Fortress of Dragons

  He embraced it, held it, bound himself to it with a fervor of love.

  “There’s blooms to come,” Uwen said. “These little scraggly ’uns’ll surprise ye, how they shine. Ye don’t see ’em all summer when the great old oaks is leafed. Then you just curse ’em for bein’ brush in your way, but they’ll bloom to theirselves come the first warm days an’ be pretty as maids at festival. Same’s the blackberry vines, as ain’t pleasant to ride into, or to catch your feet if ye’re chasin’ some stray sheep, but they dress fine for spring an’ give ye a fine treat in the summer…ain’t never complained about ’em, me self, if the thorns catch me unawares. As I was a boy, I knew all the patches ’twixt my house an’ the hills, an’ me mum’d bake up cakes… ain’t had the same, since.”

  “I know a few patches,” Crissand said. “I’ll have my folk send you some.”

  “Oh, but ye have to pick ’em yourself, Your Grace, and eat a few as they’re warm in the sun.”

  “Then I’ll show you where they are,” Crissand said, and the earl of Meiden and the captain of Amefel made their plans, as they said, to go blackberrying in the country, so only half the barries might reach the kitchen.

  Their idle chatter, their plans—they held promises and order, too, and Tristen wished with all his heart to go with them and taste the blackberries.

  And about that thought, tenacious as the vines, he feared he had begun to weave a more perilous magic: he had thought of the three of them together, after the battle that was to come, and he had wished, and that wish coming from his heart had as much power as he had bound between himself and the earth. The more he decided not to wish that day to come, the more easily it might not, and the more easily one or all of them might perish beforehand.

  Bind Crissand and Uwen’s fate to his, for good or for ill, and set the integrity of the world at issue in that simple, homely wish of friends to eat blackberries…dared he? Had he done such a fatal, reckless thing?

  That was the peril and the strength of Sihhë magic, that it worked so easily, and fear of what he had done sent him to the threshold of a tortuous course of half-doing and half-undoing that Emuin himself could not riddle out, Emuin who labored over his wizard-work and consulted charts and stars and seasons to which he himself was not bound. The plain fact was that he could wish it, and halfway in and halfway out was an untenably dangerous position.

  Flesh as well as spirit, had not Mauryl said it? He was both.

  “I wish it,” he said suddenly, aloud and with all his heart. “Pray to the gods, if they hear you: we may need it!”

  “My lord?” Crissand asked, alarmed, but Uwen, who was a plain Man, said, quietly:

  “M’lord’s worked a magic, an’ wants help in it; and if prayer’ll do it, why, I’ll dust mine off and do my best, m’lord, that I will.”

  So they rode, after that, sometimes silent, sometimes in converse, talking on things that, like the blackberries, assumed an unaccustomed seriousness.

  In this, perhaps Uwen even more than Crissand and Cevulirn understood how grave the crisis had been in him, and how dangerous the choice he had made. Cevulirn rode up the column to join them a time, not a talkative man on a day less fraught with consequence, and now seeming content to be near them, a presence at the edge of the gray space, as they were to him…perhaps after all Cevulirn had felt more of what happened than seemed likely, and offered his strength, such as it was. They had become friends, beyond that meeting Auld Syes had foretold; and friendship was its own reason now, three of them, their touch at each other in the gray space as solid as their sight of each other in the world, with Uwen to support them all.

  “Getting dark,” Crissand remarked. “We may have to camp in this wood.”

  Tristen shook his head, for he had the sense of a place farther on, where water ran, where one of Pelumer’s men waited. He hoped so, for as they passed into the wood beyond a small ruined wall, shadows ran like ink deep among the trees, and the wood grew colder, the branches seeming to rattle without a wind.

  “Shall we stop?” Uwen asked.

  “No,” he said. “Half an hour more.”

  A glance upward through bare branches gave the only proof day still lingered, and conversations grew quieter, until there was only the crack of dry branches, the scuff of hooves on old leaves, the steady creak of leather. Shadows began to move and flow, Shadows indeed, Tristen thought, and caught Crissand’s sudden turn to try to see one. Cevulirn, too, looked askance, and Uwen took alarm from them.

