Fortress of Dragons

  He had, with the aid of his friends and advisors, old and new, worked his way to real power: he had wagered everything on the matter of his marriage and gained the Quinalt’s approval. He had lessened Ryssand’s influence. Now after handling the rebel barons roughly, he set a test for all the north: march in a blizzard, march in defiance of all sanity, march in defiance of the enemy’s lying peace offer…or refuse and stand in rebellion to the Crown while the battle flag was flying.

  He would be king in truth, or not at all—that was his determination. He would not spend a lifetime catering to fools or compromising his way into his father’s situation. He grew aware of his silence, aware of Efanor’s eyes studying him, and when their eyes met, Efanor said:

  “They did listen, Cefwyn. They did hear you. Whatever they decide, your arguments for this action were not wasted.”

  Efanor knew what he gambled, as perhaps no other could—Efanor who, if he went down, would have to deal with Ryssand in his own way—a different way, perhaps, with a necessarily diminished force, in a vastly changed kingdom.

  Thus far he had Tristen uniting five provinces in his name, while he as king could claim only three as solid, one of them Llymaryn—Sulriggan’s province, gods save him, Sulriggan, as self-serving a pious prig as ever drew breath, a man with no stomach for fighting—but even less for being left without royal protection: he sided with the Crown because Ryssand hated him for his weathercock swings of loyalty. There was his sudden source of courage.

  Panys he could trust absolutely. He suspected that Marisal might have moved more quickly to join him because Sulriggan had, being a neighbor, but he still gave the lord of Marisal all due credit, as a man who would not break his oath of fealty. It was a sparsely populated province, with fewer men under arms, but the lord being a devout man and a decent one, he gathered himself and marched.

  Those three he had, yet he could not even claim the undivided enthusiasm of his own brother’s province of Guelessar, in which the capital sat, in which they now were. It was not surprising, perhaps, since Guelessar was the hotbed of politics of every stamp and the seat of the Quinaltine, and could no more make a decision than the council and the clergy could.

  But, gods, that was difficult to hear, and it was difficult for Efanor to report.

  “I would think,” Efanor said quietly, “that you have prayed here as long as profits anyone, and it may be time now to come out and hold council. Your captains have readied the army to move. What more can there be? If you ordered such as you have to march now, you might frighten the likes of Osanan into joining you.”

  He saw his brother in the light of half a hundred candles, modestly dressed as always, but with a certain elegance: whence the gold chain about his neck, that did not support the habitual Quinalt sigil, but rather a fine cabochon ruby? Had he seen Efanor without that sigil in the last year?

  And whence the rings on his fingers, and the careful attention to his person? Had this worldliness begun to happen, his brother attiring himself to draw a lady’s eye, and he not seen it?

  He stared, entranced and curious, seeing in this suddenly handsome and elegant younger brother the flash of wit as well as jewelry, the spark of a man’s soul as well as a saint’s. This was his successor, if it had to be. This was the continuance of the Marhanen, absent an heir of his own body, staunch in loyalty and awakening to the power he had.

  There was hope in his brother.

  “Also,” Efanor said, “I have some concern for Her Grace.”

  “She’s not fasting!” He would not let her fast, not with the chance she was with child. That had meant she was alone for her devotions, except for Dame Margolis, who ran her household.

  Efanor seemed abashed. “Her Grace has reported the morning sickness to her maids.”

  He was appalled. The maids gossiped in every quarter. Ninévrisë knew better.

  Then he was sure she did know better, and intended to break the news unofficially—deliberately, with calculated effect. Rumor would chase rumor through the halls. When Tarien’s secret became a whisper, after the whispers about Ninévrisë’s, it would only be meaningful in the context of Ninévrisë’s secret. Women’s secrets would battle one another for weeks in the back corridors before they both came to light in council; and lords, again, would take sides.

  But before that, the army would march. That might be in her mind.

  “Likely her stomach’s upset,” Cefwyn said, trying to make little of what men ought not to take note of—yet. “So is mine, for that matter. Ryssand is a bane to good digestion.”

