“It’s shameful,” Ninévrisë said now, regarding this latest outrage. “It’s shameful to use the Quinalt that way, and it’s shameful to treat poor Benwyn that way.”
For the Crown itself could not, dared not defend Benwyn too zealously. She knew how delicate a balance that was.
412 / C. J. CHERRYH
“Oh, dear,” said Brusanne, and began that urgent search of her skirts that told of a lost needle. Others began to search, too, about her, through the mountains of fabric around her, for the needles that sewed the pearls were fine and easily lost, and tended to turn up in the folds of the work, to prick the wearer when she next tried the garment on.
“Here it is,” said Margolis, and returned it to the daughter of Panys, who thrust it through the sleeve above her wrist.
“There,” said Brusanne. “I’ll not stab my brother’s bride. I’m sure it’s bad luck.”
“It’s bad luck to say bad luck,” said Bonden-on-Wyk.
“There,” said Luriel, vexed. “Will you not refrain from saying it twice, then?”
BOOK
THREE
C H A P T E R 1
Sergeant Gedd was back from Guelessar, a fortnight past all expectation and after they had all but given him up for lost.
“And glad to be here, m’lord,” Gedd said fervently, reporting to Tristen in the privacy of his apartments. Gedd had surely come straight up from the stables, stopping only to wash the dust from face and hands, for the fair hair about his face was wet, his beard, ordinarily carefully trimmed, had stubble about the sides, and his clothes were spattered with two colors of mud different than any in the stable yard.
In such guise, too, of dirt and disrepute, Gedd handed him a precious and very belated letter. Stripped of coverings of dirty cloth, it emerged cleanly, resplendent with red ribbon and the royal seal. “Forgive me that I’m so late. Word directly from the Lord Commander, too, m’lord, that I have in memory.”
“Tell it to me,” Tristen said. He laid the letter on the desk before him, as Uwen stood near his chair, silent as the brazen dragons. “What happened?”
“Respects first, m’lord, from the Lord Commander, and then this, which is weeks late: that the guardsmen who left the Amefin garrison by your leave have gone to the Quinalt for protection and so has the patriarch of Amefel. The Lord Commander says to tell Your Grace kindly give him no more such gifts. His words, my lord, as he said them, forgive me.”
416 / C. J. CHERRYH
He could all but hear Idrys say it, and he was glad it was no sharper barb. He knew he deserved one.
But weeks late. He had no more recent news and had feared to send.
“And from His Majesty,” Gedd said, “who says to tell Your Grace that the patriarch of Amefel put the Holy Father in a difficult position, and that there’s trouble in the Quinaltine.
Those were His Majesty’s words. Trouble in the Quinaltine.
He said tell Your Grace that His Reverence has friends in Ryssand.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes, my lord. He gave me the letter with his own hand, and I was straight off and away.”
“But late.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why?” Uwen asked, from the side and behind, and Gedd cast an anxious look in his direction.
“I had someone on my trail. I took up to the hills. But…Your Grace might want to hear…talk started about the tavern…”
“Tell me everything,” Tristen said. “Don’t hurry.”
Gedd drew a breath. He was a strong man and a good soldier: it was from exhaustion, surely, that his hand shook as he raked back the damp hair. “Priests are going about the town preaching, talking against wizards and Bryaltines and generally against the war, that’s one thing. There’s talk among the people against Amefel and Her Grace as a bad influence on the king, and the war as costing too much, being too dangerous, and bringing honest Guelenmen among wizards and heretics. That’s everywhere.”
It was dire news. And unjust. Cefwyn was good. What he did was good, and they said as unkind things about him as they said about Heryn Aswydd.
“Everyone says so?” he asked.
“Say that it’s safer to say that than to praise His FORTRESS OF OWLS / 417
Majesty,” the sergeant said, “on account of His Majesty’s friends don’t damn you to hell or look at you as would curdle milk.
There’s ugliness in the town, and it’s got knives, m’lord.”
“He’s in danger.”
