Текст книги "Fortress in the Eye of Time"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

“I don’t see how it should, sir.”

“Do you not remember things? Isn’t that what you told me—that you hear names and you know them?”

“That’s true. But some Words—time after time they mean nothing to me, and then, on a certain day, in a certain way, they—unfold.”

“Unfold.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And has the word Sihhé unfolded at all to you?”

“It—” It did trouble him. That Word lay out of reach. He knew it was there, that Name, and that he had part of it, but not all. “I think that I might be Sihhé. People in the garden mostly said so.”  “And therefore you believe it?”

“No, m’lord. I don’t know what it means. —Can books be wrong?”

“Egregiously wrong. And mislead men—egregiously.”

“Like lying.”

“Or making mistakes.”

“I make mistakes. I make far too many, —Mauryl said. And I still do.

Don’t be angry at Uwen.”

“You say you’re not a wizard.”

“No, sir. I’m not.”

“Then what would you be? If you could choose—what would you be?

A prince? A king?”

“On the whole, sir, —I think I had rather be Haman.”

Cefwyn’s chin rested on his hand as he listened. A crook of Cefwyn’s finger came up over his lips, repressing what might be a smile. Almost.

“You are remarkable,” Cefwyn said. “Rather be a stablemaster.”

“I’ve said something foolish.”

“And honest. Can you yet read that book of yours? The one Mauryl gave you?”

“No, m’lord Prince. I can’t. I tried, this afternoon. But I can’t.”

“Are you my Friend, Tristen?”

It was a Word, a warm and good one. “Yes, m’lord Prince, if you like.”

“Had you a name once, besides the one Mauryl gave you?”

“None that I know, sir.” He could hear his heart beating. Suddenly he was tired, very tired, and wanted to sleep, although sleep had been the farthest thing from his mind a short breath before.

“Tristen, tell me, why did you come to Henas’amef rather than, say, to Emwy?”

“It seemed the right way.”

“Does it still seem so?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You might have lived at Althalen before Mauryl called you forth. I should tell you—you most likely did. Hundreds of the Sihhé died at Althalen. Elfwyn died there. Mauryl and Emuin were there, and they helped my grandfather, Selwyn Marhanen, become King of Ylesuin. They killed Elfwyn and his queen and all the Sihhé they could find for three years after. Does this surprise you?”

He was afraid. He wanted Cefwyn to talk about something else. “I’d not heard that, sir, no.”

“There was fire. The hold of Althalen burned. And you smelled the smoke when we rode there. You remembered how to ride. You were a most certainly a horseman, and a fine one. You’re clearly a scholar, versed in letters and philosophy. You have graces that mark you as well-born. Your speech is liker Amefin than not, but then, you learned it of Mauryl, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Tristen said. Surmises flooded at him, too many to think of and still follow Cefwyn’s skipping from point to point.

“My father is King,” Cefwyn said. “I shall be. I by no means know what Mauryl intended in sending you here. Many in this province of Amefel would be pleased to see me dead. Would that please you? More to the point, —would it have pleased Mauryl?”

“No, sir.” He found it hard to breathe. “It would not. I don’t think so.”

“The medallion I gave you. Do you still wear it?”

“Yes, sir.” Tristen felt it against his skin. “Do you wish it back, m’lord Prince? I didn’t know—”

“No, no, wear it. Wear it every day. Let me show you another.” There was a small table beside Cefwyn’s chair, and Cefwyn took from it a white medallion on a gold chain woven with pearls. Cefwyn leaned forward to show it to him. “This is Ninévrisé. Did Mauryl ever mention that name?”

“No, sir. Not at all.” He steadied the medallion slightly with his fingertips. It was a beautiful face. It was no one he knew. But he liked to look at it. “She has a kind face.”

Cefwyn leaned back again, put the medallion again on the table. “Her father is regent of Elwynor. He offers her to me in Marriage.”

Marry. Marriage. Husband. Wife. Bed.

Children.

“Will you Marry her?” he asked.

