering of his servants, the staff that he should take with him, rather than relying on the Amefin, who had been restive and uncooperative with the king’s viceroy. He should have his own cook, his own pages, all these people brought in from Guelessar. So Annas said.

  “The cook in the Zeide was very kind to me,” he said quietly and in absolute certainty. “I have no wish for any other. And if I am duke of Amefel,” he said to Annas, “should not the pages all be Amefin?”

  Annas fell silent then a moment, as if he were thinking and rethinking his needs. And remeasuring him. “Still,” Annas said,

  “you will keep Tassand.”

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  “I would wish to keep Tassand,” he said, heartfelt truth. “And Uwen will go with me. I would wish Uwen to go.”

  “No question of that, m’lord,” Uwen said, and he had had no doubt of it. But as regarded the rest, Tristen stood in the mad whirl of change and preparation, feeling by no means as lost or as desperate as he had been in the fall of Ynefel, but feeling that bits and pieces were falling about him all the same, the second home he had had, as it were, falling in ruin and broken timbers—but this time he was no lostling, bewildered by the world. This time he knew where he was going and what his resources were.

  He went down to his apartment, Uwen and Lusin and Syllan with him, to find it in as great an upheaval.

  “Your lordship,” one of his night guards said, red-coated men of the King’s Guard, whom they had left to stand duty by the doors, “there’s His Majesty’s servants here, sir.” This last to Uwen, who was in charge, and sobered but reeking of holiday ale.

  The door was by that time open. “M’lord,” Tassand said, at the door, and by Tassand’s tone and the presence of the king’s servants going to and fro in the apartment, along with the disarrangement of clothes out of the bedroom and onto the chairs, packing was in progress. Clearly the message had reached his servants.

  He sat after that in an apartment rapidly ceasing to be his, in every bundle carried out to the wagons. His tenure in the Guelesfort and his safety in Cefwyn’s company was likewise ending…piece by piece, like the fall of the stones, the little ones, the great ones. It still felt

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  like ruin, and everything he had planned had to be questioned.

  Then Idrys came, slipped right through his defenses and into the apartment, and turned up leaning in the doorway to his bedchamber.

  “Sir,” Tristen said, all attention, and rose to deal with him, for Idrys was always on the king’s business, whether or not Cefwyn knew about it.

  “Your Grace,” Idrys said. “His Majesty will not come here, must not see you, you understand. There are those who will notice, if he should.”

  “I understand, sir. Bear him my goodwill.”

  “I shall. By my orders you will have Captain Anwyll with you. Rely on him.”

  Tristen frowned, no disrespect of Captain Anwyll, who was an honest, good man; but for Uwen’s sake. “Uwen will be enough, sir. He will be entirely enough.”

  “For Uwen’s sake, take Anwyll to command the Guard at least through the winter. This is my advice, and no slight to your man.”

  Idrys asked nothing for personal reasons, and had no reason to prefer Anwyll for his own advantage. But it was still unacceptable.

  “Uwen is my captain,” Tristen said, “if I am to have a household. I shall take Captain Anwyll only if he respects Uwen, sir.”

  “Who is a sergeant come captain in a great hurry and who has done very well in all of it. I say nothing against Uwen Lewen’s-son. But to keep accounts you will need men, both military and civil clerks; you will need a quartermaster; an armorer—master Peygan can recommend a man.”

  “I shall take master Peygan’s advice,” he said. He ill liked to dispute Cefwyn’s word. But he had arranged in FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 215

  his own mind how things should be. “The rest will be Amefin, sir.”

  There was a small silence in which Idrys looked him up and down. Idrys had taken his measure before this, and spoke to him frankly, as he would never discourage Idrys from doing.

  But he did not wish Uwen countermanded by a newly appointed Guard captain who was, he was sure, Idrys’ man.

  “His Majesty has appointed a duke of Amefel, then,” Idrys said with a look that did not disapprove him, but that was much more guarded than before. “His Majesty regards you as his friend, sir. I trust that remains true, and will remain so.”

  “With all my heart, sir. I should never do anything to displease him.”

  “His friends must displease him,” Idrys said. “Few others will.

  Say rather that you will keep your oath to him, and that says all. It even explains why you must leave court and the likes of Sulriggan may return.”

  “He will not, sir!” He was appalled. “Has His Majesty recalled Sulriggan?”

