Текст книги "Fortress of Eagles"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

And thatsomething flickered off toward the east, toward Emuin, toward the monastery, toward Guelessar.

Beware, he wished Emuin, and all at once rued his decision not to warn Emuin regarding either the message from Ryssand or the messenger to Idrys. He knelt with ruin in his hands and willed it mended, but only a flickering presence answered him, undefined, flickering hither and thither through his recollections, difficult to catch, wary, wily, and not without complicity… he felt so.

The clerk’s face was pale in the sunlight from the windows and utterly sober. “Your Grace,” the young man whispered fearfully. “If I could have been here sooner, last night…”

But the clerk had been in hall, reading the documents. The archivists were entrusted with the integrity of this place. And guards had been at the door… what more could a clerk do, where wizards failed? The deed was done, the second archivist had fled with whatever he had taken away, and Tristen much doubted they would find the man within the town.

Uwen said not a thing. But the sergeant from the detail at the door stood by fretting in silence, as if he, too, were somehow at fault. “Syllan,” Tristen said, and gave him the burned fragments in their contrived container. “Take this to my quarters, gently, very gently, and be careful of drafts.”

“My lord,” Syllan said, and took it away, leaving them the archivist and the cavity in the wall. The industrious sergeant looked into it. But it proved empty.

But was the aetheling to whom Mauryl might have once written Lord Heryn? Mauryl had lived long, very long, and all those years might have been in these scrolls, decades of messages flowing between the Warden of Ynefel and the aetheling of Amefel, or things older still.

This entire place had been ordered only as much as Mauryl’s papers, or Emuin’s, which was to say, not at all… and quite unlike the orderly arrangement in that of Guelemara. He had seen the latter, and knew at a single stroke he looked on a library that, like a wizard’s papers, concealed, rather than revealed. The two archivists had detested one another and come to their final disagreement. It was by no means certain that the thief had destroyed all there was of Mauryl’s letters: he could not have left unseen with a great many records. If he had taken anything away with him, it would have been the choicest, or at least the one a Man would most value.

He had ordered a search. He had saved the fragments, for what sharp eyes could learn from them. The junior clerk was too heavy-handed; he awaited the senior, with Emuin.

But hope of finding the thief? It was small. If Mauryl’s work wanted to be found, he would warrant it might be; or if lost, it would be that. He very much doubted a second archivist appointed by Heryn Aswydd could have contrived such a theft on his own.

Where fled?

Across the river, perhaps. But the gray space gave no clues but eastward, eastward, eastward, not toward the river, but toward Assurnbrook. And he stayed very still, not reaching further against resistance. Neither did Emuin.

The Aswydd’s archivist, the thief was, after all.

Uwen came up to stand by him. “Were it wizard-work?” Uwen asked in a low voice. “Is there some danger?”

“None. I think, none. They were old letters,’t was all. I suspect the archivists hid them from the Quinalt, from Cefwyn’s clerks. I suspect there were more of them and the clerk took the choicest to whatever place he’s fled. —But murder. Murder is far too much for fear. Here was anger, a great anger.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time two old men had a fallin’ out.”

He stared at the shadows, at the base of the wall where dark flowed, beneath the tables, around the cabinets, within the wall. There was anger still here, but a muted, sorrowful anger.

“Find a mason,” he said, “and repair the wall. Make it sound again. Hear me. Do it today, before the sun sets.”

“Aye, m’lord,” Uwen said, and went and gave that order to the Guelen sergeant.

Tristen, meanwhile, stared out low windows that overlooked a walk that led to a gate, and through that gate was the other place he treasured, seen dimly, through inside glass no servant had cleaned in years. He saw leafless trees, brown, weed-choked beds on the approach to that gate. And he thought of summer.

“Bury the man,” he said, turning about. “Have the windows cleaned.” They looked never to have been, in the regular upkeep of the Zeide, as if servants were forbidden here. “You,” he said to the Guelen clerk, “stand in charge of the archive. Set all this to rights. Account of what’s here, books of record and books of knowledge, letters, deeds, and whatever else exists here.”

“Your lordship,” the man said. The clerk stood still and stunned, amidst a library its keepers had set in deliberate disorder. But the clerks yet to come had other things to do, a province and its records, most of which were in this disorder. He had one man, one, to begin the work, and begin it must, before other things vanished.

