Fortress of Eagles

by C. J. Cherryh

  against you?

  438 / C. J. CHERRYH

  He found not guile, no guilt. He saw Crissand, a shadowy form in the mist and the roiling cloud. He willed himself closer and was there, and saw Crissand’s distress face-to-face.

  —Your father told you nothing of his dealings. He sent

  your mother to Drumman and prepared to stand me

  off…did he not? Did he not, sir? And how many others

  stood with him?

  Fear washed back at him, a tide through the gray space.

  Crissand attempted flight, but had no skill at all…had never ventured here, clearly so. To have found otherwise would have raised other questions, of wizardry, and theft and knowledge.

  And he meant to know the answers.

  —Mauryl’s letters are gone from the archive and the

  master archivist is dead, the other fled. Do you know

  aught of that, sir, or did your father?

  “M’lord?” Uwen asked.

  —Do you know, sir?

  Fear crashed around him, palpable as the winds. —My lord, Crissand said, and tried to leave his presence, but he did not let Crissand go.

  —Why did your father act? Why did he move when he

  did? Dare you call it chance?

  —To join Elwynor, Crissand said, to join us with Elwynor

  was all his aim. Nothing of the archive, nothing of the

  archivist or of murder, or of rebellion against you, my

  lord, as I live!

  —For all of a day you held the citadel, dispatched

  guards to the gate and knew the content of the king’s

  message. Did you then not know?

  —I had no orders else! Crissand protested. I was to hold the courtyard, I was to hold, and nothing more, my lord. My father had a message…

  FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 439

  “M’lord?”

  Tears shattered the firelight insofar as he was aware of his own body. He would not look at Uwen.

  —Whence a message?

  —Out of Elwynor. I think it was out of Elwynor, my

  lord.

  —Run, he said to Crissand, and the clouds of the gray space were leaden as storm. Run, Meiden, if you are guilty. Run

  where you choose and as far from me as you can.

  Crissand was gone on the instant, fled away of his own volition, but not in fear, now.

  Was it anger? Was it a sense of betrayal matching his own?

  Captain Anwyll had leaned forward in his chair. Uwen had cautioned him with a hand.

  “I think,” Tristen said, catching a large breath, and trying to pretend that nothing untoward had just passed, “I think that Cuthan is a wise man where it comes to his own safety. But if he saw that message, I think Edwyll had no word of it at all until he read the king’s message and knew what Cuthan had done to him.” Anger was growing and growing in him, that a man had sat at his table and been so pleasant, and so false.

  “Ness and his friend, down at the gate, had no forewarning.

  And Edwyll posted them. The town knew nothing. Cuthan knew and warned the rest of the earls, if he warned them at all, only after Edwyll had committed treason. I said, did I not…if Cuthan doesn’t lead, someone does. But Cuthan did not lead. And he made the others afraid.”

  “’At’s possible,” Uwen said. “’At’s well possible. Cuthan never come to the stable yard. Bein’ an old man makes it hard for ’im, but it is to ask why there was only 440 / C. J. CHERRYH

  Edwyll sittin’ up here wi’ armed men. If Edwyll was expectin’

  Elwynim to his relief, they’re late.”

  “Tasmôrden is laying siege to the capital of Elwynor. It was Cefwyn’s attention he wanted southerly at this moment, and long after. But it took more than Edwyll. And Amefel has long dealt with both sides. Tell Syllan take two men of the Dragons, go after Drumman and Azant. Bring them back.” He had a clear notion, now, where Crissand was…coatless, in the street, in the snow, striding straight for the stable-court gate. “Lusin.”

  “M’lord.”

  “Go yourself, with Tawwys. Hold the lord of Meiden at the stable-court gate. And bring him a warm cloak.”

  C H A P T E R 7

  Have great care,” Cefwyn said to Cevulirn.

  “Have great care yourself, Your Majesty.” It was night. The lord of the Ivanim had his guards outside the royal apartment and his horse and weapons were in the hands of loyal men.

  “Your Majesty’s welfare is my concern.”

  “I am wary.” He offered an embrace, and unaccustomed as it was, Cevulirn accepted it, a body stiff with mail and leather and years in the saddle. “I shall miss you. I shall miss you this winter. Thank you for my lady’s sake. We will remember this.