  “Nothing harmful to us,” he said, though he was less than sure, wary lest the Shadows turn prankish or become more aware of them than they were. As it was, they tended to be harmless: but he reminded himself it was not Amefel, and these were not Shadows he had met before. He had no idea to what authority they did answer, or whether they had any dealings with Ynefel, to the south…or worse.

  Something else, a wisp of something, begged his attention, but was gone when he tried to ask what, and it seemed to him that neither Crissand nor Cevulirn had noticed it. He almost thought it was Ninévrisë, and that thought greatly worried him, as if something might have gone amiss at Henas’amef, something he dared not pursue. He had to trust Emuin for that: he had to remind himself he could not be everywhere, informed on everything at once.

  So they rode a moment more in the silence that followed; but now the trees were thinning to a last curtain of scrub before a meadow, and they crossed a rill that wended its way through the last of them, not to a soggy water-meadow as they had found at their last rest, but by the last of the light, onto grassy dry ground.

  And there one of the Lanfarnesse rangers sat waiting on a flat rock, expecting them, having spied out this place.

  “Safety for the night,” Pelumer rode up to declare, and so it seemed, under the fair evening sky, under the first stars. So Tristen felt some of his fear depart.

  But he cast a glance back at the dark wall of the wood. Strange territory in every sense, and strange musings lurked under those bare branches: Owl had not joined him, and he was anxious, still ahorse, while men waited, looking to him to dismount first.

  He settled the reins and stepped down from Dys’ tall back, landed squarely and looked back a second time, as if he could surprise a Shadow, or Owl, watching him.

  “Is something amiss?” Crissand asked.

  He shook his head. “Disturbed,” he said, and the truth came to him as he began to speak it. “Troubled, but not against us. Still, better here, than among the trees. Better to be who we are. Tasmôrden’s men would fare very badly here, if they came.”

  “They haven’t,” Cevulirn observed.

  “They have not,” Tristen said, but with a sudden dread. It was suddenly sure in his heart that indeed Tasmôrden had moved from where he had last felt his presence, that the main force of the enemy army had moved the other direction from Ilefínian, away from him. That conviction lent a chill to the evening wind, one that made him gather his cloak about him, and wish Cefwyn every protection he could offer.

  “M’lord?” Uwen asked, distracting him. And he felt now pulled in two directions at once, one the desire to bid them all ride on—that was folly: they would defeat themselves if they wore themselves with a further march. And he wished to go back into the woods and learn what moved there, but that, too, was folly. They were well out of it, and lucky, Uwen would say, because with the sinking of the sun, the Shadows gathered in this land to which they were strangers and intruders, and he wished safety on the rangers, that they, too, might go against their habit and come into the camp tonight.

  By twilight the carts creaked and squealed their way about the weedy meadow on the lines of a camp in formation, dumping off tents as they went. Tents already distributed went up like white mushrooms at the edge of an unculled, brush-choked wood in the fading light. Groups of men dug bare earth patches for campfires…not for every man, in this overgrown area, but sufficient: Cefwyn had no wish to burn the wood down to give notice of his presence, but there wa
s no persuading Guelenmen to camp like the Lanfarnesse rangers, and fight on cold rations, either. And there was no concealing the approach of an army that moved with carts. But not every man had a tent tonight, and fewer would have them on the following night. They shed canvas like a snake its skin, and hereafter trusted a handful of carts with the most essential supplies, but every man would carry dry rations, and every man had a good woollen cloak, the king’s gift, that was blanket, litter for the wounded, and windbreak at need. The Guelen book of war insisted the baggage was everything, and that if they lost their heavy gear, the army was doomed; but Guelenfolk nowadays were no longer invaders far from home, and he saw how even his grandfather had relied on old wisdom. Tristen urged otherwise, their feckless lord of shadows and cobwebs, as Idrys had been wont to call him: but not feckless on the battlefield, far from it, and not feckless now, leading an army northward in support of him. Tristen had spoken against carts and baggage and a long wait until spring; and he had gone instead on his own advice, to the very brink.