Tristen walked out the doors then, to the thump of a guard salute at the doors. Uwen and Tawwys trod close at his heels, never asking what he had read, or why he had ordered the ashes taken upstairs. He invited neither converse nor solace. He was distressed—knew he was angry, but not at whom: at the vanished archivist, perhaps; at Parsynan’s destruction, assuredly; at Emuin, possibly; even at Mauryl, remotely; knew he was afraid—of the scope of the disorder he perceived, certainly; of the disturbance he felt in the gray space, very much so; and of wizardly desertions, absolutely and helplessly.

It was not a conscious thought that sent him toward the doors midway of the short corridor: it was the desire of his heart; it was a flight for rescue in the place that had always given him shelter. The opening of that door brought a flood of icy outside air; and the few steps set him and his guards under a sky clouded and changed from the dawn.

He had come back to the garden… at last, was back in the place that he most enjoyed of all places, a place of winding paths, low evergreen, well-shaped trees, and summer shade.

Indeed, he found in its heart the same neglect he had seen from the library windows, the herbs and flowers brown and dead as everything in the countryside… but he was not surprised. The trees were bare. That was only autumn. Understandably the walks were deserted: the wind blew cold across the walls, two of which were the building itself, and one of which was the library walk; and the other, a low one, it shared with the stable-court. It, at least, was not plundered, and held no dead men or vengeful shadows nor scars of yesterday’s fighting. He had found one thing unharmed, untouched, undamaged. And itwas the most priceless thing of all.

He walked to the edge of the pond. Fragments of leaves studded the gravel rim, but the tame fish that lived in the pond were still there, still safe… thinner than their wont, but safe.

“No one’s fed them,” he said.

“They sleep in th’ cold,” Uwen said. “But I’ll ask, m’lord. There’s things to tidy here.”

“Will they die if the water freezes?”

“I’ll imagine they stay here all the year,” Uwen said, looking around him, “but these beds is to dig an’ turn two months ago, says this man what was once a farmer, and that says to me there’s gardeners gone wi’ the rest of the servants and not yet at work here, maybe gone back to kinfolk an’ farms ’round about. We’ll find ’em, don’t ye fret, lad.”

He was very glad Uwen called him that. Uwen was as distressed about the library as Uwen could imagine to be, and after a breath or two of watching the water Tristen put aside all anger with the guard, or with the clerk, or anyone remotely involved with the disaster. The brightly clad ladies and lords of the summer would come back like the singing birds, when the days grew warm again. Things that he remembered wouldcome again and the year-circle would meet itself in this place of all places.

Here he could believe in his summer of innocence. He could remember the trees of this garden as green and thick-leaved and whispering to the wind… and that was an archive as important, as intricately written, and as potent for him as the library. This place, failing all others in the Zeide, gave him a staying place for his heart, his imaginings, his wishing—his outright magic if ever Sihhë magic resided in him… he watched a few of his silly pigeons who had lighted on the walk, pursuing their business with their odd gait, feathers ruffling in the wind.

In this place, most of all, he cherished fragile things. And was it a loss, that of Mauryl’s letters? It likely was. It likely was a great loss. But in a way it kept things orderly… kept lives in their own places, as Mauryl’s place and time was Ynefel, where everything was brown and full of dust, cobwebs, and ruin. It had held such a secret place, in the loft… but that was gone; and with it went Ynefel, and Mauryl.

Now, standing in this garden brown with autumn, he wished this place to be again the way he had seen it, a green heart in the ancient stones. It came to him that something of the kind had always been here, must be here, from the time the Masons laid down the Lines of the garden wall and built the building.

But, too… he had never understood until he had seen the Holy Father misconstruing a Line… there had been the gardeners’ work, patient over centuries, and the servants’ work, and all the people who had laid loving hands on the earth and the walls of the Zeide… all of them had gone on establishing those Lines by their simple acts, daily repeated, and strong as any wizard’s ward.

Were not Masons common Men? And did not they work magic? And might not gardeners?

He had come here to Rule, and to Defend a land against harm, and within its limits as within this garden, he realized himself defended by all these living hands, all these servants, this people, these guards. And when he wished it safe, strength underlay it as dry, deserted Ynefel had had none of that within it at all but the mice, the pigeons, and Owl. He had not expected to bedefended, but he was. He breathed it in, he felt it under his feet and around him and he sat down on the stone bench, the Unfolding was that strong. To disguise his confusion he bent and tossed in a pebble from the side of the pond. The fish, chilled as Uwen said, scarcely moved, but the ripples went out. Under the gray-shining surface, even through winter ice, the fish would live and wait, enduring through the death that was around them.

Crissand, he thought. Crissand. Crissand.

