Текст книги "Fortress of Eagles"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

On the other hand—could the new king be a fool? Perhaps he might be weak, and allow his barons to demand far more of him than a stone step. And they still might conquer Elwynor.

Thirteen days were left before the wedding, and then he would have the woman beside him irrefutably, immutably, and legallyhis ally, his wife, andthe love of his heart, a giddy, frivolous, undutiful pleasure he had never looked for. He bought the priests with that block of stone—as well as with the arrangement that kept the lord of Althalen in his rooms and his old tutor Emuin tucked away in his tower. He congratulated himself that they had carried off the ceremony this morning without a disaster, and in truth the court was abuzz with the presence of the Lord Warden in the shrine, wearing a holy relic of the Quinalt, no less. There was hot and heavy converse at this very moment around Efanor and his priest, who swore to all inquirers as to the authenticity of that medal, dashing hope that it might be a lie. True, some skeptics looked askance at the foul and, in their claims, ominousweather tonight, but it was autumn, good lack! when rains were ordinary. What did they expect?

The whole court did know that their new king had been engaged in very chancy business across Assurnbrook, in Amefel. There were far too many eyewitnesses to sorcery. No man who had stood on Lewen field had a precise recollection of all the events there, but every man who had stood there knew that he had seen somethingterrible, and that Elwynim and the king’s odd friend the Lord Warden of Ynefel all had something essential to do with the victory there. In some versions it was the gods themselves who had rescued the Dragon Banner and carried it blazing against the enemy. In others the light that had dawned across that field was spectral and sorcerous, and the Lord Warden of Ynefel had carried the lightning in his hand. Tristen could not, gossip said, even stand in the presence of a priest. He would perish as a lump of cinder if he laid a hand on a Quinalt emblem. He would fail to put in the harvest penny. He would melt at the threshold, and the holy images would avert their faces.

Clack, clack, clack of gossip, all done to death today as Tristen paid his penny like a good Quinalt man, wearing a medal of holy martyr’s blood—attested by the most incorruptible, tiresome priest alive, one so holy even His Holiness avoided his company, Efanor’spriest, Jormys, him in the rope belt and rough-spun yonder.

Now perhaps they were saying, over there in that knot of gossipers, the wonder of it! the holy Jormys had converted a Sihhë-lord… when he knew damned well Jormys had been afraid to go into that room and only Efanor had gone.

He owed his brother a great favor for that act of courage.

“Cevulirn dances very well,” Ninévrisë said, plucking at his sleeve. “Do you see? And with Murandys’ niece.”

He did see. He had just caught sight of the couple. The thought of the gray, grim lord of Ivanor in the midst of an intricate paselle was astonishing in itself, but the duke of Ivanor had unexpected graces, back-to-back and then face-to-face with the duke of Murandys’ fair-haired younger niece in the quick-moving courtly patterns on the floor.

Now therewas a match. The lords did not favor one another.

The niece—Cleisynde was the name—was a stiffly Quinalt little piece. And looked far less graceful than did Cevulirn, as if she had never danced before. But her eyes, ah, her eyes worshiped. Cevulirn was a distinguished—and wifeless—lord.

“Cleisynde,” he said. “One of your ladies, is it not?”

“One of the more agreeable,” Ninévrisë said. Some were not. He knew, for instance, that Ryssand’s daughter Artisane was a particular thorn in Ninévrisë’s side, a bearer of tales straight from Ninévrisë’s small circle to her father. And Artisane, also in view, cast a predictable frown at Cevulirn every time the dance turned her from her own partner, Isin’s son.

“Ryssand’s daughter has eaten sour fruit,” he remarked. “Do you see? Is it Cevulirn’s partner she disapproves so publicly?”

“Artisane’s brother is dancing with Odrinian,” Ninévrisë said.

