Fortress of Dragons

  And clearly Luriel did not like the competition on her evening: her stark-set, basilisk stare settled on Artisane at every moment they crossed one another’s line of sight.

  A wild bedding tonight, Cefwyn said to himself. Luriel’s temper was oil on tinder, in that realm…he could say so, who had proposed to marry the lady himself. Now he asked himself how he could ever have fallen into Luriel’s web of angers and passions, piques and rages and most of all how he could ever have thought her continual upheaval the ordinary way of women. That was a basilisk indeed, tonight, stalking the cockatrice.

  The lady beside him, in the simple circlet crown of Elwynor, in fine embroidery and a comparative lack of ornament otherwise…this was a woman, and she far outshone the pair of combatants on the floor. So Cefwyn leaned across the difference in their seats—Ryssand’s damned stone—to whisper to his consort.

  “You’re the sun and the moon. They’re summer lightning, and a dry night at that.”

  “And what will you be?” Ninévrisë asked with that wry response he so loved. “Ah! The stormy north wind.”

  “When Ryssand presents us his little play tonight, by the gods, he’ll think so. And they could pile the wealth of the southern kingdoms on that minx and not improve her disposition.”

  “Which?” Ninévrisë asked, dagger-sharp.

  “What, no love for Luriel either?”

  “I welcome Artisane. The two of them will not make common cause, not till pigs make poetry. It should keep the two of them busy and provide entertainment for the rest of us.”

  They never had loved one another, Artisane and Luriel, contrary to the politics of their houses. Luriel’s detestations were legion, her uncle among them, and while the ladies warred with glances across the hall, the uncle and father made solemn converse behind a thick column, and tried to pretend no one saw them.

  At a reasonable hour in the wedding-night celebration it was the custom for bride and groom to retire with the maids and ladies and young men trooping after them, bearing lit candles and fistfuls of acorns…the latter of which posed great annoyance to the marriage bed, when they cast them in. He and Ninévrisë had found the last wandering nuisance in the small hours of their wedding night, and flung it ceremoniously in the fire.

  So on this evening, young Rusyn of Panys finished a solitary paselle with his bride. And on the very last notes, with a flourish and squall of pipes, the traditional chase was on, the young couple, warned by the pipes, dashing for the door, the young men and married women of the court in close pursuit, snatching candles conveniently in the hands of servants and having brought their own supply of missiles. The couple might be spared the gifts in the bed if they were fleet of foot, but few made it.

  Scores of nuts in a marriage bed, open wishes for children cast among ribald comments: a perfectly respectable tradition that roused nothing but laughter. But a man presenting a single acorn to the love of his life on the ballroom floor was a matter for scandal.

  No, not a man: a king. And not the love of his life: the ruler of a rival court. And the fruit of that union would be no ordinary child, but would arrive into the world shadowed with political debts and promises he and Ninévrisë between them would have set for all his life to deal with. What a man started in his lifetime, his sons—and his daughters—needs must finish, and in finishing, set the incomplete pattern for their sons and daughters.

  A sobering thought as the shrieking festivity departed, the province of the matrons and the young—which left the somber elders to enjoy a round of wine and contemplation…or so it should be, in happier times.

  As it was, it left all the lords in position for the confrontation Cefwyn expected, Ryssand lurking about, waiting a summons, trying to obtain one by every means short of walking up and asking.

  “Master crow,” Cefwyn said.

  “My lord king.” The shadowy eminence hovering at his back and Ninévrisë’s came forward on the dais and leaned down near his ear.

  “Is there more news, at this last moment for second thoughts?”

  “Nothing more than my king already knows. Shall I summon him?”

  “Oh, stay, converse about the weather. Let the scoundrel wonder what we say to one another. Frown and laugh. I’ll not help his digestion.”

  “He’s talked to Murandys all evening, and Murandys has been passing more than pleasantries to the other lords about the hall tonight, too, which is just as well: otherwise it would have to come from Your Majesty to explain matters.”

  “I’d not plead his case.—How is the weather riverside?”

  “Much the same as here…cold winds, bitter weather…”

  “Bluster of priests.”

  “With thunder and lightning. Much of that.”