He will come here, he thought for no reason. Not today, perhaps, but he will come in his own time. He must. He is mine, as no one, even Uwen, even Cefwyn, has ever been… as this place is mine, and all who have their lives here.

The wind, meanwhile, was cold, and riffled the surface of the pond, blew at their cloaks and chilled to the bone.

A wisp of something flew on the wind. It was ash from the kitchen fire, he thought at first as he looked up. But he saw another, and another.

“Snow,” Syllan remarked, looking up at the gray sky. “Here’s snow, m’lord.”

He looked up, too, and saw the snow fly across the dark evergreens. He saw one snowflake land on his sleeve, and marveled at it, how delicate it was.

Delicate and beautiful, and many, many of them would turn all the land white. He caught them on his glove, jewels of differing structure, and it Unfolded to him that the shapes were numberless and nameless. They melted to nothing, but more kept falling.

He was aware almost at the same instant of a pitching wagon, and a trace of snow across the backs of oxen, and it was gone like a wisp of a thought, with a surly unpleasantness.

Master Emuin, in great discomfort, and at long last, was making an urgent effort to reach Henas’amef and wished him to know it.

CHAPTER 5

Wisps of white flew on the wind, past windows gone cold and lifeless—two days of spitting snow and bitter wind had done no more than frost the edges of the slates, and the few remaining pigeons walked, disconsolate, on the adjacent roof.

Amazing how a presence never frequent could be so missed in a man’s life or how eerie the lack of pigeons could seem. Perhaps the loss and the omen felt more grievous since the weather had set in cold and gray as it had. But with nothing but that loss outside, Cefwyn avoided looking out the windows, while his restless pacing delivered him to their vicinity every time he set himself on his feet.

He will be at Assurnbrook, Cefwyn had thought on one morning, and on this one, he should be arriving in Henas’amef today, bag and baggage and master Emuin. He’ll be safe now and so will Emuin. Gods save us all.

“Your Majesty.” Idrys, black shadow that he was, had been absent with some business at the door—servants came and went—or had gone out for a time; Cefwyn had no idea which. Now the Lord Commander intruded, grim and businesslike. “His Grace of Murandys with a petition.”

“Outside?” He almost welcomed distraction.

“In the hall downstairs, whence he hopes to be summoned to your presence, he, with Ryssand’s son, bearing a petition.“

He had rather most men in the kingdom than Murandys, and Murandys before Brugan, Ryssand’s arrant ox of a son. But today even that distraction tempted him. “Regarding?”

Idrys’ eyes darted to a stray page who had ventured into this, the gold room, which had the map tables, and in which the pages were never permitted.

“Out!” Cefwyn said, and the page darted for the door, turned, bowed.

“But Her Grace sent a message,”’ the page blurted out, and bowed again, and ducked about, ready to flee.

“Stay! Give it me!”

“Your Majesty!” the page said, white-faced, and offered the rolled, sealed paper to his hand. Relieved of it, the boy fled, and sped left and right around a priceless orrery.

“Damned boys,” Cefwyn said then. “ Thatis a new one. From Panys. They rattle about in this great place and bounce off the walls and furnishings.”

“The consequences of majesty,” Idrys muttered. “Likewise this petition in the downstairs hall.”

“Regarding?” It occurred to him they had just been at that point, before Ninévrisë’s messenger had come to him (a messenger, because neither the consort-to-be nor the lord of Murandys could approach the king uninvited, but a towheaded child could.) He felt constrained, trapped, surrounded. “Sulriggan can’t be here yet. So, pray, what have we? Murandys and his damned salt fish? A petition from young Brugan to be first across the bridges come spring?”

“Murandys on behalf of others, and would it were so pleasant as that.” Idrys’ face was glum. “I have not gotten a copy of this document, which was composed in close secret, I suspect, in the Quinaltine, by elements aside from the Holy Father, notably Ryssand’s priest, and Romynd of Murandys. I pray you, my lord king, not to sign that document nor invite Murandys himself today. Ask only for the document. What little I do know suggests traps in it. Numerous ones. And priests are behind it.”

When Idrys said so in that tone of voice, it was time to break out the battle gear. “Aiming at what?”

“Ultimately? Your Majesty’s endorsement of the Quinalt over all religious orders.”

“They dare.”

“Not yet, but will dare. One clause, if you please, regards revenues. The regularisationof the Crown’s annual gift to a set sum.”

“Two pence if they press me!”

“More. They wish a Quinalt presence assured in Her Grace’sprovinces.”