“As I’d say, and as the Lord Commander knows, and I think His Majesty knows. But,” Gedd said, “His Majesty rode against the dark at Lewen field, such as none of the layabouts complaining never had to face, and if a common man can say, m’lord, there’s a king.”
“He is that,” Tristen said, and added, half to convince himself,
“and if he knows, then he’ll deal with it.”
“Only so’s he guards ’is back,” Uwen said, “against Ryssand.”
“And you were attacked?” Tristen asked.
“Not as it were attacked,” Gedd said, “only there were men after me that I knew was the Lord Commander’s, and then they weren’t there, and these were, and they weren’t his. And right or wrong I decided a late message was better than no message and went to ground. There’s a nasty mood even to the villages, such as I was glad I wasn’t wearing Amefin colors on the way in. Safer to be a common traveler, out of Llymaryn, says I, as I came into Guelessar: they’re pious down there, left and right, and I know the brogue. And being Guelen,” Gedd added, “I could get through. On the way back, I gave up being Llymarish and in the open and just hid and moved as I could…I let my horse go. Master Haman says he’s not made it here; he might have run for his old pastures, up by Guelemara. And the one the Lord Commander’s men gave me…no telling where he is.
I walked.”
“Well ye did,” Uwen said, “by that account.”
“The other news—” Something came to Gedd, on a 418 / C. J. CHERRYH
deep breath. “The other news, which may not be news, now: Murandys’ daughter’s to marry Panys’ son, by the by. She’s come back to court, and she’s betrothed to Rusyn of Panys.”
“Luriel?” He had heard of the lady in his days in Guelessar, and that she had been Cefwyn’s almost-betrothed, and had left to something like exile.
That she had come back to court was surely no good news.
“Come on His Majesty’s invitation,” Gedd went on, “as had to be, of course. Her Grace met her in the face of all the court and took her amongst her women. This isn’t what His Majesty told me, but it’s what I heard in the town, and I heard it in more than one place, so I take it for true. And the Lord Commander isn’t himself daunted, but it was his instruction to wrap the message up in rags and shove it deep in the rocks or heave it down a well if I thought I was followed. And I thought of that. But I thought I could get it through.”
“Well-done in that,” Uwen said, “too. —Ye were careful what ye said, yourself, I wager. Was it in Guelessar ye picked up these followers?”
“Captain, I swear to you, my tavern-going was discreet.
Between talking to the Lord Commander immediately as I reached the town and being called to His Majesty the same night, in secret, in all that time I had the Lord Commander’s men close by. I gave out freely that I was a courier, but I said I was from Llymaryn, and hoped I didn’t meet a Llymarishman, which I didn’t. After I had my meeting with His Majesty and left the Guelesfort, I had the Lord Commander’s men in the street, them as I knew were his, while I nabbed my gear and my horse from the tavern where I’d left him. And I had the Lord Commander’s men on the street, too, and out past the gate, where they gave me a horse besides my own that they’d brought. That was
FORTRESS OF OWLS / 419
how they watched over me, and I took the warning, m’lord, and was watching my back, when one hour they were there and the next was a pair of riders coming up on me. That morning was when
I saw a third show up, and I ran hard and sent my horses one way and I went to ground, right then. The rest was walking, mostly at night.”
“And gettin’ the better of the Lord Commander’s men,” Uwen said with a shake of his head. “That ain’t ordinary bandits. And from the town. I’d almost say there’s a man amongst ’em as ain’t on the straight. That’s too damn quick.”
“We can’t warn him,” Tristen said in distress, “except by another messenger.”
“I’d trust the Lord Commander to figure it. His men ain’t fools, but I’d lay to it one’s a scoundrel.”
“I wish he may find out,” Tristen said, with all intent, such that the gray space shivered.
“And you an’ I’ll have a talk,” Uwen said to Sergeant Gedd,
“an’ a healthy sup of ale, an’ see what little things ye might know else, if there’s any ye’ve forgot. Besides which, ye’re due the cup, and a good horse, as I’m sure His Grace will say.”