  “Any word on the whereabouts of the Aswydds?”

  “Three of their household are dead with the nuns, nurse and two maidservants, that’s certain, but no report of the sisters, dead or alive. My wager is they lived: Orien has sorcery to warm her feet. A further wager: that they went to Amefel. Where else might they go?”

  “Tasmôrden. To ask him to set Orien on the throne of Amefel.”

  “There is that chance, and a very good chance. But reaching Elwynor requires a walk through Amefel, and by my sense of things, my lord king, wizards do tend toward other wizards. Inconveniently so, at times, but it does keep them collected, and largely concerned with each other.”

  He was not certain he liked that thought any better. “One wonders if Cuthan knows her whereabouts.”

  Idrys lifted a brow. “Being Aswydd? Might we ask whether Lady Orien herself brought down the disaster on Anwyfar?”

  “An alliance with Ryssand, and Cuthan her messenger? Gruesome thought, all our enemies in one camp.”

  “Oh, a good thought, my lord king. One strike and we’re rid of them. But I doubt we’re so fortunate.”

  “If she’s gone anywhere, I fear you’re right about Amefel. She’ll have gone right for Tristen’s soft heart.”

  “Worrisome that the heir to the Aswydds might have gone to Mauryl’s piece of work, the very man I do recall my lord king wrote his late father was—”

  “Hush, crow. Hush! For the gods’ sakes!”

  “I think Her Grace is no stranger to that surmise.”

  “Don’t press me! Not now, damn you.”

  “Aye, damn me while you like. But I pray my lord king think on it when you take counsel what you’ll do about this barbed proposal Cuthan brings you.”

  “You’re not free of error yourself, master crow.”

  “I never claimed to be.”

  “I don’t like a damned procession coming into the town before I know it’s on the road!”

  “The fault is mine and several dead men’s. I am not possessed of all information, and my sources have no more protection than their own wits and no more speed than a chance-met mule. But since my lord king has abandoned the habits of his wastrel youth, I’m glad to report he’s frequently well informed on his own.”

  It seemed to be both justification and praise of him, of a convolute and twisted sort, and Cefwyn took it as such, nor did he greatly blame Idrys: they had, after all, what they needed, thanks to Idrys. Idrys had rid the streets of the zealot priest Udryn, but they had lost the Patriarch in retaliation—yet on Idrys’ advice he had appointed Efanor’s priest Jormys to the office, again, a good recommendation, for Jormys, though devout, was not naive in politics, not in proceedings within the court and not matters within the sacred walls. Udryn’s silence had not prevented the spate of retribution against the Bryaltines and even the moderate Teranthines, but the zeal of the populace seemed to have spent itself in the cold…granted Ryssand was not the next voice he had to silence.

  And granted Orien Aswydd did not find some way to have her dainty finger in the stew.

  Ryssand was the likeliest next use for master crow’s darker talents.

  But then again, Ryssand might become useful—if he could be brought to see his own interests as
linked with the Crown, for with Brugan’s death, everything had changed for Ryssand: he had no male heir, no more than Murandys. He was in the same situation, with Artisane the prize. He needed to marry her up the ranks of nobility, not down, and there was no one higher than a prince of Ylesuin and inclusion in the royal family.

  That would change his interests on the sudden.

  And for the sake of the realm and the agreements that bound the kingdom together out of its former separate, kinglike duchies, it was far better to bring Ryssand into line than to destroy the house with all its alliances and resources.

  That was surely Efanor’s thought in letting slip the rumor of royal interest in Artisane tonight. Last of all possible motives was any love lost in that marriage: it was utterly impossible to conceive that Efanor loved Artisane or even remotely admired her. It was rather that Efanor loved the kingdom and loved the land more than he loved his own comfort, and thought so little of his chances of a bride he could love…shy, serious Efanor never having had much converse with women in his sheltered, circumscribed, and pious recent years.

  Gods send him enlightenment, Cefwyn thought, hoping the marriage never needed take place.

  And to Idrys, leaning close, he said, regarding the compliment, “I take your meaning, master crow.”

  “Your Majesty is forgiving and generous.”