  “Whether it’s true,” Efanor said, “I am no judge. But it must be end to end of town by now. And in the people’s minds their own prince will be the firstborn. Your lady is a very clever woman.”

  “Their own prince.” He kept his voice muffled. He had his guard outside, but he wanted no report of crows of laughter and loud voices to come out of his solemn retreat. He could not believe it. He had counted up the days since their wedding night, and it was possible, but only scantly so. It was too much to expect, too soon. “But if it’s not true…if she’s made this up only because of the Aswydd woman…”

  “She surely wouldn’t.”

  “We have scarcely enough time together…three months, is it not, to be sure?”

  Efanor blushed, actually blushed. “I believe women know signs of it, besides the sickness, and there’s a chance she’s right. Besides…” Efanor added anxiously, “her father was a wizard, no less than the Aswydds. So couldn’t she—?”

  “I honestly don’t know what she could and couldn’t. She could be mistaken.”

  “But if she’s deceived herself,” Efanor said, “you’ll be in Elwynor and maybe in Ilefínian before anyone knows it. Leaves don’t go back on the tree. Isn’t that what grandfather used to say? You’ll have Elwynor.”

  “She will have Elwynor,” he reminded his brother.

  “To the same effect, is it not?”

  By the time anyone knew whether there was a prince to come, the war and the outcome of it would have been settled…except that knotty question of inheritance. Had Ninévrisë thought of that when she confided in a maid?

  Or had the sickness been real, and the confidence in the maids a necessity?

  And would not the child remove Efanor and all his line from the succession? Perhaps Efanor hoped for it. Perhaps he saw it as he would, as his chance of freedom.

  “It will open a battle in the council,” he said to Efanor. “To loose this, on her own advice—”

  “There is the chance,” Efanor said soberly, “that it was the truth, and the sickness was no sham.”

  “And if it is, she should not ride!”

  “Where shall she stay?”

  “I would protect her.”

  “But the rumors would fly. And there would be danger.”

  “These are good Guelenmen, most. It’s Ryssand who’s poisoned the well.”

  “He still thinks he has the advantage,” Cefwyn said. “And damned if he does. He will march. Cuthan’s head is in jeopardy, Parsynan’s with it. I long to say the same of Ryssand, but his obedience would serve me better. I don’t need the other two.”

  “Don’t trust him. Never trust him.”

  Cefwyn laughed, bitterly, and hushed it, because of the still and holy precinct. “Trust? and this the father of your prospective bride? I trust him only to make mischief, and I shall never allow you to make that sacrifice, I tell you now. I’ll have none of Ryssand in the royal house, in the blood, in the bed, in the intimate counsels. No! don’t nay me. I have had unaccustomed time to think, and I will not have that girl attached to you. If I should fall—don’t marry her. If I come back, by the gods, you won’t marry her. I love you too much.”

  He surprised Efanor, who looked away and down, and seemed affected by what he had said. He hoped Efanor believed it.

  “And I, you,” Efanor said at last, “but what other use for a prince who’ll never rule?”

  “Don’t sa
y you’ll never rule. War is—”

  “Don’t say that! And don’t talk of falling. The gods listen to us in this place.”

  “The gods listen to us everywhere or nowhere. It’s common sense I make provision. Every farmer who marches with the levy knows to instruct his wife and his underage sons. Shall I do less? She’ll ride with me. I know there’s no stopping her. And if you rule, promise me Ryssand won’t live to see the next day’s sun. Marry that chit of his to some farmer. Break that house. It will be a detriment to you.”

  Efanor looked about him as if he feared eavesdroppers. “Not here,” Efanor said. “I beg you don’t say such things here.”

  Efanor revered this place, his refuge, his place of peace, the source, Cefwyn suspected, of all Efanor’s fancies concerning the gods and the means by which Jormys and then Sulriggan had secured a hold on his brother. And Efanor wished it not to be profaned with talk of killings.

  “I respect my brother’s wishes,” Cefwyn said. “Respect mine. For the good of Ylesuin—promise me.”

  “I do,” Efanor said, and his face was pale when he said it…damning himself with the promise of a murder, so Efanor would see it.