“I did consider it. That we were attacked at Emwy, that things have gone amiss in that area—might be because certain Elwynim are opposed to it. Or it might be because certain Amefin are opposed to it.”  “Do you wish to marry her?”

Cefwyn’s brows lifted, if only mildly, and he took a sip of wine. “It would certainly set certain teeth on edge. You understand—lords marry not for love but to get heirs. And an heir of both Elwynor and Ylesuin would be very powerful.”

It was a nest of Words. Of ideas. He listened.

“Equally,” Cefwyn said, “a prince to rule well and long needs a loyal group of lords on whom he can rely. You said, did you not, Tristen, that you would be my friend? You would Defend me from my enemies?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you Swear that in the sight of strangers?”

Swearing was a word about gods, and it fluttered about Truth and Lies and making strong promises. It was wider than that, much wider, and the threads kept running off into the dark, so he knew it was a large idea; but it felt entirely reasonable: of course he should defend Cefwyn, if someone tried to harm him.

“Yes,” he said. And that pleased Cefwyn greatly. Cefwyn looked to have set aside the worry he had had in asking him.

“Do you hear?” Cefwyn asked in a loud voice of Idrys, who had been talking with Uwen over at the table. “Do you hear, Idrys? He will swear to defend Ylesuin’s heir.”

Idrys left the table. So did Uwen. Tristen stood up, then, as Cefwyn did. He had thought the declaration of no great moment, but Cefwyn thought so, and Idrys frowned and looked not quite so pleased with the matter.

“And keep his oath?” Idrys said. “Can you keep an oath, sir wizard?”

“I am no wizard,” Tristen said. “And, yes, sir, I know what it means.”

Cefwyn went to the table, where he dipped pen in ink and wrote something rapidly on parchment. Tristen stood up and walked over to watch as Cefwyn heated sealing-wax over a candle and dripped it onto the parchment. He impressed his seal on it. “Call Margolis,” he said.

“She can keep a matter to herself. And we have not that much time.

Tristen has agreed to swear me his allegiance, and you—” he said, looking at Tristen. “You will have a name, hereafter, sir, subject to my father’s confirmation—which I do not think he will withhold. By my grant the lordship of Ynefel and of Althalen is filled. Tristen, Mauryl’s sole and undisputed heir, inherits. Both holdings are within my jurisdiction. The grant is, subject to the King’s will, lawful.”

“And will the Quinalt stand to bless this?” Idrys asked. “Or had you rather the witch of Emwy?”

“Their little storm will pass, master crow, as all storms do. And these Amefin rebels will have a new bone to gnaw; so will the Elwynim. Damn me, but they will!”

“My lord,” Tristen protested, bewildered in this debate of his fortunes and the approval of people he by no means knew; but Cefwyn’s hand closed on his shoulder and Cefwyn hugged him close in a way Mauryl might have done, which quite shocked him, and touched his heart and chased thought from his head.

“You will stand by me,” Cefwyn said. “This is my friend, master crow.

Treat him well, Emuin said, and do I not? Lord Warden of Ynefel, Lord High Marshal of Althalen, Tristen aetheling, entitled to the honors and arms and devices thereof.”

“Oh, the Aswydds will be delighted,” Idrys said.

“Be still, crow. Margolis will see to all the details. She’ll work the night through.” A second time Cefwyn pressed his shoulder. “Tristen, HI send such servants as a lord might need. And, Uwen, —”  “M’lord.”

“Have extreme care that they are Guelen servants. None of the Amefin, by any mischance. And no word of what we’ve agreed. Not to them. Not where you could be overheard by anyone. —And no wandering about without sufficient guard. Certain people will not be pleased by this. —Go, good night, good rest. —Uwen, I release you from your personal oath to me; you’ll stay in my guard; I set you over his household, gods witness he will need you—give your oath to him and gods keep you. —Tristen, keep that medal I gave you about your neck day and night.”

“Yes, m’lord Prince.” Tristen made a bow, on his best manners. “Thank you.” He went with Uwen, who lingered for a bow of his own, and so to the doors, which Uwen opened, and let them out to the foyer.

