“Your own banner to join them, sir, and be welcome, as you were in the summer.”
“Good news out of Amefel, after a great deal of bad. I’ve watched this business since summer in no good heart.
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I was glad to hear the call. I have wagons, with the winterage of a company of a hundred, and other men disposed on various byways among the villages. My rangers know the intrusions to the west, and the gathering at Althalen, not spying, I trust you’ll know, but being aware you have forces there, sir, being aware is all.”
A hundred men, not five. Lanfarnesse fielded few men, and despite all assurances managed never to fight in the field.
What Lanfarnesse knew before any battle, however, might pay for all, and though Pelumer had fallen out of the favor he had once enjoyed with Cefwyn, perhaps, Tristen thought, his heart beating more quickly—perhaps these elusive few men never belonged on a battlefield.
“At Althalen,” Tristen said, “Elwynim have settled, and we supply them. But you know that, too.”
“Ah,” Pelumer said as if he were surprised. He turned evasive the moment anyone asked him his men’s doings, and that had repeatedly angered Cefwyn, to the point their alliance was in jeopardy.
But these were not heavily armored men who fought in the Guelen way.
“Settle your men where you will, sir. At Althalen or here, or any lands between.”
That did catch a glance, a second, even alarmed assessment.
“Where you will,” Tristen repeated. “For their best service to us.”
“I take you at your word,” Pelumer said, and earnestly so.
In his youth Pelumer had been first to the taking of Althalen, Tristen recalled, and forever after had the right of precedence over all the lords of Ylesuin, north or south. Selwyn Marhanen had valued him…but Ináreddrin and Cefwyn, steeped in the Guelen way of war, had ordered him.
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“I need you,” Tristen said from the depths of his heart.
“Welcome, Lord Pelumer.”
“Amefel,” Pelumer said with uncommon warmth, and clasped his hand in both of his. “Well, well, we’re here with our finery, for a feast. Where shall we lodge?”
“Olmern is south and Imor is east. The west is free, and warmest. Come, if you will. I’ll bring you there.”
Pelumer had wounded him once, when he had overheard how Pelumer spoke of him, and then was friendly to his face.
But Pelumer went in gray and green through a forest; he had no less skill to put on the right face with every man: so Tristen saw, and forgave him his past offense. Pelumer learned most from men who thought Pelumer was of their opinion, and what Pelumer did then was the important thing.
There were only the horses, and them, Haman’s lads attended; Pelumer himself took up the light saddle kit he brought, and ordered his banner set beside the others on the wall.
“Olmern reported the forest darker and sadder than ever,”
Tristen said, as they went up the steps together, his guard and Pelumer’s easy in company and admitted to confidences. “Did you see it so?”
“Remarkable if not,” Pelumer said. “It’s very lawabiding, Marna’s verge, at least in Crown law. The bandits all are dead.
We’ve found them by ones and twos, fallen in hazards sane men would avoid. A rash of bad luck, or the like. I’ll not risk my men in the heart of it. I trust it does very well by itself.”
“Do you think it does well?”
“You would know that sooner than I, if it were otherwise, would you not, sir?”
“I think I would.”
“Ghosts aplenty walk that woods. The old trees have their roots amongst far too many bones.”
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A gloomy sort of converse it was, but it lent a vision of the Pelumer who had served the first Marhanen…wary now, having saved his life when many another had died, and having lived long enough to be a repository of old lore, interesting tidbits—and warnings.
“We should have crossed this summer,” Pelumer said. “So I told the king.”
It wanted only Cevulirn. And the day went on toward dark, cloudless and still.
The lords had rested since their arrival. Now they began to ready themselves for the festivities of this day of welcoming, and servants ran to and fro with buckets of hot water for baths, buckets and towels, turning the stairs treacherous. Others mopped, lest someone slip, while still other servants laid fresh fragrant evergreen along the tables in the great hall.
The musicians warmed their instruments by the fire, sending up a disordered, somehow soothing sound. One tuned a drum.