“Kingdom!”

“This is the wording, as best I know. It has a clause…” Idrys hesitated. And that meant it was very objectionable. “… accepting Her Grace as a prince within the Quinalt domain.”

“Sovereign ruler.” They had battled out that phrase in treaty. And now did this petition deny it? “Damn them!”

“The Holy Father, lately trembling in disfavor, has stayed behind in the Quinaltine and let only a cat’s-paw bring this infamous document. I’m sure His Holiness would wish Your Majesty at least to notice his brave act of loyalty.”

“Oh, aye! Whose lunacy is this?”

“The blunt fact is, His Holiness cannot rein in his priests and I think if he dared write Your Majesty a plea for help, he would. His acceptance of Your Majesty’s terms has weakened his voice where it regards certain elements. That is serious for peace within the Quinaltine.”

“Six days,” Cefwyn said. “Six days, and I am wed and then heads will be in jeopardy, gods blast Murandys and Ryssand!”

“I fear the Holy Father has the orthodoxy sniffing round his money chests, his private library, and his closets. The danger to him is real, Your Majesty. Ryssand has suborned his private priests, and joined those who do not favor the Patriarch. This petition has perched at your door with an importune, pious lord, aching for his sins, concerned for the realm’s descent into wizardous influences, suspicious of the victory at Lewenbrook, and above all Her Grace’s Bryalt priest, if Your Highness wishes to know what’s set the fox into the henyard in the Quinalt. The orthodoxy inside the Quinalt is counting the days, knows your disposition toward them, and they will grasp at any straw. I have not been able to secure a copy of this document; all I have is rumor. But it may even be a petition for a Convocation of the Council. I believe a threat is mounting against the Holy Father, aided by Ryssand and Murandys. In this, gods attend, Sulrigganmay be Your Majesty’s ally, if weather doesn’t preclude his getting here; he may be a defense to the Patriarch. In the meanwhile I wish to have a look at this petition before Your Majesty contemplates an audience for its bearers and certainly before Your Majesty formally receives it.”

In former days, in his dissolute princehood, he would call for wine and women of the enemy’s ambitious kinship… or their hire. He would sink himself in an unavailability trembling toward an absolute incapacity to do what his besiegers wished, while abed with their precious, perfumed influences… leading them on with such hope, and never performance.

“Sober modesty has many disadvantages,” he remarked to Idrys, who alone of all men but Annas would know precisely what he meant. “So does negotiating with celibate priests.”

“Call Luriel to court. That news will discommode her uncle, and distract him. Her presence, even more so. And her acceptance by Your Majesty would certainly distract him.”

Imply a liaison or feign one, on the very eve of his wedding? Torment Murandys between the hope of influence and the fear of disgrace? Redeem the slight to Luriel, restore her value to her uncle?

He drew a long breath and asked himself whether Ninévrisë would possibly, remotely condone it.

But no, his bride was wise and she was tolerant and she was even canny enough she might agree in complete understanding and for the welfare of her kingdom; but he could not subject her to Guelen scorn, he could not have her pride assaulted by whispers and he could not enter Elwynor in the spring with her people resenting the slight thus done their Lady Regent. Every hint of scandal would come back in bloodshed, Guelen and Elwynim alike. Luriel’s ability to place her uncle in untenable positions had been her delight and his in times past; he was very sure Murandys had not brought that hellion to halter, disgraced as she had made herself. But she and he had had their falling-out, and he could not use her in the old way.

Tempting, though, the very thought of Murandys’ agonized hope… and consternation.

“I cannot be the wastrel prince any longer.” A deep sigh, and a scowl. “I cannot be Efanor and sink myself in holiness, either.”

“Then you must be the king,” Idrys said with brutal truth.

“That I must.”

“Then make them love you or make them fear you. If you are king, you cannot go by halves of it.”

“Love!”

“Unlikely as it might be.”

“They lovetheir own advantage, master crow.”

“And love their wives and sons and daughters, love their comforts, their—”

“Their horses, their hounds and hawks and mistresses, but I can hardly be a horse or a hound, can I, master crow?”

“Nor hawk, nor mistress to Ryssand or these zealots. No more can His Holiness. To have these zealots in the ascendant would be as much a calamity for His Holiness as for you. But point it out to him and you may have his assistance with Corswyndam now that the ledge above his steps is less trafficked. You have accommodated him. Now charge him the fee.”

He laughed, not a pleasant laugh, but pained and boding ill for Ryssand. And thanked the gods Idrys still confronted him when he needed a contrary, disagreeable voice.