The inner doors closed behind Tristen and his man.

The outer doors closed, after that, assuring privacy within the apartment.

Alone with Idrys, Cefwyn looked in his direction, finding exactly the expression he expected to find—which was no expression at all.

“Well?” Cefwyn asked.

“I do not dispute my lord’s decision,” Idrys said softly.

“Only his wisdom.”

“Not even that, my lord Prince. I find it a clever move. Even a ruthless move. You astonish me. The Aswyddim and the Elwynim set down at one stroke. —Do you give him the bride-offer portrait, too?”

“You heard him. He knows the meaning of a promise. And you saw that he bears me no ill will.”

“I doubt that he knows what an oath is,” Idrys said.

“And is more bound by what he promises than Heryn Aswydd sitting on a heap of holy relics.”

“Oh, indeed, my prince, I’d believe his lightest word above Heryn’s solemn oath, if ever one word he says he has the knowing governance of.

Perhaps he will serve you wholly. But he is defenseless now, my lord Prince. Wear him for armor and something will, through him, find your heart. He is still Mauryl’s. I still advise, wait for Emuin, and do not release Uwen Lewen’s-son. He likes Mauryl’s piece of work too well.

This blade will turn in your hand.’

“If Emuin will bestir himself and make haste I shall consult Emuin.

But the lords of the south will ask about Tristen’s standing in my company, and soon, —and I have to tell them something.”

“And will you raise his standard? The arms you’ve granted him cannot be displayed, m’lord Prince, by the King’s law, they cannot be raised—here in Amefel, most particularly.”  “And are, throughout the province.’

“On farmhouses! Not under this roof! Not in the prince’s grant of honors!”

“He is the promised king. He is the King the Elwynim look for, by your own reckoning.”

“He is Sihhé. And mild and good as Elfwyn may have been, not all their line was so civilized: good gods, m’lord Prince, of the five true Sihhé kings of legend, Harosyn flung his father on his mother’s pyre, Sarynan hunted his two brothers like deer through his woods. Barrakkêth immured his enemies alive in Ynefel’s walls, and his son Ashyel added to the collection with half a score of his less pleasing lords, among them an ancestor of the Marhanen line, for no fault but riding before him at the hunt. So they say. I’ve not seen the faces, but Olmern folk swear they exist, and move, at times, and in recent days I hold fewer doubts than ever I brought to this benighted province. I would most gladly see you home to Guelemara, my lord Prince, without an Elwynim bride, without a wizard tutor, most of all without a friend with a claim on the Sihhé throne.”

“Emuin said, Win his love.”

“Master Emuin is not here to advise. Master Emuin is not here to see the imminent result of his advice. Love has not prevented Sihhé excesses.”

“Black silk for Dame Margolis. Black silk and white. Silver thread. I trust there will be such in the Zeide’s ample warehouses.”

“My lord, I agreed to this wild plan. But the arms you grant him cannot be displayed, not without royal dispensation.”

“I give it. I am my father’s voice in this province, if some do forget it.”

“Send to your father before you raise the Sihhi5 standard at Henas’amef. Even if it were the best of plans, you are not King. Perhaps he will approve your plan. But you will do far more wisely not to take this on your own advisement. Even with the royal command you hold, you dare not repeal your grandfather’s order.”

“I cannot lose a province, either. Ask which my lord father would countenance.”

“We are not to that, m’lord Prince. We are far from that and have much more resource.”

“Then I will send tonight advising him. I shall say that I have all confidence of his approval—it will secure this border. It will do what my royal father set me here to do, and I know that the Quinalt will buzz about him like an overset hive, and I know that they will be at my father’s ears before my lord father can think through this matter. He gave me to rule this province and to hold it against all threat. I take it that includes levying troops to defend it.”

“I am not so certain it extends to nullifying a royal decree.”

“He will bear the arms of Ynefel.”

“Better you should style him with the phoenix. Do we add the crown?”

“Your wit lacks, sir.”

“It has a point. I still stay—do not surprise your father in this matter.”