Tristen walked the circuit of the great hall with Uwen at his heels, assuring himself that everything was in order to accommodate the guests that he did have, and trying not to worry for the one yet to come. Certainly he had no need to remind Emuin of the doings in hall. Tassand had taken Emuin his festive robe, and Paisi was in and out and among the preparations downstairs in a beatific anticipation of cakes.
Tristen himself stole a morsel from a platter, and Uwen had one, too.
“Not to spoil supper,” Uwen said with a wink, “only to stave off the pangs, and make sure the ale don’t land in an empty spot. All’s ready. Be easy, m’lord.”
The timely arrivals were, as he had heard from Lord Umanon by way of Tassand, no accident: Cevulirn had FORTRESS OF OWLS / 471
prudently appointed the day before Midwinter Eve as the day by which they all should arrive…and on Cevulirn’s word these lords had set forces on the road and traveled ahead, themselves, trusting that there would be a camp, there would be stabling, there would be food and firewood and all such things as they needed without their transporting it over winter roads.
All these men had trusted him, and committed men to be encamped here in the uncertain weather. More, the men with them were separated from their homes during the festive season, either here with their lords or still out on the roads, and by Uwen’s attentive management the earliest come had their feast: the garrison set up a tent for the lords’ men the same as the festive tents for the town, and under it the garrison’s cooks prepared to serve kettles of uncommonly thick stew and baskets of bread, and kegs of ale bought from every tavern.
That was to last all through the holiday, and to repeat for every contingent to arrive. It set the men in good cheer.
And just as the sun was at its last, the gate bell rang, heralding their last, most welcome visitors.
“The White Horse!” one of Haman’s lads ran in to say, wide-eyed. “The Lord of Ivanor, and all his men!”
It was not all the men of Ivanor, but certainly a goodly number, bringing their tents on packhorses. They set to work making camp on last summer’s site even as their lord, in a fine gray cloak, and dressed fit for a lord’s hall, rode up through the town.
Cevulirn had not failed the day, after all, but had come exactly at the last of the daylight. In the dusk one of Haman’s lads set the White Horse of Ivanor in its place on the wall, and in the firelight from below
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the creatures of the banners tricked the eye, as if they were be-spelled to life.
Crissand arrived, and Drumman and Azant, all the lords who had come to the shrines and the tombs of the East Court, and now trooped in, all in modest finery—no extravagance in these days—and met the lords of the south with open arms and honest delight.
It was the best, the most wonderful sight. Tristen came to Crissand in particular, for Crissand had ridden out to his villages and made it back again, hard riding, for this night before Midwinter Eve.
“You came,” Tristen said, and Crissand:
“I’d have ridden through drifts, my lord: as it was, I followed tracks on a fair road and fell in with Ivanor.”
The old keep rang with voices. Outside, the several courtyards were all packed with guests and their entourages going here, going there, with horses being brought uphill and down and food
being sent out.
It felt as lively as it had felt in the summer…but then had been days of dust and sweat. Now the nip of winter was still potent enough at night to sting cheeks of arriving guests to ruddy color.
And the smell of spices, rich meats and bread baking wafted through the gathering, while the pungent scent of juniper fought that of horses and leather and wool…all these things were in the air when Cevulirn, arriving last in the hall, accepted the embrace of brother lords, both Amefin and otherwise.
“We are all here,” Tristen said, and felt something settling, solid as stone and almost as old, into place. He had his hands one on Cevulirn’s shoulder and one on Crissand’s, as he turned and faced his guests.
The gray space flared before him, a bright flash of light. We are all here, rang through the wizardous air and touched Emuin in his tower, and rang all the way to Assurnbrook.
C H A P T E R 4
The morning of Midwinter Eve dawned pearl and pink, fit for a wedding…and that well-omened weather together with the event was a relief so great Cefwyn had difficulty to keep a silly cheerfulness from his face, even with the necessity of wearing the Crown and the royal regalia.
They were marrying off Luriel of Murandys. He wished to smile at everyone.