Oho. Sour grapes and bitter leaves for supper. He saw the couple in question: a pretty pair: Odrinian of Murandys, a child, youngest sister to his discarded mistress Luriel—a far kinder and less wise heart, Odrinian; and a merry bit of hell’s best work there was in that young whelp, the heir of Ryssand. Brugan was his name, vain ox.

“Don’t frown so,” Ninévrisë said.

“My former mistress. That is her sister.”

“Ah.” Ninévrisë’s hand, fine and strong, was locked on his between their thrones. “And now you repent?”

“In ashes,” he said, and at that instant a peal of thunder racketed through the hall, making both of them jump.

“I have kept no secrets,” he said, looking not at her, but straight ahead, at Odrinian and Brugan. Then he did glance aside. “And have given up all of them, I swear. Hence Murandys is not pleased, any more than Ryssand. I shall bring Luriel, to court only by your leave.”

“I give it,” Ninévrisë said, and her chin tilted in that way she had, the pretty girl of the miniature, the entrancing woman who had his heart. “I trust if I needed fear comparisons my lord would neverhave proposed she come.”

“Gracious lady. None. It would be a rescue for the lady. A kindness.”

“The lady is in distress?”

“Her father blames her, now. She languishes; in immodest, imprudent letters, protests she loved me, were not Amefel’s heretic ways so oppressive she could not stay with me there…”

“Oh?” A sidelong look. “And do you answer these letters?”

“I forgive them. They have accumulated to the number of three, in two months. I don’t think Lord Prichwarrin knows about the letters. I know they come through Odrinian. Luriel is despondent. Hates her father. Misses the festivities. Has no hope. And so on.”

“She would not be—” Ninévrisë left a delicate silence, beneath the sparkling music.

“I do think she would plead it; or manage it, if she dared. She wishes a recall to court, over her father’s wishes, declares she will drink poison else…”

“Good gods.”

“She will make someone an unfaithful wife. I have in mind Ursamin’s nephew.”

“He is notorious!”

“A matched set, I assure you.”

Ninévrisë looked at him. “And how many such? Orien Aswydd. Tarien, her sister…”

“Both safe in a Teranthine nunnery. And beyond that, women of ambitions more easily satisfied. I have confessed them all, already, every one.”

There was silence. A hand listless in his. His heart told him a conversation had skewed wide of its target, broached matters indelicate to have brought to light in this hall, before witnesses.

“If you wish to fling something,” he said quietly, “pray wait.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ninévrisë said, and fingers twitched to life and pressed his. “I only mark them down with the rest.”

Disturbing. “What ‘rest’?”

“Oh, the rest.” Ninévrisë’s eyes sparkled, just a little.

“The rest of what, pray? I have no faults!”

“So far their names are Luriel, Orien, Tarien…”

“Fisylle, Cressen, Trallynde, and Alwy.”

“Fisylle, Cressen, Trallynde, and Alwy. —Alwy? My maid?”

“I said that there were minor indiscretions.”

“Good gods.”

“And you said you would forgive me.”

“I had no notion they outnumbered the royal Guard. Should we march themacross the river? Or dare we give them arms?”

“Nevris, sweet love…”

“Dare I say Ihad suitors in Elwynor?”

Now his heart beat faster. “Less numerous than mine, I hope.”

“Oh…” The silence went on, beneath the music. Then cheerfully: “A list.”

“My lady Regent…”

“No more ‘sweet love’?”

They were in front of tenscore witnesses. He dared not leap up, stare at her from a slightly superior height, in his own hall. There was only that damnable, undignified block of stone, and only her hand within reach.

“To the last breath,” he swore. “Dance with me. You have me bothered. You have done it, fair.”

“The lady may come to court,” she adjudged quietly, and pressed his hand as he rose and drew her to her feet, careful of the damned step. The music and the dancers drifted to a stop.

“A country round,” he said to the musicians.

There was a murmur in the hall.