  And we will see you in the spring.”

  “My lord king.” Cevulirn took his cloak from the man who had brought it from his rooms, that and no more. Royal guards stood at Cevulirn’s door, upstairs, protecting it against any other intrusion. Efanor had been closeted with the Holy Father for hours, seeking to secure his support.

  “Fare well,” Cefwyn said, and stood watching as Cevulirn gathered up his guard and walked out the door, leaving a vacancy in the court, a bitterly regretted one.

  Ninévrisë might have wished to come downstairs to this parting. He had set guards there, too, and advised her against it, at a time when news was rush

  441

  442 / C. J. CHERRYH

  ing through late gatherings and convoking councils and speeding by quiet messengers wherever the king’s enemies and friends might gather. Artisane’s whereabouts was a question, with her brother lying dead, but he had ascertained it was not near Ninévrisë, and that was sufficient.

  Now he parted with another friend, and went back to his desk to write a longer missive to his bride, and a request to attend in court tomorrow. There would be questions, quieter ones, he trusted.

  He heard horses come and go on the cobbles outside, heard sleet against the window. It was a hard night to be on the road, and he counted nothing safe until he knew Cevulirn and his well-armed veterans were outside the gates.

  “My lord king.” Annas interrupted his message-writing. The pen had dried in mid-thought. Public acceptance, he had been about to write, before he forgot his phrase. But the ink failed and made only a sketchy line. “My lord king, Lord Corswyndam is on his way, and requests audience.”

  He could deny the lord of Ryssand. He could always arrest Ryssand on no more than his displeasure. But he had to ask himself whether he would have a kingdom the following day, and how many of the northern lords he was prepared to arrest.

  He had executed Heryn Aswydd, deposed and banished his sister Orien, but as duchess of Amefel she had inherited from her brother a dearth of sworn men. Corswyndam, on the other hand, had an army and a bitter grievance, which for cold policy he would almost undoubtedly choose to direct at Ivanor.

  But neither could the king of Ylesuin have two of his provinces at war with one another.

  FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 443

  “I will see him in hall,” he said, and capped the ink. “Advise Idrys.”

  Put on at least a better coat? The Marhanen red, embroidered with gold, perhaps.

  No. He sent a page for the bezainted leather, and his sword, and had put both on by the time Annas reported Corswyndam downstairs, and Prichwarrin and several other of the lords, with more possible.

  “Where is Idrys?” he asked Annas.

  “We’ve not reached him. I beg Your Majesty wait.”

  It was too delicate a balance. “Damn him,” he said, though he suspected Idrys’ absence meant Idrys was at work somewhere urgently and on his business. “This can’t wait.”

  He gathered up his guards, a sufficient number of them. A page ran up, bearing the circlet crown in anxious hands…An-nas’ orders, he was certain; and he put it on, then led on down the hall, thump and clatter of guards and weapons in halls used to bloody scenes, down a stairs reputed
haunted by his grandfather’s deeds and under candle-sconces his grandfather had ordered filled day and night, to allow no dark for ghosts.

  He went down to the throne room, where a gathering of pale-faced minor courtiers bowed like grass in a wind, and into a hall where murmuring knots of Ylesuin’s nobility cleared his unexpected path from the main doors down to the dais. There his guards clattered into order on either side of the steps and behind him, grounded their weapons with a thump, and settled the angry Majesty of Ylesuin to face his barons.

  Corswyndam centered himself in front of the dais and stared up at him. “My son, my heir, is dead, my lord king, and the foreign—”

  444 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “Do not say it! Do not say it, Ryssand! You are ill informed, and your son was fatally ill-informed. If you think I will not have another lord of Ryssand, you are mistaken, and if you have thought me soft, you are mistaken! Pigs will bed on parchment, do you understand? Ribbons and seals and all, pigs will bed on it! Do not press me further.”

  “Your Majesty!” Ryssand said, white-faced, tear-streaked.

  “My lord king, you are advised by traitors and practiced on by sorcery!”

  “Dare you say!”