Most of all he smiled at his royal wife, likewise bedight in her regal finery, with the circlet crown of the Regent of Elwynor on her brow…for they had reached this day without a rift between them and in good sorts. And by his order, Ninévrisë, whose small court all attended the bride this morning, went attended not by ladies, but by the martial display of Dragon Guard, the whole power of the Crown, and a very clear statement for all witnesses both that the king held her very dear…and that she did not attend Luriel this morning.
It was for the lesser lights, the maids and matrons of the court, to be sure all the requisite things, the book of devotions, the sprig of broom, the small packet of salt, and the pinch of grain, found their way into the bride’s possession, disposed about her person in various traditions old as time.
“I’ve made her gown,” Ninévrisë had said with 474 / C. J. CHERRYH
acerbity, in deciding not to attend the bride’s robing. “Her kin may see her into it.”
Peace had prevailed just down to the night before, so Cefwyn had heard, when Luriel had gone into a fit of temper about her shoes, which had turned out too small, despite careful measuring. Luriel’s feet hurt, and now the unfortunate shoemaker went in fear for his life and trade.
“She ate this sweet and that,” Ninévrisë said, “and she would have the shoes the finest, the daintiest when she had the measure taken, oh, no, no grace given, all advice disregarded.
We heard a thousand times how all her house has dainty hands, dainty feet. Now the shoes pinch. Pray, shall I pity her, or the shoemaker?”
“Mark that man, and I’ll order a pair of boots,” Cefwyn vowed. Ninévrisë had extended the utmost of tolerance and kindness to Luriel of Murandys, and now when she should be most grateful, the bride had thrown a tantrum about the shoes and flung scissors and a sewing basket in Ninévrisë’s presence.
“Plague take Luriel,” he thought, and said. But he wished honest good fortune to the bridegroom, young Rusyn, and had sent him a prayer book, a kingly gift, and traditional for a young Quinalt groom. His friends, besides, would present him a silver dagger, and a sprig of rue, the groom’s other gifts. Young Panys would bathe in water brought in from Panys, without benefit of warming, and commit the first shavings of his beard, saved for this purpose, to a holy fire.
All these customs the groom bore with, and the pranks besides, which Rusyn was likely not spared: the king of Ylesuin at his wedding had had only a boot stuffed with stockings when he tried to put it on, Annas’ doing, he was sure…but to his disappointment no one else had ventured a wedding joke, not even his brother.
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Now…
Only have us through the day, Cefwyn prayed as they went down the stairs from the royal apartments toward the lower hall. Holiday evergreen entwined the balustrades.
Midwinter Eve for a wedding night and Midwinter Day for a first morning, the night of changes and the morning of a new year…omens of ending one thing and beginning another made it not an unpopular day for weddings, and sure, there were two more to follow today in the Quinaltine, notable sons and daughters within the town and the outlying villages, which the Holy Father would also perform.
Cefwyn kept Ninévrisë’s hand in his as they descended into the gathering wedding party at the foot of the stairs—he smiled on the well-wishers, on Lord Maudyn, the father of the groom, and even on Prichwarrin Lord Murandys, who was trying to seem both cheerful and calm: the smile seemed entirely to unnerve him, and that was pleasant.
There was an exchange, stiffly formal, of courtesies and well-wishes, a small cup of fine wine all around, drunk standing, the cups a gift and a tradition of the midlands, Panys’ lands.
Then the entire party went down the outside steps and gathered up Efanor and his guards. The Lord Commander joined them, wearing his ordinary black, even for weddings.
Outside, where the processional formed, all the lords in the Guelesfort had turned out in their winter finery, ladies in wide skirts and no few of the simpler variety, in Ninévrisë’s fashion.
Maidens bore juniper boughs and gave playful lashes to young gentlemen in their path, where amorous young gentlemen deliberately contrived to be: there was marriage-luck in the exchange.