“Tristen having left,” Cefwyn said. “Who would have thought it would make such a silence in the town?”

“Why, no gossip, no rumors, no whisper,” Idrys said, hands tucked comfortably behind him as the gray sunlight fell coldly on them both. “The town is still amazed to silence, considering his departure.”

“Would it had been Murandys.”

“The old dog’s whelp hunts no better than the sire, my lord king, or I might suggest a horse might startle this very afternoon with fatal result.”

A fortunate accident. But young Brugan would then succeed Corswyndam to the duchy of Ryssand, and Brugan was a greedy fool.

Maybe, again, and on the other hand, a fool was better, to rule troublesome Ryssand.

He pondered all its advantages, and pondered, too, the folly of a weak king.

“I am not yet my grandfather,” he said with some resolve. And added, in brutal honesty. “And the son being worse than Corswyndam, a young and intemperate fool as well as ambitious, he saves my virtue. I wouldn’t stick at removing the father, if it weren’t for needing Corswyndam’s experience at the river next spring. Brugan would have his contingent slaughtered to a man in the first hour. Gods, gods! I fear fools!”

“So will you send for Luriel?”

Idrys’ jokes were frequently grim. And provoked him to short, brittle laughter. “Oh, aye. With trumpets.”

“My lord king has a vast population of fools to draw on. ”

“She is less a fool than her uncle. She was young, she was too confident, too ambitious by half. She will not be queen. But she will not lack for suitors, or for power. Yes, send for her. By royal command. I warnedMurandys, and now he has the result of it.”

“Shall I go down and ask him for the petition, saying I will send it to the clerks to read? That might take a number of days.”

“No! Say I am taken with headache and will retire. I have given no orders, nor permitted my chamberlain nor any officer to accept anything in my name.”

“That will serve for today. There is tomorrow. And I am curious about the content.”

“Tomorrow I see my tailor. I must see my tailor. I find the coat too snug. It’s a calamity. And the day after… I’ll think of it tomorrow. Damn them!” He found his spirits entirely fallen. He imagined all manner of ills before the wedding, and longed to take to his bed and claim headache for all the six days intervening.

But then the gossips would be taking omens by that, declaring the king was ill, joyfully arranging the succession.

It was one more round, one more attempt to delay the wedding, this time with priests and subclauses.

“Go bid Murandys and the young fool wait for the audience day. I have a headache and a meeting with my tailor. Can a bridegroom be expected to think of revenues? Suggest so, at least. —Suggest to Panys I may seek a match for his eligible son. A royal whim.”

“Your Majesty,” Idrys said, and left with satisfaction evident.

It was done. They were besieged, but the walls held firm. And with Sulriggan doubtless to arrive and with Idrys bound to send letters to Murandys’ niece, one might trust intervention might precede the snows… trifling snows, Cefwyn judged, looking out the window he avoided, not enough to prevent Sulriggan reaching the trough of money and power, not enough to prevent Lady Luriel from reaching court… oh, the quandary the lady would be in: an invitation, and last year’s wardrobe.

Was it only last year that he had danced with Luriel?

The wax had poured thickly onto the little scroll and it was bound about with enough ribbon for a state document. He took his dagger to it, and scattered the rim of the map table with shattered sealing wax and bits of ribbon. It was wrapped about with a vengeance, no simple slitting of strings, Ninévrisë’s intent to necessitate destruction no spy could repair.

I love you, it began, as all her messages began. Then:

“His Highness,” a page said, a high, childish voice. “And the duke of Ivanor.”

Efanor, with Cevulirn?

There was consternation in the hall. Even the prince did not burst through into the king’s map room uninvited, and Efanor and Cevulirn trailed an outcry of pages.

Cefwyn waved a hand, permitted the intrusion, and the pages stopped.

Efanor shut the door in their faces, faced him, with Cevulirn, grim-faced.

“They have a petition against Her Grace.”

“Quinalt rights in Elwynor. Idrys informed me so.”

Efanor paused for two breaths, and his shoulders fell. “But did Idrys say what’s notin the petition?”

“What is notin the petition?”

Efanor caught a breath and failed to say.

“Infidelity,” Cevulirn said quietly.

“Cleisynde,” Efanor said. “Cevulirn had a message from Prichwarrin’s niece. They have a witness, and they will make the charge public.”

Efanor might have said more. He failed to hear it for the moment, turned away and remembered the letter in his hands.