“Apply to Margolis. Say I have need Of this most urgently. Say if she or her maids betray me I’ll marry them to Haman’s louts. See to it.”

“The message,” Idrys said, “to His Majesty the King, my lord Prince.”

“Master crow, you do try my patience.”

“By your father’s order, m’lord Prince. The letter.”

He went to the table. He wrote, Most Gracious Majesty and dearest father, I have won on Emuin’s advice the allegiance and oath of fealty of the King for whom the Elwynim have waited, and have granted him rights and lands and the raising of his own standard. I pray you trust me whatever you may have reported to you that I bear you filial affection and all loyalty.

That too he sealed with wax and stamped with his signet.

“For what good you can wring of it. He may not like my success. But there you are, master crow. I may yet disappoint him sorely, and win over my enemies instead of dying here.”

“He is not your enemy, m’lord Prince. He is no fool, to set aside his heir.”

“So you dare say. But I am not his favorite son.” He cast himself into the chair at the table and extended the scrolled message. “By the time this reaches him—I will be right, or most fatally wrong.”

There was a to-do among the servants and the guards that Uwen was dealing with, and by the darkened window, which showed a very little gray slate beyond the rippled panes of the bedchamber, Tristen stood finding new textures in the glass, new shapes of candle-shadow about the walls.

Servants. Silk and velvet. He thought of the pigeons which, haunting the window on the floor above, on the other side of the building, must have missed the bits of bread days ago. He was sorry for that. He missed them. He hoped they would be clever enough to find this window. He always seemed to be moving on, always seemed to be finding a new bed, a new window, a new arrangement for his life, which unfolded with a swiftness that foiled his ability to plan for anything, do anything, hope for anything.

But Cefwyn had called him his friend tonight. Cefwyn had hugged him, not tentatively like Emuin, but as warmly as Mauryl once had, and he had been afraid no one would ever do that again.

Cefwyn had filled his head with Words and Names and told him what he had to do, as Mauryl had. Cefwyn had placed demands of obedience on him as Mauryl had. In one hour the world seemed to have reeled back to an older, more comfortable night, when the walls were not bright white, casting back the candlelight, when the air had been dank and dusty and Mauryl’s pen scratched away at the parchments, louder than the crackle of the fire in the hearth, Mauryl telling him Words until the air hummed with them.

But then, then, Go to bed, lad, Mauryl would tell him; and he would take the candle. Mauryl would send him aloft to light all the candles on the balconies, at which time the faces would seem to move, or to change.

Swear, Cefwyn had said, and named Names that meant nothing to him as yet, but they might, in the way of things that came closer and closer and then unfolded themselves wide around him.

Cefwyn had named Names and said Words until the unshuttered dark of his new room seethed with them.

A door opened, perhaps the servants going out: the candle wavered, and Shadows crept along the joints of the black-paned window and into the joints of the masonry. He knew no magics such as Mauryl had had to keep them at bay. He was defenseless against them, except for the candles and the window latch.

He had always thought the candles Mauryl had had him light had been his defense. But it had been Mauryl. He knew now that, threaded through every stone of Ynefel, it had been Mauryl’s power keeping him safe and keeping the Shadows out. And there was none such here. And things were changing so fast.

–Emuin, he said, reaching for that gray place. Emuin. I need you.

He could see before him a pale spot in the gray, and he tried to go toward it. A weight sat on his shoulders, cold and crushing, and he knew there was something behind him. He knew that Shadows raced along the corners of the room, and sniggered at his mistakes.

–Emuin, Cefwyn calls me his friend. He says I should defend him.

And I would gladly do that. But it always seems that people have to defend me. I should know bow to do the right things I know to do, master Emuin. And I don’t know bow to make this room safe.  He hoped for an answer. None came. He tried again.

–I answer Cefwyn’s questions with foolish answers, master Emuin.

And I still can’t read the Book. I still don’t know what Mauryl would have me do. I had Owl for a guide and I lost him. I do wish you would tell me how to be wiser.

–Could you not, sir, answer me—just once?