“I do,” Tristen said, his thoughts meanwhile ranging to Guelen hills, and ambushes, and Idrys, with Ryssand’s men insinuated into every council, in among the priests, likely; and now spying on Idrys’ spies.
“Thank you, Captain. My lord.”
“Thank you,” Tristen said fervently, and as Uwen gathered up the sergeant and showed him out, he uneasily cracked the seal with a small knife, and spread out the letter that had been so long in coming.
My dear friend, it began, which he heard as warmly as if Cefwyn had said it aloud. The weather has held remarkably well. We are now moving supply.
The good sergeant who carries this letter will have 420 / C. J. CHERRYH
other, more common news for you. I should say that Her Grace is well and sends you her love and her great thanks for your rescue of her subjects, and I send also my approval of all you have done.
Yet I pray you recall the Quinalt steps and the means by which a very little thing became a great controversy. You must know that various persons returning from Amefel have spread rumors concerning the people’s regard for you, and the open display of Sihhë symbols in the market, which I am sure is true. They were doing it this summer. But remember that certain men hold all that is Amefin in great fear, and the tale of strange doings on your riding out to meet Ivanor has reached the Quinaltine, although it is possible that the story has grown in the telling.
Grown and grown, Tristen thought. He was part of the discontent among Cefwyn’s subjects, and the source of trouble with the Quinalt, and now a messenger going to the king went in fear for his life. He did not know how to mend it.
Her Grace takes great encouragement in your support of Elwynim women and children. I find encouragement knowing you are doing as you have always done in defending them, and I give you all authority you may require to secure them a safe haven.
There are many things I would write, but the messenger is waiting.
We hope that Emuin is well. This cold damp always makes his joints ache, and we hope he is keeping himself well and warm.
This, in full knowledge of Emuin’s habits with the shutters.
We are close now to the Midwinter and wait for spring. You, not being Aswydd, I hold not therefore bound by the prohibitions laid on the Aswydds. I hold that your preparations against incursions from the FORTRESS OF OWLS / 421
north are in accordance with your oath to defend the land. To this I set my seal, below, with all love and confidence in your just use of that authority.
Cefwyn gave him liberty then to defend the helpless, clearly aware of disaffection in his own Guelenfolk on his account, and still adding to his authority…but it was not alone Aeself and his men, but enough scattered bands to double the settlement at Althalen…so Drusenan had sent word two days ago.
Bands of Elwynim loyal to the lady Regent or opposed to Tasmôrden—they were not quite the same—had avoided the bridge that had stood open with Guelen and Ivanim forces on the watch, as a potential trap. Women and children and the old and lame had come that way as the only way they knew how to take, but the fugitives from the lines at Ilefínian were veteran men and wary of what seemed too easy. They had crossed the icy waters at other points, however great the effort; they had kept their weapons and sought refuge with sympathetic Amefin, who had sent them to Drusenan, and Drusenan had directed them to Althalen—for they refused to go to the Guelen camp and turn in their weapons to Guelenmen: Drusenan had sent an anxious message, but the accommodation had been peaceful, even counting two different loyalties amid the armed bands…their situation was so desperate, fearing Tasmôrden and with their own lord lost, they declined to fight each other.
Walls were up at Althalen, so Drusenan had also said in his report, and two roofed halls stood, built of the tumbled rubble and the still-standing ruin, one hall for the women and children and one for the men, dividing some households in the need for quick and snug shelter, and flinging Ninévrisë’s men in with those who were otherwise minded. The Elwynim doubtless wished better, but they had not yet built bet 422 / C. J. CHERRYH
ter, and had to work together to have the roofs they did have.
The birth of a child in the camp, Drusenan had written, seemed to have brought men to some better sense.
But Drusenan had sent word, too, written for him, for Drusenan was better at building than at writing: Some of Her Grace’s men ask to settle a camp on the river and attack Tasmôrden from there, but I have not agreed, believing Your Grace to hold a contrary opinion. What shall I say to them?