  Murandys came to stand beside Ryssand. So did Nelefreíssan.

  “Here is the north, lord king! Here is the north of Ylesuin.

  And what says Your Majesty now?”

  One of the great doors cracked and closed. Efanor had come in, but no one saw. Idrys followed. There were the wandered and the strayed. And Idrys came around the periphery of the room, silently, as his wont. Efanor, who just came from the Quinaltine, gave him a confident nod, a triumph over doubt, and Cefwyn drew a whole breath.

  “I say you are perilously close to treason, and a member of your house has drawn weapons in my presence.”

  “How could my son prevail against Your Majesty? Your presence disarmed him! Ivanor no less than murdered my son, and the petition for the Holy Quinalt is cast to the pigs, Your Majesty? Your Majesty has listened to the malign influences, to influences that despise the gods, that practice black sorcery, until loyal men are butchered in the halls in the royal presence and sorcery insinuates itself into the highest councils in the land!”

  FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 445

  Idrys had reached his side, and proffered a small message-scroll, a remark from Idrys or his brother the Prince, he was sure, until he opened it and read it.

  And looked out on Corswyndam’s angry presence with perfect equanimity.

  He held up the scroll, which bore Corswyndam’s seal, a small document. The gesture and his smile brought the shouting to an end. The whole court was still.

  “Come forward, Ryssand. Come.”

  There was a long, long moment Ryssand trembled on the verge of defiance; but prudence and a long acquaintance with the Marhanen surely warred with righteous outrage. Ryssand came closer, came up the steps, Idrys and all the guards quite, quite wary, Cefwyn was sure, and the bezaint shirt was for once a comfort.

  “Do you know this document?” Cefwyn waggled it, rolled, in two fingers. “Would you wish it read?”

  “May I see it, sire?”

  Cefwyn ceded it, watched Ryssand unfurl it, and Ryssand’s face go pale.

  “From the duke of Amefel,” Idrys said smoothly. “His messenger, who said the duke found it on Lord Parsynan’s horse, and found it curious that a lord of Ylesuin should send a message ahead of a royal courier.”

  “Very curious,” Cefwyn said, and held out his hand for the message, a steady, demanding hand, as Corswyndam’s, ceding it back to him, was neither steady nor demanding. “My deep sorrow for your loss, sir. Go mourn it in private. It would be untimely to read this to the court, considering your grief.”

  “My lord king,” Corswyndam said in a small, choked voice, and, quite pale, he backed away, bowed,

  446 / C. J. CHERRYH

  retreated, not just to the bottom of the steps, but beyond, and in a rising mutter of the crowd, out the door.

  “Lord Corswyndam is overwhelmed,” Cefwyn said without mercy, “and needs retreat to Ryssand for a space of appropriate mourning. Good evening, sirs, gods rest you. Gods send him comfort, and all of you good grace.”

  He rose, looked at his brother, smiled at the court, turned on Idrys a questioning look, to which Idrys only looked pleased.

  The recall, this time to the lesser hall, brought two pale and bewildered earls to the foot of the dais, in a chill, less-lit chamber, but it echoed less, and was familiar ground. Tristen preferred it. He took his seat, his guards at every door, and looked out at Drumman and Azant, who were, after Edwyll, chiefest of the rebels, he was quite sure.

  There were bows, courtesy due him. He was little interested in those.

  “I have one question,” he said to them. “Did Lord Cuthan show you a letter? Or tell you of it?”

  “A letter, my lord?” This from Azant. But Drumman failed to speak.

  “Did you know of a letter? It’s the same question. Or tell me this, and tell me the truth: why did Edwyll occupy the citadel alone, and where are the Elwynim forces, and what have you done you wished to conceal from me? I wish you to tell me the truth, by your oaths given in this room, on these steps, sirs.

  I wish it, and you will tell me, will you not, sirs?”

  FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 447

  “My lord,” said Drumman, and fell to his knees on the second step. “My lord.”

  “The truth, sir. I will have an answer before you cause me to harm an innocent man.”

  “Earl Tasmôrden sent messages to Edwyll, my lord, and we all knew. The king’s census drew us all to talking, the king’s wedding would give his claims on Elwynor a legitimacy they have never had…”

  It was an assumption the treaty with Her Grace was valueless, but he let that pass in silence while Drumman poured out the rest.