There was attention. He felt it, then. Emuin was far distant and busy at books—an absolute tower of books. Like Mauryl. Like Mauryl, Emuin was searching for something that he had forgotten. And Emuin had become aware of him.

–Go back, boy! Emuin’s voice said, and something less friendly came faintly through the gray. This is not a safe place now. Stay out of dark places. Go no more to the old palace. His remains are there. And he sees you. He sees you, boy. Get away!

He fled, as Emuin had said. Shadows poured after him, almost caught him, and a voice not Emuin’s and not Mauryl’s said gently, There you are. Changed rooms, have you?

He fled the gray place, went careening back to the room and the window.

Something made the latch tremble. It rattled, if ever so slightly.

It stopped, as if his eyes had tricked him.

His heart hammered against his ribs. His face and his arms were clammy with sweat. He heard quiet in the next room, where Uwen had been talking to the newly arrived servants, beyond the open bedroom doors. He started to walk to the other room. But, feeling dizzy, he sank down into the nearest chair and rested his head in his hands, struggling with that gray light that kept trying to establish itself in his mind.

He heard Uwen’s step. “M’lord,” Uwen said, kneeling by him. “Are ye ill?”

“I am cold, Uwen.”

“Silk shirts is damnable cold in a draft, m’lord. I think I like linen best.

Here, lad.” Uwen rose, and with a gust of cool air, a coverlet from the bed, he supposed, came whisking through the air and landed about his shoulders. Uwen snugged it up close about his chin and set his hand to hold it. “You have this about ye, m’lord. I’ll make down the bed. It don’t take no servants for that.”

“Uwen, —light more candles. I don’t want it dark.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Uwen pulled down the covers on the huge bed, another waft of cool air, made it smooth, then took the sole burning taper from the table and walked about the room, lighting all the candles, making the Shadows retreat.

Then he came back and went down on one knee. “There ye be. —Ye feel any better, m’lord?”

“Cefwyn has given me Ynefel,” Tristen said. “He calls me his friend.

Did you hear?”

Uwen’s scarred face was frowning. “I suppose His Highness has it to dispose, m’lord.”

“Uwen, tell me. Is it Ynefel men fear so? Or is it Mauryl? —Or is it me?”

“I don’t know, m’lord,” Uwen said. “Ynefel hain’t a good reputation.

But hereabouts is a superstitious lot.”

“Go,” he said finally. “Uwen, if you fear me, go.”

Uwen looked up, in fear of him, he was sure of it, and with something else, too, that had once touched Mauryl’s face. Uwen scowled then, spoiling it. “Ain’t never backed off from no man. And not a good lad like you, m’lord.”

“You don’t have to run, Uwen. You can just stand outside with the other guard, no more, no less than they.”

“Ain’t leaving ye. And enough of foolishness, m’lord. Ye’d best get ye to bed.’

“No.” He clenched his hands before his mouth, remembered the little scar and rubbed at it with his thumb, staring into the candlelight. A face like his own came to him, dim and mirrorlike, as if it were reflected in bronze.

He shut his eyes the tighter, and opened them, and it left him.

“Uwen, Cefwyn believes I’m Sihhé.”

“So folk say ye might be.”

“What does that mean, Uwen?”

“Old, m’lord. And wizards.”

“I’m not. I wish I could do what Mauryl could. But Mauryl’s lost, Emuin’s left me and he’s afraid. Uwen, I have no way to ask anyone else.

What is Althalen and what does Cefwyn think I am? Why does Idrys think I lie? Why does Cefwyn ask me Names over and over again? Why does he talk about killing and burning? Why does he want me to swear to be his friend and defend him if he thinks I’m something he won’t like, Uwen?”

Uwen’s face was pale. He drew from his shirt an amulet and carried the thing to his lips. “My lord, I fear some mean no good to ye. I don’t say as the prince means ye ill, but others—others ye should watch right carefully.’

“Do you feel so? But I will swear to be his friend. I have to do it.

Cefwyn is m’lord Prince, and I must do what he wishes, is that not so?”