“I trust Your Grace can follow me,” he said, as the musicians wandered erratically into the sort of jouncing tune they played in the square. The thunder rumbled above the roof, and the drum rattled out a rhythm to the pipes. The lutenist confessed a peasant knowledge of the tune, “The Merry Lass from Eldermay. ”

No simple touching of hands, a linking of arms, a whirl, a sweep, a series of chaining steps, and he partnered a lightly moving wisp, a sprite, a whisper of satins and velvet, alone on the floor until Cevulirn partnered Cleisynde out. Then the young men persuaded young ladies, one after another, some quick to learn, some not, and some already knowing the measures. Old Lord Drusallyn brought his lady out, and then Mordam of Osenan and his portly wife dared the measure.

There were sour faces on some, laughter among the rest, most of whom watched in safety. “This is far more like Elwynor,” Ninévrisë said, on two breaths, back-to-back for a moment, then facing him, palms touching. Her eyes were gray, not violet: the miniature-painter of a year ago had tricked the eye with violets in her hair. They were gray as the rumored sea, gray as a cloudy day…

Gray as Tristen’s. Her dark hair and gray eyes were alike conspicuous in a land where the rule was fair hair and blue as his own. Her blue-and-white gown, the colors of Elwynor, swirled across the red and gold of his own kingdom, heraldry bright as battle flags. All eyes might watch as the old blood of Elwynor and the new of Ylesuin trod an autumn dance that might be old, itself. The Quinalt countenanced it, but deplored its license, slowed the music, discouraged the torch race around the bonfire and did not at all approve the offering of straw men; so the countryfolk threw in mere straw bundles, but it meant the same. Everyone knew.

Round and round they went, one dance and another, until the music ran down, quite, until the dancers were out of breath, and he and his bride were in the center of the floor, all eyes toward them.

He had stolen an acorn from an oak bough, in the festoons and boughs about the columns as they passed. He gave it to his bride, with a bow, the finish of the dance, a Guelen peasant’s gift to his lass in autumn, a wish for prosperity and children. The onlookers, those that could see, hung upon the gesture; and Ninévrisë, knowing or not (though he thought she knew) tucked it in her bosom to the applause of those around.

Applause spread, and whispers. The gesture was unexpected, it was common, daring, and native to their land. The dreaded Elwynim cherished the seed of a Guelen oak, the hope of children, and the old wives and the lords of Marisyn and Marisal and Isin nodded together, smiling, whatever glum thoughts Murandys and Ryssand might hold. The talk among certain lords of the middle provinces would denounce the act, and their ladies would say, Oh, but did you see how they love one another…

Then the lords would be more glum. Nor could he convince himself that he would bend the like of Nelefreíssan, Ryssand, Murandys. The ladies of those provinces might laugh and applaud with their sisters of the middle provinces, but they were Guelen, and more skilled than their menfolk at dissembling.

They would have to say to themselves, with barbed jealousy, How beautiful she is!

But later they would say among themselves—his eye caught the unanticipated presence—Did you mark the Patriarch’s stare?

Gods, when had the Patriarchdecided to attend? And for that exhibition…

Did you see the look on the Patriarch’s face? The word would run the whole town by morning, along with: The king’s brother was not smiling.

Efanor was worried, that was certain.

And when Cefwyn drew Ninévrisë back up the two steps to sit and take a sip of wine, he stared at his younger, his pious Quinalt brother in glaring disapproval of the stiff-backed Quinalt priest who dogged him everywhere; at the Patriarch he dared not glare.

Efanor stared back, but not so fiercely; worried indeed, and seeking to signal him with that glance.

Something was wrong. Cefwyn gave a lift of the chin, a look. Efanor came up the step and bent close. “The Patriarch is here,” Efanor said in a quiet voice. “The Quinaltine. A lightning bolt has struck the roof. And a Sihhëcoin has turned up in the offering.”

His wits were still reeling from the dance, from the touch of Ninévrisë’s hand, still resting in his, his so-ready distrust of his brother, his repentance of that failing. The significance of the lightning strike was appalling… expensive. A donative for roof repair indeed, at a time approaching winter.