  “To the deserving.” He never passed Idrys compliments. He did so, after making the unworthy accusation regarding Ryssand’s slipping up on them. He felt bad about that, and could not find a way to unsay it, not with Idrys’ acerbic wit. “Well, well, do you think it’s time? Let’s summon the old fox before he has an apoplexy. I’m anxious to hear the performance.”

  Idrys straightened with his usual sleek, dark grace and Cefwyn turned a silent stare on Ryssand, who had not failed to watch His Majesty’s lengthy conversation with the most feared man in royal service—a lengthy conversation on the very night Ryssand meant to beard the king in his lair.

  Cefwyn stared thoughtfully at Ryssand, and stared longer, completely expressionless; and when the rest of the hall had noted that fact and conversations all around had ceased, he crooked a finger and beckoned Ryssand forward.

  Ryssand came as he must, and bowed, and the musicians faded away into silence.

  “You said you had a matter to bring before me,” Cefwyn said. “Here I sit. Bring it.”

  “Your Majesty.” Ryssand bowed a second time, and bowed very slightly a third and even a fourth time, perhaps summoning scattered wits. “Your Grace. Your Highness.” He included Efanor, the usually silent presence on the peripheries. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You’re entertaining scoundrels who’ve met a just condemnation…my condemnation, since I’ve had the fair report of what they’ve done, and you have, I trust, some awareness of that condemnation when you bring them to this hall. Do you intend I behead them and save you the bother? Or would that action utterly surprise you?”

  “Brother,” said Efanor, advancing a step from the side of the dais. They had agreed Efanor would intercede to keep the fire and fuel separate, when the snake had to feel the stick on its right hand—and that Idrys would provoke Ryssand when the snake had to feel the stick on the left: there was indeed a way to shepherd a viper toward an objective. “—Brother, I’ve heard somewhat of Ryssand’s business. Hear him.”

  “You and all of this court, down to the scullery maids, have heard His Grace,” Cefwyn said. “We’ve all heard some version or another. Discretion has not proven one of His Grace’s otherwise extensive gifts.—Oh, I’ll hear him,” Cefwyn said grudgingly and with a limp wave of his hand. All of this they had agreed beforehand as their position, and so had Ninévrisë. “But I don’t welcome traitors to my court!” Having acceded, he burst into a tirade in Ryssand’s very face. “And I hold backhanded rumormongers in utter contempt! Let us hear this version.” He waved his hand, tacit leave for Ryssand to speak, if he could muster calm against the royal storm.

  “Your Majesty,” Ryssand said, seeming shaken, “I do not support any man caught in wrongdoing, as I have no cause to doubt Your Majesty’s word, but Earl Cuthan has a tale to tell, and I beg you hear him…not for matters in Amefel, which is another matter altogether. He comes straight from Tasmôrden’s court with a letter.”

  “Tasmôrden’s court,” Ninévrisë said scornfully. “Tasmôrden has a court! Indeed!”

  “Your Grace.” It was the first time Ryssand had turned conciliatory toward Ninévrisë—his desperation was a remarkable sight, and perhaps it was even a true sentiment he expressed, insofar as the lord of Ryssand might have recognized that the Lady Regent of Elwynor represented a potent force in the Crown’s camp, one it was more expedient to deal with—certainly should Tasmôrden’s proposal see acceptance, he would have to deal with her in the future. And should Artisane marry into the royal family Ninévrisë was the power over the women’s court. His reasons were clear enough.

  “Your Grace,” Ryssand said mildly to Ninévrisë, “he has an army.”

  “An army bought and paid for,” Idrys interjected sharply. “My lord king, this is no respectable lord: they’re scoundrels. Mercenaries with no stake in the lands they are stealing, bandits, some of them within this so-named court.”

  “As the Lord Commander objects,” Ryssand answered, “there are irregular elements. But an army nonetheless, and with that army Tasmôrden sits in Ilefínian, which is a fact. He holds a court there—whether legitimate or illegitimate, I leave it to others to say.”

  “I do not admit it,” Ninévrisë said, and Ryssand reprised, refusing to be shaken from his point.