  Now that things went astray it was Tristen’s advice that guided him, and it was huntsman’s economy he meant to practice: that was how he explained it to lords who had never ridden Ivanim fashion to war. Maudyn was dismayed to hear he meant to abandon the careful fortifications he had made, and worse, to make every individual man responsible for his own food and warmth hereafter. All day long the line of carts on a narrow, perilously forested road had kept Ryssand at his tail, for Ryssand had not been able to maneuver past.

  Ryssand had surely taken the point, for Ryssand had not sent so much as a messenger forward to hack his way through the brush and seek converse with his king. The carts having gotten onto the bridge ahead of Ryssand’s forces, and the army having moved past Lord Maudyn’s camp without stopping, and some of those carts having maneuvered into the road, why, there they were, all day long, moving through wooded land well suited for scattered ambush by archers, but utterly safe from large movements of cavalry such as Tasmôrden commanded. If an army of fools was bound to quarrel in enemy territory, it was an area as forgiving of folly as he could hope for…for this one day.

  After this, dissent became deadly, but he did not count on Ryssand to care overmuch. He did hope to make as much of a fool of Ryssand as he could manage, and be sure the others that might follow his leadership at least knew how recklessly Ryssand conducted himself.

  Now the last contingents arrived: now Ryssand came, with, indeed, Murandys and Nelefreíssan. So the banners declared, as contingent marched in from the wood-girt, well-manured road.

  It was the first look he had had at Ryssand’s forces, and to his mild surprise, indeed, they all came with more than their household guards: they brought all the peasant muster he had once asked for and which he had now as lief not have trammeling up his battle plan…and with those men, they could not keep up with the cavalry as he meant to press them.

  Nor could the Ryssandish peasantry avoid heavy losses in what he was sure their lord meant to do, a certainty that drove all vestige of humor from the situation. There were dead men, very likely not even in Ryssand’s concern. There were men about to make their wives widows and their children orphans and their farms a fallow waste.

  Damn, he said to himself, seeing the trap of his own making. Here were men that should have been left in camp: here were men who should not have advanced farther than Maudyn’s first camp, and who certainly should not march from this one. Here were the innocent, no matter that they were Ryssand’s. It was Ryssand and Ryssand’s house guard on whom he looked blackly, and beyond them, indeed, Ryssand’s own baggage train would come hindmost of all: clearly, once it had become a race for the bridge, the traditional force Ryssand commanded had not a chance of crossing in time, not without deserting his infantry.

  So Cefwyn stood with arms folded and his guard around him, under the red-and-gold Dragon Banner of the Marhanen. Lord Maudyn, too, came from the edge of his notice and joined him, leaving his sons to deal with the camp-making. He was touched by that sensible loyalty, not disappointed in Maudyn’s common sense to see a situation and act, no matter how strange his king’s orders throughout the day.

  But, gods, he missed Idrys in what would ensue in the next few moments. He wished Idrys could have the satisfaction, for one thing, and missed that wry, acerbic, and critical counsel that reasonable men learned to respect.

  Idrys was not here to impose his chilling presence, and so he met these would-be traitors not with his accustomed smile but with Idrys’ own black stare.

  “Late!” he said, before Ryssand could get a single, carping word out of his mouth. “Late, and out of the order of the camp!”

  “Surely Your Majesty knew we would not fail your orders,” Ryssand countered.

  “Did I? Am I a wizard? I think not!” Cefwyn spared a glance at Prichwarrin and the lord of Nelefreíssan, and settled a second, baleful stare on Ryssand. “On the other hand, wizards advise Tasmôrden! Does Cuthan, perchance, give you their advice? Have you brought him? We can begin our war with a hanging. That for a start!”

  “Your Majesty.” Murandys’ dismay at this wideranging attack was no pretense, Cefwyn was sure: Prichwarrin was too cautious a man and Ryssand too grossly affronted to say what he would wish to say. It was too early for them to launch a rebellion; it was possible that Prichwarrin himself was ignorant of what Ryssand planned and Ryssand might not want him to know it. And by the gods he was of no disposition to smooth rebels’ feathers.