A Sihhë coin. Omen, on penny day. The other words had reached him late.

“What damage to the roof?”

“The roof? The sheeting is burned clean through. But the coin…”

“It was not Tristen’s. However it came there, it was not Tristen’s!”

“However it came there, the lightning struck, brother, and the penny offering is tainted. His Holiness has come here…”

“Someone has done this against meand against him.” Temper had not served their father well. Efanor visibly flinched back, the hapless servants stood appalled; voices stayed scarcely in whispers, as the musicians played a stately madannel.

“They could not manage the lightning!” Efanor said.

“They had already done the other! This is treason. This is treason, and His Holiness damned well knows the likely hands that put that coin there.”

“Brother,” Efanor said, urgently, pleadingly… like looking into a mirror, Efanor’s close presence, the two of them bearded, blond, blue-eyed and royal; but there was only a princely circlet on Efanor’s brow, not the weighty, galling crown, which at this instant was pressing on a throbbing vein. Efanor’s face was going red. So, likely, was his. “In nowise could a cheat manage the lightning! That is somewhat beyond a mortal man, you must admit it. And do not say damnedwith His Holiness!”

“Tristen did not do this,” Cefwyn said through gritted teeth. “If it is wizardry, would he damn himselfand leave a coin to prove his guilt?”

“I admit I would not think it.”

“No sane man would think it!”

“But what enemy of his in Guelessar would touchsuch a thing? The Quinalt? And there is the lightning. They had turned out the offering. And the lightning struck, just then.”

“Not every enemy of the Marhanen is a Quinalt painted saint, brother, and I would not exclude Sulriggan from this act.”

“He would not! And there is the lightning!”

“Sulriggan would sell his mother’s bones as relics, never mistake it.” He saw, behind Efanor’s shoulder, His Holiness, Sulriggan’s cousin, ready to approach him, in public. “What have we? A damned procession? Fly the banners, shall we?” The musicians still played, but the conference on the dais had drawn all attention, and conversation and dancing flagged throughout the hall. The king’s dancing was over if he attended this importunate storm of priestly anguish now.

And if he withdrew prematurely to face some controversy over ill omens and sorcerous miracles, he knew exactly the kind of flutter ready to break forth, the gossip of servants and minor priests who were always in the fringes with ears aprick, and who had stood just near enough, in the way of things. Even his Guard, his faithful Guard, was not immune.

More, he would leave a roomful of the very lords and ladies no other event of the season would assemble until the wedding, lords and ladies who would talk, of course, about the only thing worth their speculation: what the Patriarch had wanted that was so urgent. And about his bride. And about the country dance. And about Tristen… and the coin. And the weather. Give them the space of a single dance to have the news out of some servant and give them two dances more to have the tale embroidered into sorcerous manifestations over in the Quinaltine, with the smell of Althalen’s haunted fire and his grandfather’s ghost.

He beckoned with a crooked finger, a finger that bore his father’s ring, now his, as the whole burden of Ylesuin was his, and only his. Efanor supported him, yes, had come to him in this, but Efanor had not used his wits to keep the Holy Father from bringing the matter here, oh, gods, no, Efanor’s ordinarily keen wits scattered to the several winds when His Holiness willed this or wanted that… yes, Your Holiness, gods preserve Your Holiness… kiss your robe, Your Holiness. A year younger than he, Efanor was in his period of youthful credulity, of piety, of devout belief riding hard for a fall: he had spent his own time of easy belief, thank the gods, chasing women and believing himself all-wise, to far greater profit to the realm.

“Your Majesty,” the Patriarch said, trembling: well he might tremble.

“Your Holiness.” He kept his voice low. Even yet, despite the hush, only the servants might hear; and Efanor, leaning close; and Ninévrisë, whose hand he must abandon, sitting beside him, she could hear it all.