  “But that he held court there enabled him to receive Earl Cuthan when he fled Ylesuin. And through Cuthan, who alone of his resources could pass our borders alive—merely a courier, Your Majesty!—he sends a convincing offer of peace.”

  “Convincing,” Idrys echoed dubiously.

  “Hear him,” Efanor said, and said so just as Ryssand drew a large breath in anger. He had to let it go and reprise in a mild, a reasonable voice.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I am honor-bound to lay this letter before His Majesty, for the good of Ylesuin, and pray to do so.”

  “Peace with Tasmôrden?” Cefwyn said. “I think not.”

  “Your Majesty, I have brought the letter. Only hear it.”

  “A letter to me?”

  Ryssand hesitated. “A letter which Earl Cuthan was authorized to unseal—”

  “A letter from a scoundrel, unsealed by a scoundrel!”

  “So that I would know its import to bring it to Your Majesty!”

  “You allowed the opening of a sealed letter,” Idrys said, and by now sweat stood on Ryssand’s face.

  It was time to have the content of it. Cefwyn waved a negligent hand. “The letter is compromised, but no less so than the source and the letter-bearer. We will hear it, since you’ve read it, in its principle details and as best you remember it. I will not entertain Earl Cuthan in my hall, a man who has betrayed his own brother lords and connived with a man recommended to me as honest—” He had no need to say that it had been Murandys who had recommended the appointment. He only shot Duke Prichwarrin a burningly resentful glance…and at the same time found it noteworthy that Prichwarrin did not stand immediately next his former ally in this moment of peril, but rather over against the nearer column, as far as he dared remove himself from the area. “A man who turned out to be a common thief and a liar, besides. A man who ordered the murder of surrendered and disarmed noblemen. What a pedigree for this business!”

  “Your Majesty.” Ryssand was not finding it easy going, his immediate plan overset, his witnesses disallowed. “I pray you hear the exact words…”

  “Tasmôrden’s? As if they were sacred writ? As if any letter the bearer could unseal at will is proof in itself? I find all our enemy’s arrangements curious. If Cuthan could pass our border at will—why come to you, a league and more to the north? Why not send to me, for the go
od gods’ love? Why this care to have it in your hands, pray?”

  “The enemy knows Her Grace’s presence in the court and feared lest the letter—”

  Well struck. “Don’t say it!” Cefwyn burst out. “Don’t dare to suggest—”

  “Your Majesty!” Ryssand cried, “not my suspicion at all, I assure you, but rather the imagination of our enemy—”

  “A lie,” Ninévrisë said. “Lies and deception are old allies of his.”

  “Nonetheless, Your Grace, Your Majesty, if you will hear his proposal—Tasmôrden is prepared to make peace with Ylesuin, and to agree that the Lady Regent rules in the districts east of Ilefínian, granting to her the title of Queen of Elwynor, granting to the king of Ylesuin the district northward, and agreeing for himself to the titles and honors of the King of Ilefínian and High and Lower Saissond.”

  A woman who was a fool, perhaps, might have leapt up in rage and tears and lost her case with a people never in the least enthusiastic about their king’s foreign war and foreign bride, and for such a response Ryssand undoubtedly hoped.

  Such a response the man who had raised Artisane would undoubtedly expect.

  But Ninévrisë was not such a fool. She sat, chin on fist, staring at this recital.

  “Ridiculous,” Cefwyn said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man consorts with sorcery! He claims a kingship, in Elwynor, where prophecy claims a High King will rise against us! Gods save us, Ryssand! To what do you counsel us? To give this snake a lair from which to breed and strike at our heart?”

  “By no means sorcery, Your Majesty!”

  “Oh?” Cefwyn asked in mock mildness. “And who informs us of that?”

  “Your Majesty, his own words…if Your Majesty will read his letter…”

  “Damn his letter! Word from a heretic!”

  “Quite the contrary, in a land rife with the old ways, he contends against the dark arts which sustained the Regency—”

  Now Ninévrisë did move, drew herself up with a breath. “There is a lie, sir.”

  “The Regency depended on wizardry,” Ryssand said in a rush, “as the Lord Regent was a wizard, no less than Aséyneddin’s ally—”