Refuse them, he had sent back that same day, and urgently.
They will have their day, and justice done, but not yet.
There were more men now than women in Althalen, with horses, and grain was now a matter of critical need. Cevulirn’s men had ridden home after their seven days of watch at the bridge, with the lives of fifty-eight women, old men, wounded, and children saved at that crossing and now settled at Althalen; Drusenan’s men at least now had the help of the Elwynim who were whole of body, who carried supply on their backs, and who hewed wood and raised their walls with little grumbling and in decent gratitude.
Gratitude flourished far better there, it seemed, than in the streets of Guelemara.
We have missed you, Cefwyn’s letter said, a postscript, below the seal.
The pigeons are in deep mourning. I have taken to feeding them myself. I have become superstitious on their account.
He could scarcely imagine. Cefwyn had so many important other concerns.
The weather continues to amaze me. I think of your urging after Lewenbrook and yet I know well the hazards if we had proceeded.
FORTRESS OF OWLS / 423
Below the seal Cefwyn the king had fallen silent and at that point his friend had begun to write to him, a hasty scrawl, an outpouring of the heart after he had said everything so carefully, so discreetly. What followed was not discreet.
In some measure I trusted your urgings then and wished to go on across the river, and yet I see around me the disaffections and distrust that would have rendered all we might do ineffectual to assure a just and true peace. Talk to Emuin. I would that I could. Consult with Cevulirn. I recommend him as a friend and a wise man.
Then the handwriting changed, and grew more careful.
I add one other thing: some see in you the fulfillment of Elwynim prophecy. I have been aware of this from the start. If you are the one I think you are, no matter how dark, you have no less of my love and regard, which I hope you have in kind for me.
This Emuin advised me to win for myself, and it was the wisest advice and best he ever gave me.
Cefwyn knew it all, and trusted him, and was not angry.
It was a precious letter, and Tristen sat with his hands on it as if that in itself could bridge the distance and place his hands in Cefwyn’s hands. His heart beat hard, a knot stopped his throat, and he heard again the bells that had rung the hour they had parted, the wild pealing, so joyous, when there was nothing of joy for either of them in the hour, but only for
their enemies.
His pigeons had sprung aloft, the banners had flown bravely on the wind, but in that hollow pealing of bronze, the warmest thing in the world had been Cefwyn’s embrace, and the look Cefwyn had flung him eye-to-eye before the Quinaltine steps.
You have no less of my love, Cefwyn wrote now.
424 / C. J. CHERRYH
And the world became warm and safe for a heartbeat.
Win Cefwyn’s friendship, Emuin said, but he did not take Cefwyn’s reassurance to fulfill that, not entirely, not truly, in the magical sense. Emuin had given his advice, and like Mauryl’s advice, it struck at the root of intentions, not at the flower.
And both root and the flower were important to him, one having to do with what one meant to do…and the other, most fearsome, with the outcome of it.
With all his heart he wished to write back to Cefwyn…but considering the message within Idrys’ message, the way he had protected Gedd, and the danger Gedd had run to reach him, the exchange they had already had exposed not only the messenger but Cefwyn and Ninévrisë to danger. If their enemies did not know the content of the message, at least they knew a message had come and gone, and at such a time.
He had no news worth the risk of the bearer’s life. The business with the bridge was done: in spite of Idrys’ urgent message to send him no more gifts…he had to fear he had: all the discontent carters who had labored in one service after another, who might even as he sat here be telling their tale of Elwynim and walls and settlements at Althalen in every tavern in Guelemara.
There was nothing he could do but wish Cefwyn’s people to see the truth, and to know their welfare lay more with their king who wished an honest, lasting peace, than with Ryssand, whose wishes were tangled and dark with hatred, some for Cefwyn, but far, far more of it for the Bryaltines and the Teranthines and everything southern…himself not least or last in that reckoning. There was fertile ground for hostile wizardry, or ambitious, or greedy, or any that did not scruple to use a hateful, hating man.