“There was…” A monk had attended His Holiness as far as the dais, unbidden, and the Patriarch summoned him—which was no one’s damned right, to summon someone else into the king’s presence; but His Holiness, being overwrought, had the gods to excuse his lèse-majesté. His face remained white and thin-lipped as the monk came near and unfolded a small white cloth which, indeed, contained not the king’s bronze penny, but a silver coin of some age and, indeed, Sihhë origin. The Star and Tower were quite clear to see, age-worn and bright on tarnished metal.

“Distressing,” Cefwyn agreed, “but in nowise attributable to the lightning.”

“The coin appears as what it truly is, Your Majesty. It could not maintain a sorcerous guise in the offering box. The gods—”

“The gods have raised a seasonal storm over our heads, and the banner-tower has been hit at least six times in myrecollection, so why notthe Quinalt roof? That it coincides with a sly act of treason– which is what this is, Holy Father—is happenstance. It was a terrible crack—we heard it here, and more than one; but you are not a man to jump at a stroke of thunder. I’ve known you far steadier. Bear up. ”

“Someone has worked sorcery, Your Majesty. The penny is the offering for the roofand the lightning blasted a great hole in it! ”

“And whom do you accuse? Make an accusation, Holy Father. Or are we to assume what the dastard that did this wishedus to assume? I am defender of the faith. Before you invoke me, be sure, I charge you be sure, or say you do not know.”

The Holy Father knew exactly what was meant on every hand. And there was deep silence.

Cefwyn waved his hand, dismissing monk and coin. “It is not his. I don’t know whose it is, but it is not Tristen’s.”

“Your Majesty—”

“We gavethe Warden of Ynefel a penny, a good Guelenpenny.”

“The coin then—”

“ Dareyou say it? Again, be sure.”

The Patriarch took in his breath. “The meaning of it I can name, Your Highness. It’s a curse, a working against the Quinaltine, a strike at the very sanctity of the holy precinct.”

“The meaningis someone who would gain by it, someone wishing to harm me, harm the Lord Warden, andmislead Your Holiness, if it were possible, which I trust it is not, Your Holiness being no gullible or common man.” He spoke sharply, harshly, his tone exactly his father’s when he was crossed: he had that gift, he had the stare, he had been informed of its use since his boyhood, and he used it now like a weapon, knowing with a sinking heart that whatever he did in this hall, gossip was already flying between the Quinalt precinct to the Guelesfort kitchens and it was a short step to every noble house in every province—by fast riders, if they believed the whole of it. The music stopped. The dancers stood waiting, listening, all but leaning forward, awaiting some definition of the moment, some characterization of the news from him and from the Patriarch, the temporal and the spiritual pillars of their lives.

Where in hellwas Idrys? His captain had stepped out of the hall, as he was in the habit of coming and going in his duties. And damned ill timed, this absence.

“I will tell you,” he said to the Patriarch in deadly calm, and the utter stillness as the nobles as one body, on one breath, attempted to overhear their voices. “Some enemy has done this, and if he has employed sorcery—” He gathered all his wits, seeing a hole in the Quinalt roof as not subject to denial, only interpretation. He reaimed the lightning bolt, in a word. “—it came from across the river, as has the hand that did this, no friend of Her Grace, but her bitter enemy. Considering there is Sihhë coinage scattered in hoards all over whatever lands the Sihhë-lords once ruled, why, no great difficulty obtaining such things. But who would do such a thing?” Quiet as his voice was, he let it rise just a little, to give some well-judged reward to the eavesdroppers. “Who would practice sorcery against us? Who stands to gain?” Oh, he had his own notions on that score, pious Ryssand not excluded, but he named the ones that served his purpose. “All that might gain by preventing us are acrossthe river, fomenting rebellion against Her Grace and harm against our people, which I will not countenance. The Lord Warden gave the penny Igave him to give, nor has any store of coin at all. I am sure of him. I am sure of my lady. We need look further, to someone both cunning and with something to gain.”