  “You’re no priest. You’re a lord of Ylesuin, you’re the duke of Guelessar, my heir, and justice is in your hands, a function of the holy gods, the last good advice the Patriarch preached to me. Murder isn’t in question. Justice is.”

  “Idrys argues much the same,” Efanor said. “And constantly. Yet you will not hear him.”

  “Caught in my own trap,” Cefwyn said.

  “Yet if you kill Ryssand—”

  “Merry hell,” Cefwyn said, and Efanor gasped at the affront. “So to speak,” Cefwyn said. “And my wife may be with child. That won’t please Ryssand either, especially as he wishes me to die childless and his darling Artisane to bear you an heir. Tarien Aswydd, meanwhile, will bring forth my bastard son, a wizard and a prince of the south, an aetheling. I can’t think Ryssand will dance for joy at that, either, although who can say what he’ll find to object? Any complaint will serve. He brings them like trays of sweetmeats…here, pick one you like.”

  “Pray the gods for help. Use the time you have here. Trust them. And come out and lead the kingdom.”

  “Dear Efanor.” It was on his lips to say wake from your dream, but he could not spoil his brother’s faith, not when it was bound to lead to quarrels, and he needed quarrels least of all. “Dear Efanor. I trust you. Ask the gods for me. I’m sure you’re a voice they know far better than mine.”

  “I do. Nightly. And have.” Efanor glanced down…had always had the eyes of a painted saint as a boy, and did now as a man, when he looked up like that. “I hated you when Mother died, and I prayed for forgiveness. I wanted to love my brother, and I prayed for that. I wanted not to be king, and I wanted not to marry, and I prayed for that. By now I must have confused the gods. So they give me Artisane.”

  It was the most impious utterance of humor Efanor could manage, brave defiance of his fears in this overawing place, and Cefwyn managed to laugh.

  “I wanted my freedom and they gave me the crown,” Cefwyn said. “Both of us were too wise to want to rule, and thus far, you’ve escaped.”

  “Only so I go on escaping, and you keep your head on your shoulders, brother. If Ryssand harmed you, yes, I would kill him with my own hands. I have only one brother, and can never get another. I don’t care to be king. I care that you have a long, long reign, and I wish Ryssand nothing but misery. I can be angry. I can be our grandfather.”

  “Oh, I know you can be angry! I knew you before you became a saint.”

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “I never laugh at you. Come, come—” He held out open arms. “As we did before we were jealous. As we did when we were young fools.”

  “Still fools,” Efanor said, and embraced him, long and gently, then gazed eye to eye and in great earnestness. “You need to call the council. You’ve shown the loyal from the doubtful. Now reward the loyal and chide the rest. And gods save us, master crow reports he doesn’t think Ryssand knows yet about the Aswydds.”

  That was a vast relief. “He’s sure.”

  “He doesn’t think so. That’s as far as he’ll go.”

  “Will you carry a message to Ninévrisë? Can you?”

  “I’m a pious, harmless fellow. You know I can go anywhere without scandal.”

  “Tell her everything we’ve said. Tell her I love her beyond all telling. Make her understand. Tell her be no more indiscreet than she’s been.”

  “I’ve no difficulty bearing that message. Will you hold council?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Our prayers are done. Hers and mine. I need her by me. Tell her…tell her I’ll see her in the robing room, beforehand. Two hours hence. Make her know I love her. A man belongs with his wife, after all I’ve done amiss—and what have I had to do? Be here, separate from her! And if she’s ill, where am I? Holding council! Reasonable and wise she may be, but when a gut turns, wisdom has nothing to do with it.—Ask her if it’s true.”

  “I can’t ask her that!” Efanor was honestly appalled. “Don’t ask me to ask her that!”

  “The robing room. Two hours. I’ll ask her myself.” He clapped Efanor on the arm. “Away. Carry messages. And be there, in the robing room, yourself.”