“Aye, m’lord,” Uwen whispered. “That it is. But ye don’t understand what they intends, and I’m sure I don’t. I don’t think m’lord Prince has authority of his father the King to do a thing like he’s done. The King will hear, sure enough, and then gods help us.”  “So what should I do, Uwen?”

“Ye do what Prince Cefwyn bids ye. Ye swear and ye become Cefwyn’s man, and ’t is all ye can do. He’s a good lord. Ain’t none better. But ye don’t cross ’im. Marhanen blood is fierce, m’lord. And there ain’t no living Sihhés. The Marhanen damned the name, and damned the arms that he give you. For that reason, His Majesty ain’t apt to be pleased in what His Highness has done.”

He listened. His heart hurt. “Then I shall send you away. You were brave to stay with me, tonight, in Cefwyn’s apartment. But I don’t want you to come to harm, Uwen. I never want you to come to harm.”

“He won’t harm me, m’lord. For his honor, he won’t be laying hands on me. I was his before he give me to you. I’m still in the guard, and he ain’t one to dispose his men to trouble. But that ain’t reckoning His Majesty the King. I’ve no wish to be watching them set your head at Skull Gate. I don’t want to see Prince Cefwyn’s there either, after the King learns what’s astir here.” He touched lips to the fist that held the medal.

“Don’t repeat none of this. Maybe ye hain’t no sense of it, m’lord, but growing up in Ynefel surely taught ye some sort of caution. Don’t ye cross Cefwyn. Don’t think of crossing him.”  “I can’t, I shan’t, Uwen.”

Uwen’s hand pressed his. “Lad ... m’lord,... I give ye my oath t’ be your man, right and true, by the good gods, by their grace. That’s my word on ’t. But ye be careful. Ye keep the prince and the Lord Commander happy wi’ ye. For your own sake.”  “I shall. As best I can, I shall, Uwen.”

“Let me get them boots off. Ye’d do better abed.”

Tristen thrust out his foot and braced himself for Uwen’s pull on one and the other. He shed his clothing and let Uwen put him to bed. He shivered between the cold sheets.

“Shall I blow out the lights, m’lord?”

“No. Uwen, please. Let them burn. Let them burn until morning.”

“Aye, m’lord. If ’t please ye, I’ll send for more candles. We’ll light ’er like a festival, only so’s ye sleep.”

Chapter 17  

Te bell at the lower town gates tolled arrivals. Cefwyn continued to sift through the revenue reports, ignoring the bell until one of the guards outside opened the door and crossed the foyer to report that Lord Heryn Aswydd was demanding admittance.

Idrys was otherwise assigned. Cefwyn considered, finally rose and gave instructions to grant the demand, with appropriate precautions.

The lord of the Amefin had brought his twin sisters. Heryn bowed, Orien and Tarien curtsied, and Cefwyn folded his arms and leaned against the dead fireplace, secure if nothing else in the guards who had trailed this trio into the room.

“What is this at our gates?” Heryn asked.

“I do hardly know, Your Grace, being here, and not there, and not prophetic, but I will assume they are several of the neighbors.”  “Send these men of yours away.”

“Patience.” Cefwyn returned to the table and perched on the corner, amid the tax records. “Though I have limited patience myself. Your tax accounts are exceedingly nuisanceful, Lord Amefel. My master of accounts daily assails me with new complexities of records-keeping.—Do believe that my humor today is not the best.”

Heryn’s face was all formality. “I shall have my seneschal make account to me where this fault may lie. But do rest assured, my lord Prince, that the Crown has always received its due.”

“You’ve furnished this hall in grand style, Amefel. I would rather iron and horses than gilt and velvets, with matters as they stand on the far borders.—Or perhaps you don’t count the Elwynim a serious danger to your interests.”

“I have constantly maintained the requisite levies.” Heryn drew a quick breath and made a wide gesture. “This is not the issue, Your Highness. There are strangers at my gate, that you may call neighbors, but I do not. I protest this treatment of me and my house. I protest the dismissal of my personal guards. I am treated like a lawbreaker. I cannot but believe that Your Highness has lent his ear to malicious influences.’