Artisane does not scruple to lie. Henceforth she is my enemy. I am beset and alone, and trust not even the page who brings you this message, except Dame Margolis says he is an honest boy. I fear what may reach you. Be assured of my love.

“Damn them all!” He thrust the message into his belt and strode for the door.

“Brother!” Efanor said, attempting to block the door, to no avail. He ripped it open.

“Annas! Fetch Idrys!”

Pages ran.

“Your Majesty,” Cevulirn said, a low voice he regarded of past experience. “The proof rests with Ryssand’s daughter Artisane, who is prepared to swear. ”

Idrys failed to appear. Annas, however, was as quick as aged legs could carry him.

“The page.”

“Her Grace’s page?”

“The very.”

“Has left, my lord king, frightened out of his wits, to look at him. Was there a reply to be sent, after all? Shall a boy carry it?”

“No! Is Murandys still in the lower hall?”

“I’ve no idea, Your Majesty, but I’ll inquire.”

“If he’s left, find him! If he’s not left, I’llfind him! This will notstand! Gods blast that fox-faced girl!”

“Cefwyn! ” Efanor said. “Temper will not serve, here! ”

“It served our grandfather, and it will serve me!” He was out the door, and they followed, both. He walked through a startled scatter of pages and servants, past the tall windows, gathered on his coat and swept up the full complement of guards as he left, his, Efanor’s, and Cevulirn’s two men.

No furtive, ill-reported visitation, this, but a thumping, rattling collection of men and weapons as the king went downstairs. Guards at the stairs came to attention. The hall showed vacant.

“I’ll have the lord of Murandys!” he shouted to the hall in general, waking echoes. “And his damned petition! And Ryssand! Find him!”

Men ran. He stood on the steps, and Idrys arrived, saw the tenor of things and asked no questions of him, nor did a thing but stand to the side.

And in not many moments came the tread of Murandys and a ducal entourage from the east end of the hall, servants scattering like mice along their route, finding niches that took them aside from the course of confrontation.

Murandys had the petition, a parchment trailing ribbons. He had Brugan beside him.

“Your Majesty,” Murandys began, proffering the document. “Herein—”

Cefwyn struck it from Prichwarrin’s hand. It rattled some distance, and Prichwarrin stared at him in shock.

“Your Majesty surely is misled,” Prichwarrin said, tucking his hand against him. His face was white… he was not a young man. “This petition for the welfare of the realm and the Holy Quinalt…”

“… is a sham. And a treasonous sham to boot.”

“Never so, Your Majesty.”

“You press me much too far, Murandys. Have a care to your neck. A lord is not immune.”

“These things must be settled before the wedding. They are essential—”

“No. They are not. The pigs may enjoy your petition, and beware lest I send you to feed it to them.”

“Your Majesty ismisled,” Brugan said, looming over most of the guards in attendance, and full of confidence. “And if there’s misleading, my sister witnessed it. Midnight visitations. Her Grace calling out at night after the lord of Ynefel… the…”

“Liar,” Cevulirn said. And death—someone’s death—became inevitable.

Please the gods, Cefwyn thought, realizing to his dismay a fool, twice Cevulirn’s size and strength and half his age, had maneuvered himself into a direct challenge.

Brugan grinned.

The Elwynim marriage, the entire southern alliance stood in jeopardy. Cevulirn hadno heir.

“Your Majesty can sign the petition,” Murandys said, whey-faced, “and things might be hushed, for the good of the realm.”

A hiss of steel accompanied that into silence. Cevulirnhad drawn, against all law and custom, under the king’s roof. Brugan backed, drew, and Idrys came away from his posture near the wall, hand near his sword. Cefwyn inhaled deeply and lifted a hand, forbidding Idrys, and his guards, and the duke and his guards, as Cevulirn stepped down from the last step.

“Brother,” Efanor said faintly.

“Hush,” he said.

There was a tentative posturing on Brugan’s side, an attempt to draw Cevulirn after him. Cevulirn grounded his sword against his off-hand boot, and waited, an older man not attempting the young man’s game.

Brugan shouted and rushed with a sweep of his blade.

Blade grated off blade, Brugan went past toward the very steps and guards flung themselves in his path, an iron and determined wall. Cefwyn seized a sword from the nearest, and settled it in his own grip as Brugan reestimated the lord of the Ivanim, a slow circling, this time, a slower advance attended by the rattle and thump of other guards running to the scene, held at bay by a wall of onlookers.

“Stop this!” Prichwarrin cried. “Your Majesty!”

“Bid them stop, Prichwarrin! You incited this! Youstop them!”