Murmuring broke out, the hindmost of the eavesdroppers wanting to know what was said, drowning all voices. Idryshad come back, thank the gods, using that small door beside the throne by which the king and his intimates might come and go in other than formal entrances; and that look and slight lift of Idrys’ head told him that Idrys had news he should hear immediately, and aside, in that room.

Damn. Damnthe timing. There was danger here, grave danger: and the heart of Guelessar was notthe simple court of Amefel, where the king could do very much as he pleased and know himself upheld by the five barons of the south and the lord viceroy of Amefel, if not by the Amefin peasantry.

But the barons of the north had been his father’s men and would far more gladly have been pious Efanor’s. Here, in extremity, he had to call, not on Cevulirn, who would stand by him with a clear loyalty, but on such pillars of the Quinalt faith as the duke of Murandys, Lord Prichwarrin, accustomed to having his father’s ear for every triviality and resenting him bitterly for refusing to grant him all the favors his father had granted. His grandfather had known how uneasy the crown rested on a usurper; his father had held it more legitimately, but had placated the lords of the north in his reign. Now they were accustomed to being cajoled, led by their desires and their purses, their pride coddled, their ambitions satisfied, often by the one power that couldrule Guelenfolk and Ryssandim alike, the one unifying element in all the provinces.

And that one unifying element was notthe Marhanen kings. It was, and ever had been, the Quinalt, and the Patriarch.

And damnedif all the Patriarch’s disposition had not hied him here on the genuine fright of a levin bolt and the mountebank slip of a coin. His Holiness had Efanorunnerved. He could see his brother’s face– insanely gullible where it came to the Quinalt and religion. Where, oh, where, was the brother he had plotted with as a child?

But the lightning stroke, Efanor had said again and again. But the lightning stroke—

He had to answer the matter. “Your Holiness,” he said, “I shall see you in the privy chamber directly. —Your Grace,” he said to Ninévrisë, reaching his hand to hers, where it rested on the arm of her chair. “I shall have the roof patched and someone hanged, if I find the culprit. We have guards to set, and messengers to send to the bridges and the riverward villages in case your enemies have any remote gain in this circumstance. We will not require any long conference to do that. —Ivanor.” He had all attention, and had used it, summoning Cevulirn forward. “At the king’s pleasure, you pipers. Play, play.” He rose, drew Ninévrisë by the hand as Efanor and the priest cleared a seemly path. “Dance. Sip wine. Trust Cevulirn.” He passed Ninévrisë’s hand into Cevulirn’s, a gesture not wasted on the jealous northern barons; and by that transit all the display of finery and all the scores of days of women’s work was saved, in his notcurtailing the evening. Certainly it was a breach of custom for the festivities to continue without the king, and certainly he dared not set Ninévrise in any authority over the hall… but the confidence that the matter the Patriarch brought was being answered without an inconvenience to the court brought a relief and if not a mood of outright celebration in the wiser lords present, at least a willingness in the company to maintain themselves assembled and within reach of information. The young, whose whole consideration was very much the dancing, might take the floor with Her Grace and Ivanor.

The musicians limped into unison and the drums struck up a modest paselle. The duke of the Ivanim bowed, Ninévrise bowed, and every head in the hall inclined, furnishing his moment of escape as Idrys held the door beside the dais, and his personal guard fell in, quickly.

CHAPTER 9

Where wereyou?” he asked Idrys in displeasure as they walked in the shadows of the passage, His Holiness, with Efanor, being obliged to a more circuitous route to the privy chamber. “More to the point, whereis Tristen? Gods give us witnesses. Tell me he is with witnesses the last hour.”

“Tristen is closeted with Emuin,” Idrys hissed back. “Lusin and Syllan are with him. And Uwen.”