  “Have you brought him?” he repeated his question regarding Cuthan, and used his grandfather’s temper, nothing held back. “Parsynan, perhaps, the hero of Amefel. Do I see him in your train?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Ryssand said in cold formality.

  “A pity,” he said with sudden and equal coldness. “Set your tents in what space you can find tonight. I trust after this debacle there’ll be no tardiness on the field.”

  That, imprudently, perhaps, he sent straight to the heart of Ryssand’s intentions, but Ryssand never blanched.

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  On that, Cefwyn began to turn away, allowing them time to show their real expressions, and suddenly spun about and measured one after the other sour face with a long stare, ending with Ryssand, at whom he gazed a long, long moment.

  Then he said in unfeigned disgust: “I need you. Have I your observance of your oaths?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Ryssand said for all the others, with never a blink or a glance down in shame, but Ryssand’s eyes burned.

  “Heavy horse to the center,” he said. “Your infantry to guard the camp.”

  “Your Majesty—”

  “To guard the camp, I say! And your horse to the center! I’ve a notion where I’ll meet that blackguard, if I can rely on my maps…if you have better, provide them.”

  “I’ve received no such information, Your Majesty. Nor have any of us, save from Cuthan, of course, in whom Your Majesty has no confidence.”

  Damn you, he very nearly said. The effrontery was at the surface now, the other barons standing well behind, obscure in the twilight, perhaps asking themselves how far indeed Ryssand was prepared to go. Corswyndam’s temper had almost leapt into flame. It smoldered, it very clearly smoldered. So did his.

  But they were neither of them utter fools.

  “Then expect an encounter tomorrow or the next day,” Cefwyn said shortly, “depending on Tasmôrden’s speed on his own roads. Have your men in order. No drunkenness in the ranks tonight, and early to break camp tomorrow. Here’s the redemption of our differences, sir. Make me your friend. I can be courted.”

  “Your Majesty.” Three heads bowed. Three lords backed as if they were in the throne room, despite the informality of a martial camp, and withdrew to their own counsel.

  He remained with Lord Maudyn and with his bodyguards and Panys’, and told himself he had been laudably calm throughout the encounter, remarkably cold-blooded. Now he found tremors of anger running through his limbs and asked
himself whether he should order Ryssand’s arrest and execution tonight.

  It might bring Nelefreíssan and Murandys into line. It might be the prudent thing. He might survive the action, and Ylesuin might.

  Or might not. Dared he do that, and then lead the army into battle with questions unanswered and regional angers broken wide open? He could not answer what Murandys and Nelefreíssan might do…and that might rest on how much evidence they feared might come to light if he came home again. He had no idea, that was the difficulty.

  March home again to settle matters, his war unfought and Tasmôrden glorying in a temporary victory…that was a mouthful he could not swallow. Ylesuin had not wanted his war, but Ylesuin would come asunder in regional and religious bickering. Ryssand had his supporters among the clergy even yet, and as yet he could prove nothing of his charges against the man but his illicit traffic with Parsynan and the fact he had lodged Cuthan and taken messages from Tasmôrden. Both offended the king’s law, but the fact that Cuthan had betrayed his brother lords in Amefel was nothing at all to Guelenfolk, who detested the Amefin.

  But if Ryssand died, he had, gods help him, Artisane, and whatever man besides his brother he found to sacrifice to that marriage: if Ryssand was a brigand, Artisane was a lying baggage who with a duchess’ title would lie louder and with more credible virulence.

  Two heads at the Guelesfort gate might bring a wholesome silence, vacate the duchy, and take the consequences of unrest and claimants to vacant lands.

  And for a moment Ryssand’s life trembled on the knife’s edge of his temper. But it was wise to consider who would stand with him: Osanan, who had joined them, had been Ryssand’s man in most questions: the lord of Osanan had always inclined himself that way in matters of regional import, the questions of fishing rights and the doctrinist Quinaltines. Where would Osanan stand if he killed Ryssand?