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Trumpets sounded thinly and a little sharp in the cold air, but the pearl and pink of the sky had given way to a bright, fair, glorious blue, and outside the iron gates of the Guelesfort and all along the way, puddles reflected that sky on scrubbed limestone pavings—at least in the aisle the guards kept safe, for the whole town had come for the festivities, the food, and the sights. Tradesmen and sweeps alike rubbed elbows—maids crowded close, to have a glimpse of the passing show. Custom had it that seeing a bride and groom was lucky…and this one, so far-famed a scandal of royalty and nobility, brought onlookers to a frenzy of excitement, waving kerchiefs through the grillwork and shouting out wishes of a sort to make a bride blush.
Those cheers rang off the high walls of the Quinaltine across the way, more fervent wishes than when their king had married a foreign bride: Cefwyn prayed Ninévrisë failed to make that comparison.
The quantity of ale flowing by now had something to do with it, surely—not an extravagance, yet, for they wanted no drunken truth affronting the peace. The penny largesse had found wild favor, so Annas had said, and the crowd now was in a giving mood. Cups spilling ale froth lifted high among the crowd as the royal banners swept by—the king and his consort must by law walk before all others. Then Efanor must follow; and only after the royal family came the bride and groom, who were honored for their day above all the lords of Ylesuin.
So they walked amid cheers and the press of the crowd, on the short processional course that wound along the wall of the Quinaltine and around to the right, to the center of its now pigeonless steps.
Hands reached continually past the guards. Cefwyn reached out his own right hand, and Ninévrisë her left, FORTRESS OF OWLS / 477
brushing unwashed fingertips, and this brought a great surge forward, of sick folk seeking cures, of common folk seeking luck for their ventures. So they would wish to be touched by the bride and groom, as well, for good fortune and a cure for childlessness on this auspicious day.
The Quinalt doors, too, were decked out with evergreen and berries, and as they walked up into the great shrine the place was alight with hundreds of white candles and echoing with high, pure voices. The panoply of Murandys and that of Panys were both in evidence all about, the colors of both noble houses draping the altar and the rails, and wound about the columns to which the banner-bearers customarily retreated.
Cefwyn reached his place in the first row of seats with Ninévrisë and Efanor. The trumpets cont
inued to peal as lord after lord behind them found their way into the shrine, each one with a flourish of trumpets.
Idrys joined them, privilege of the Lord Commander to slip into the first row from the side, and without ceremony: he was within the royal party. Then came the groom’s relatives, with Lord Maudyn of Panys, and the sole representatives from Murandys, Lord Prichwarrin, with young Lady Odrinian.
Above all the pageantry was the patched hole where rain no longer found an entry…not an elegant patch, but sufficient to winter weather: after the workers had risked life and limb, the Quinalt was dry and free of drafts, and the weather fair, even warmish for the season, making the air close, candle-scented, perfumed with warring perfumes, and the smell of incense which never quite left the place.
Cefwyn braced his knees back against the seat and stood, and stood, through all the filing-in. It was the tiresome protocol which dictated that, contrary to the custom of the court, in the Quinalt the king, who
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could not kneel, stood or sat, and since the nobles were still filing in and the king’s back was to the company, it was therefore the duty of royalty and the high nobles to stand…and stand, under the heavy royal regalia. Cefwyn’s eyes wandered, while he kept his face straight ahead. As the benches filled, the air grew warmer and the echoes changed from the hollow quaver of an empty vault to the soft muted stir of many bodies.
One learned to judge, even counting the flourishes or watching the signal of the preceptor, that the benches were approaching full.
It was enough waiting. Cefwyn made his decision, and sat, and Ninévrisë sat, and Idrys and Efanor sat, and then the court, with a general rustling and sighing.
Cefwyn looked beside him, found that wonderful small smile and that dimple at the edge of Ninévrisë’s mouth that told him she was in exceedingly fine humor even yet, anxious to be through this. Beyond her, Efanor was resolute and brooding in profile, beyond Idrys’ dark-mustached visage…Efanor was thinking, perhaps, on Ryssand’s daughter and his own prospective marriage: that was reason enough for a grim, worried countenance.