  “The final price for His Holiness’s blessing tomorrow. Sulriggan will return into the sunlight of His Majesty’s favor…” Idrys’

  sarcasm was rarely so evident, and Idrys’ grim look rarely so transparent. “His Majesty might pack off the lot of them, ten to a bundle, and keep you by him, but that would mean war with the Quinalt, which is not to any advantage just now. I’m giving Captain Anwyll strict orders, and all honor to Uwen Lewen’s-son, whom I may not order, I am giving him the benefit of my opinion relayed through a man I trust. I would have kept Emuin here, next to His Majesty. My choice was not regarded. His Majesty must not have any loud commotion arising out of

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  Amefel, and, I entreat Your Grace, there must be no dealings across that border with Elwynor. Satisfy those two conditions and you will do His Majesty a very great service.”

  “Earnestly so, sir. He explained to me the reasons for proceeding next spring with an advance from Guelessar. You did overhear.”

  “I did. Gods know there are worse choices to set over Amefel, far worse. Beware of Aswydd influences, have none of that house near you, have your food tasted, and do not be misled by plausible villains. Spend modestly, but for the gods’ good grace, attend Bryalt ceremonies faithfully and speak with all courtesy to the Quinalt patriarch in Henas’amef. Give a donation to the Quinalt shrine. The man’s a sullen prig, but you’ll serve His Majesty if the reports that go back from that priest to the Holy Father contain no wild speculations on sorcery.

  Don’t let the hedge-wizards sell their charms in the market. It sets the Quinalt’s teeth on edge. I ask all this for His Majesty’s sake. Neither I nor His Majesty care how many charms against toothache the old women sell. Only don’t have them hung openly in the market, or worn on the street, or the rumors will fly that you promote Sihhë wizardry and practice gods-know-what in private. Take master grayfrock’s advice in all things.

  His Majesty will sorely miss it. Someone should use it.”

  “Emuin will not give it me when I ask.” He understood what Idrys was telling him, and earnestly agreed with the sense of his advice; but it was a point of frustration with him that he had no advice from master Emuin, and yet the man was up in his tower sending down bundles, baskets, and crates, protesting that the night was too short and never offering to stay in FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 217

  Guelemara to safeguard Cefwyn. “I never asked him to go with me. Yet he will. He will not advise me. Yet insists on going.”

  Idrys frowned, hearing that. “Well,” he said, “well, at noon tomorrow, in the Quinalt, roof or no roof, advice or no advice, you will swear for Amefel. There will be appropriate ceremony, the town turned out. His Majesty is doing this in full witness of the barons, compelling His Holiness to hold the ceremony and the barons to st
and and pray over it. If you have any governance over the lightning, Your Grace, I pray you keep the roof from further damage tonight. We already have Sulriggan back among us. His Majesty pleads with you to assure no untoward events between now and the ceremony. And let us enjoy clear weather if you can manage it.”

  “I have no governance over the weather.”

  “A jest, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir. But you should know—you must know: the Lines in the place are set amiss.” He wished to keep no secrets from Idrys, whose opinion of him had survived the direst suspicion, and he knew he could not affright the man. “And there are shadows, many of them. But I have no sense that they have broken out. The lightning bolt will have been a disturbance to them, but I have no sense that it made matters worse.”

  “The lines are set amiss,” Idrys repeated.

  “The Lines that keep shadows in their places. All that keeps a place safe.”

  “Is it urgent?” Idrys, of all men, was ready to listen to his estimation of threat, and he was careful, accordingly, not to give a false sense of alarm.

  “I don’t think so. I have no sense that they’ve gotten out, or that they might, easily. The walls are intact.

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  Ynefel had many holes in the roof, and they never mattered.”

  “At Ynefel, you say.”

  “Only the windows. And the doors. When it fell…” He never liked to remember that, the wind and the wailing and the groaning of timbers. And the silence after, with the occasional fall of heavy beams. “But the shrine will not fall. I don’t feel there’s danger of that. I shall swear to Cefwyn. I shall be his friend. I shall hope—” He had not said it aloud since he had heard the news. “I shall hope he will call me back again, in the spring.”

  “He will need all his friends,” Idrys said soberly, “but tell me, Amefel, since Amefel you will be, and Ynefel you are, and I certainly do not forget the latter, these days—what little shall I do, against lightning bolts? How does one defend him against wizardry?”

  “Latch the windows,” he said, then remembered a Man could rarely see the Lines on the earth, and smiled, as Men did at foolishness. “Leave nothing unattended. It comes most by carelessness, most especially when the wizard is far away or weak.”