  “Tasmôrden would signal the time; and we would overthrow the viceroy. And when it came, the hour it came…that word…Cuthan said he had seen a letter, in the viceroy’s possession, that replaced the viceroy and sent troops.”

  “And did Cuthan say that I was coming, sir?”

  “No, my lord. I swear he did not.” Drumman shook his head, and so did Azant.

  “And did he advise Edwyll?”

  “No one knows what he advised Edwyll. The hour was on us. And Cuthan warned us. But Edwyll had already seized the king’s messenger the hour he rode into town. And we were all in fear then.”

  Tasmôrden had moved his forces on Ilefínian, sent a message across the river to create as much confusion as possible…it needed no wizardry to effect a message, none to poison a party of men by accident. But wizards thrived on chance and accident, and worked best through vengeful men. The deeds of kind ones were more self-determined.

  “So Cuthan is not your friend,” Tristen said.

  “Nor yours, Your Grace,” Drumman said.

  “Nor anyone’s,” Azant said.

  448 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “Whose man is he, do you suppose? And why did he hate Edwyll so?”

  “Heryn Aswydd,” Drumman said. “He is Lord Heryn’s man.”

  Tristen drew in a breath. “Edwyll was Aswydd.”

  “And not Lord Heryn’s man, nor ever was. Hence His Majesty never exiled him. He never supported Lord Heryn’s policies, Your Grace, but opposed them in council, opposed them to the edge of loyalty to the Marhanen, which Edwyll would not grant.”

  “Cuthan was offered the duchy.”

  Azant shook his head. “Cuthan would never swear to the Marhanen. He cultivated Lord Parsynan because it served his needs. And Parsynan warned him of all of us, thinking him a loyal man, the hour the rebellion broke.” Azant likewise fell to his knees. “My lord, we have been desperate men. We held back, we joined you, my lord, intending to save Lord Edwyll, and we had done it, until Parsynan took it in his hands to settle grudges…we were never rebels against you, my lord.”

  “And do you speak for Cuthan?”<
br />
  “He is still,” Drumman murmured, “still Lord Heryn’s man.”

  Tristen considered the two lords, kneeling, as Amefin did not customarily kneel…turned his hand, where it rested on the throne, and signaled them both to rise.

  “Go home,” he said quietly, “in peace.”

  “Lord Sihhë,” Drumman whispered, and bowed, and with Azant, went away.

  The room was still after. His guards did not move from their places. Nor did Uwen.

  “Lord Cuthan may come to me as these lords came, FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 449

  tonight,” Tristen said in a moment more, “or he may have a horse and all his household, tonight, and cross the river by whatever means he can find. There are boats, I think, at Maldy village. Because he is an old man, he wants help getting there.”

  “M’lord,” Uwen said.

  “I am not Owl,” he said, doubtless to Uwen’s bewilderment.

  He had gazed at the far end of the room, where he saw not the vision that troubled his dreams these last nights, that of the old mews with light shining through broken planks, a place astir with wings and dusty years. “I will see Earl Crissand, now, if you will, Uwen. I have questions for him, but none so strict as those I have for Lord Cuthan.”

  C H A P T E R 8

  Emuin arrived a week late, in a gust of snow, toward the mid-afternoon. The bell rang, advising of an important visitor, and Ness, from the gate, arrived to say so; and soon the train of ox-drawn carts and wagons and pack-bearing mules began to make a commotion in the stable yard. Master Emuin would not leave it despite the falling snow, which did not surprise Tristen in the least. Every bird’s nest and bottle would find its way to master Emuin’s tower, which was vacant, and swept: Tristen had foreseen that necessity, and that master Emuin would simply begin sending baggage upstairs, or go himself, expecting it.

  “Good day, sir.” Tristen said from the west outside stairs, looking down, and finding master Emuin in the midst of chaos.

  All of the cobbles except the patch where master Emuin stood were trampled snow obscured with offset baggage. Some, off-loaded, were going out the open ironwork gate; more were coming in, including a wagon, which was having difficulty.