“Idrys, mean you? Pray don’t attack him. I fear he’s not here to defend himself. He’s pursuing business you set him.”  “M’lord prince?”

“A messenger you managed to dispatch.” Cefwyn raised his voice and the twins backed away. “Where is your man Thewydd?”

Heryn went white, and for a time no one moved, neither he nor his mirrorlike sisters nor the equally mirrorlike guards who escorted them.

“Dispatched to your father,” Heryn answered after a moment, “that His Majesty the King may know my situation, my duress, and my complaint.”

Cefwyn let go a long breath, angry, and hoping that a message to Guelemara was the only truth. “You have the right to appeal any grievance to the King. You hardly need subterfuge to effect that, no midnight departures or disguises.’

“I have the right to walk my own hall unimpeded, but your treatment of that right makes me doubt the others.”

“You may say so, Amefel. You may complain to my lord father. I’ll seal and stamp the message myself if you like. But you will give account to me and to my father the King when the accounting comes.’

“I am prepared to do so, Your Highness, in clear conscience.”

“You have hazarded your man’s life,” Cefwyn said. “If taken, he will pay for your lack of trust in me, since Idrys, as you well know, is not a patient man.”

“My lord Prince.” Heryn spread wide his hands in an attitude of entreaty. “I protest this arrest. I have done nothing—”

Cefwyn gestured toward the records. “Nothing improper? You’ve bled this province white, sir. You’ve made the Crown look rapacious and you’ve appropriated to yourself taxes you declared to the province to be due to the Crown. Is that of advantage to us in our defense of a dangerous border? Does that win the loyalty of the peasants? Have I even cavalry to show for it? No. Gold dinner plates.’ He stalked as far as the windows, lest his anger choke him, turned and paced back, and Heryn stood with Orien and Tarien on either hand, a whey-faced lot and suddenly loathsome to him. “You may regret having appealed to His Majesty, Heryn Aswydd, since, having invoked the King’s law, you will now be unable to stop it. And I, my finely-dressed lord, and ladies, have begun a long list of questions in which my father the King will interest himself when he summons you to Guelemara. We speak of treason, sir, as well as theft.”

“My lord,” Orien began, and winced as her brother gripped her arm and pulled her back.

“Do not involve yourself,” Cefwyn advised her. He turned his shoulder to them. The bells rang down at the outer gate, distant and clear on the air, but there was another bell pealing out now, that of Skull Gate, and a clatter of hooves echoed off the inner walls.  “What have you done?” Heryn asked him.

Cefwyn looked out the window, ignoring Heryn and all he represented.

The doors opened. One of the Guelen pages entered, out of breath.

Sasian, his name was, an earnest lad. Cefwyn signed to him. “Your Highness,” the lad breathed. “It’s Ivanor’s banner, and Imor’s.”

Cefwyn’s lips made a taut smile. Cevulirn and Umanon together, neighbors and allies, the horsemen of the southern plains and their city-dwelling allies from across the Lenfialim.

Here. Safe. Answering immediately to his summons. Breath left him in a long sigh, and he cast a look askance at Heryn’s pallid face.  “We have guests, Amefel.”

“To be entertained at my expense?” Heryn cried. “You are quartering Ivanim in my town?”

“Expense, expense, matters with you do seem to have a single song, Lord Heryn. We are conferring on matters of import to all the region; the others will doubtless be arriving before twilight.”  Heryn opened his mouth and shut it quickly.

“No,” Cefwyn agreed, “I would not object in your place, Amefel.” He made a chivalric gesture toward Orien: pale, russet-haired, ambitious Orien. “You will have the opportunity to play hostess to all the region; an opportunity to use all that grand gold dinnerware, all this surplus of servants and display. You should be delighted, dear, vain.., lady.”

Color rose to Orien’s face. Tarien turned white.

“Out!” Cefwyn said to her and her sister, and she whirled and fled, remembered to curtsy, and fled again. After an opening and closing of her mouth Tarien left in her wake, and two guards went with them.

“My lord Prince,” Heryn said, choked with rage. “Your treatment of my sisters does you no honor.”