Cefwyn stopped so quickly that the guards behind them brought up desperately short. Idrys was a shadow against the few candles in the privy chamber beyond the tapestried passage, a dark and ominous shadow. It had always been Idrys’ business to know all that went on. And Idrys knew, within the Guelesfort, where Tristen was, and what was happening. But the Quinaltine and its doings were all but impenetrable territory to Idrys’ men.

“Tristen left his apartment,” Cefwyn reiterated.

“With a train of Your Majesty’s guards and his own man all the while. The guards are sitting outside Emuin’s door in his tower. Tristen is inside.”

“Emuin himself is not pure in their eyes. We dare not have this break out. Damn! Where were you? Why did you permit this?”

“I heard the commotion with the Quinalt. The damage to the place is extensive. And I regret the Lord Warden went to the tower this evening. But that is not the worst. We have a courier from the river. Tasmôrden has moved his army south at dawn today.”

Devastating news. He caught a deliberate, a difficult breath.

“Is thatwhat you were about?”

“I was down in the guardroom, I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.” Idrys rarely had to. “The shore-fire was lit, one fire, after dawn this morning, and since that hour, a courier has come from the shore to us. We assume the direction of movement is toward Ilefínian, if the observers saw it clearly, if he was not hindered in lighting a second beacon.”

A partisan of Her Grace of Elwynor, on the far shore of the Lenúalim, had risked his life to bring them that much, lighting one of a combination of fires that their posts on this side could see. One fire, southerly, meant alarm and movement toward the south. Gods send mud, was his thought, thick mud with this downpour, on the roads between Tasmôrden and the capital of Elwynor. Gods send sleet and snow and ice to shield Her Grace’s capital. Her partisans would be slaughtered to a man once Tasmôrden breached the gates and got into the town: few of her supporters could maintain their secrecy, though the wiser ones would hie them out the gates and southward as fast as they could. And if the Elwynim rebels hadmoved and (considering Efanor’s damned levin bolt) if sorceryhad risen in very fact, and ridden this storm—then gods save them.

Gods, couldit bewizardry? If some wizard joined Tasmôrden, there would be the devil of a war.

The candleflames in the sconces swayed: a door closed in the privy chamber. His Holiness had come in.

Damn, again. The Quinalt roof was far from his concern, balanced against this news; and yet it was the point of attack—and correctly so. Everything depended on a few scorched roof slates. Tristen’s safety was at issue because of it. Ninévrisë’ssafety was. A charge of sorcery attached to his dearest, his most loyal, his most intimate friends… might be sorcery indeed. But notTristen’s. And it was at least possible it was no more than ill-timed chance.

“Set a watch on Tristen,” he said, very quietly, and walked from behind the sheltering tapestry into the dim chamber. He settled himself on the cushionless, cold chair, and the guard brought in two candles, in a room tapestried in the deeds of the Marhanen, the murder of the Sihhë, the raising of the Quinalt shrine, the battle against the Elwynim. The predominant color was red, Marhanen red, the red of blood, red of fire, red of royal power.

For two pennies and a breath of breeze tonight he would order the walls stripped and the tapestries added to the year-fire, His Holiness, his roof, and Tasmôrden across the river be damned together.

Perhaps he should besuch a king as his grandfather had been. A judicious murder or two, friends protected, and his enemies, even clergy, not allowed to leave this room alive—no tales whispered by servants either. He looked sullenly at the Patriarch’s pale presence in the dim light, with Efanor, like him, in Marhanen red, just behind, and wondered how the Patriarch had dealt with his grandfather and survived… for this had been his grandfather’s priest, raised, with his entire sect, to primacy in his father’s reign.

“This fatal penny,” he said, before the Patriarch could open his mouth. “This attackon the harvest festival, and on the welfare of the realm, and on me, Holy Father, I find disturbing; I agree that it may be sorcerous, but not from my hand, not from the Lord Warden’s hand, not from any friendlyhand. I call on Your Holiness to uphold me in this matter. I trust Your Holiness will adhere to me as you adhered to my father, as faithfully, as staunch in defense.”