  The robing room held no privacy, and hardly space to turn, with the Lord Chamberlain and the pages and the state robes on their trees, the king’s and the Royal Consort’s, stiff with jewels and bullion. It was of necessity the red velvet embroidered with the Dragon in gold, a stiff and uncomfortable Dragon that reminded a man to keep his back straight; and pages buzzed about with this and that ring of significance, the spurs, that were gold, the belt, that was woven gold, and the Sword of office, the belt of which went about him all the while he fretted and had no word yet of Ninévrisë.

  Then the door opened, and Ninévrisë came in, wearing the blue of Elwynor, with the Tower in gold for a blazon, like a lord’s, on her bodice, and the black-and-white Checker for a scarf about one shoulder. He had never seen it, had no idea by what magic the women’s court had created such Elwynim splendor…Dame Margolis, perhaps, who arrived close behind her. There was the likely one, the one who would have stayed up nights to accomplish it; and nothing of what that array meant was wasted on him, nor would the meaning miss its mark in hall.

  She was the authority over Elwynor, damn Ryssand and his peace offers from a traitor. She had few jewels. But she shone in his sight, and he came toward her in the silence of the chamber and took her hands. He knew he ought to say something clever and formal and endearing, but he had no words. He simply held her hands and gazed into the gray-violet of her eyes, and said, in a whisper almost hopeless in the silence:

  “Efanor carried me a report…are you well, are you able? I’ll not risk your health.” He kissed her hand, all propriety allowed. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  She carried his hand to her lips, bestowed a kiss of her own, unprecedented in his court as the petticoat; but it was tender and fervent and made him for a moment think of things far different than statecraft. He could not take the time, could not deal with her in the way he wished even with loyal servants present. The lords were waiting, the kingdom was waiting…but, damn custom, he said to himself…he was the king, damn it all.

  “Out!” he said. “Annas, give me a moment. All of you, all of you but Her Grace, out. Dame Margolis, with Annas, if you please.”

  There were two senior pages, Annas, Margolis, all sensible people, all in his gratitude for their immediate and unquestioning departure. He need not even look away from Ninévrisë’s face, need not let go her hands. He kissed her, long and soundly, and held her tightly against him, and whispered against the flower fragrance of her hair, “Gods, half my meditations were on you, how you fared, how you thought of me, what difficulty you might have…”

  “It was a clever thing to do,” she said against his neck. “It was clever and
wise and gave them all time to stew and bubble.”

  “And for good men to obey, leaving me the blackguards and the laggards. But Artisane’s loose, and I feared for you, gods! I was afraid. And when Efanor said you were ill and the maids were let loose to talk—”

  “I fear I betrayed myself. I didn’t intend it.”

  “The anxiousness of the war? Might it be that? A bad bowl of stew?

  “Don’t name food to me. No dishes. Even yet.”

  He held her hands clasped together, made her look at him. “It’s likely?”

  “It might be fear. It might be. But I’ve dreamed…I’ve dreamed since our wedding night, I’ve thought…I’ve hoped…I’ve feared…all these things at once. My son…and if my dreams are true, it is a son…has no inheritance, no place, no people…”

  “My son has Ylesuin. And yours has Elwynor.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “He will.” He feared wizard-sight. He wanted not to hear it, wished nothing foredoomed or foreboding between them. “I’ll reign into my old age and he’ll be a bored prince as I was, with both kingdoms in one bloodline, and peace for his reign.”

  So he said, but he saw fear in Ninévrisë’s eyes, a fate she believed and kept inside her, secret, with her son.

  Her son. His son. His love. His life.

  It took all his courage to face that silence and wait for her to speak.

  “If he’s born,” she said in a trembling voice, “all else is possible.”

  “He will be born. You’ll take care. You’ll use the good sense you had in Amefel, and keep yourself safe. It’s you I love. It’s you I can see and have in my hands, and for the gods’ good love, don’t give our enemies a shot at you. I don’t understand wizards, and prophecies, and what’s foredoomed and what isn’t. I only know what I have to do and that’s keep my promise to you. I’ll give you your kingdom. And we’ll build a great ship, the sort that sails on the sea, and we’ll anchor her in the Lenúalim and we’ll make her our palace…”