Текст книги "Fortress of Eagles"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“Where is Idrys?” he asked Annas.

“We’ve not reached him. I beg Your Majesty wait.”

It was too delicate a balance. “Damn him,” he said, though he suspected Idrys’ absence meant Idrys was at work somewhere urgently and on his business. “This can’t wait.”

He gathered up his guards, a sufficient number of them. A page ran up, bearing the circlet crown in anxious hands… Annas’ orders, he was certain; and he put it on, then led on down the hall, thump and clatter of guards and weapons in halls used to bloody scenes, down a stairs reputed haunted by his grandfather’s deeds and under candle-sconces his grandfather had ordered filled day and night, to allow no dark for ghosts.

He went down to the throne room, where a gathering of pale-faced minor courtiers bowed like grass in a wind, and into a hall where murmuring knots of Ylesuin’s nobility cleared his unexpected path from the main doors down to the dais. There his guards clattered into order on either side of the steps and behind him, grounded their weapons with a thump, and settled the angry Majesty of Ylesuin to face his barons.

Corswyndam centered himself in front of the dais and stared up at him. “My son, my heir, is dead, my lord king, and the foreign—”

“Do not say it! Do not say it, Ryssand! You are ill informed, and your son was fatally ill-informed. If you think I will not have another lord of Ryssand, you are mistaken, and if you have thought me soft, you are mistaken! Pigs will bed on parchment, do you understand? Ribbons and seals and all, pigswill bed on it! Do not press me further.”

“Your Majesty!” Ryssand said, white-faced, tear-streaked. “My lord king, you are advised by traitors and practiced on by sorcery!”

“Dare you say!”

Murandys came to stand beside Ryssand. So did Nelefreíssan.

“Here is the north, lord king! Here is the north of Ylesuin. And what says Your Majesty now?”

One of the great doors cracked and closed. Efanor had come in, but no one saw. Idrys followed. Therewere the wandered and the strayed. And Idrys came around the periphery of the room, silently, as his wont. Efanor, who just came from the Quinaltine, gave him a confident nod, a triumph over doubt, and Cefwyn drew a whole breath.

“I say you are perilously close to treason, and a member of your house has drawn weapons in my presence.”

“How could my son prevail against Your Majesty? Your presence disarmed him! Ivanor no less than murderedmy son, and the petition for the Holy Quinalt is cast to the pigs, Your Majesty? Your Majesty has listened to the malign influences, to influences that despise the gods, that practice black sorcery, until loyal men are butchered in the halls in the royal presence and sorceryinsinuates itself into the highest councils in the land!”

Idrys had reached his side, and proffered a small message-scroll, a remark from Idrys or his brother the Prince, he was sure, until he opened it and read it.

And looked out on Corswyndam’s angry presence with perfect equanimity.

He held up the scroll, which bore Corswyndam’s seal, a small document. The gesture and his smile brought the shouting to an end. The whole court was still.

“Come forward, Ryssand. Come.”

There was a long, long moment Ryssand trembled on the verge of defiance; but prudence and a long acquaintance with the Marhanen surely warred with righteous outrage. Ryssand came closer, came up the steps, Idrys and all the guards quite, quite wary, Cefwyn was sure, and the bezaint shirt was for once a comfort.

“Do you know this document?” Cefwyn waggled it, rolled, in two fingers. “Would you wish it read?”

“May I see it, sire?”

Cefwyn ceded it, watched Ryssand unfurl it, and Ryssand’s face go pale.

“From the duke of Amefel,” Idrys said smoothly. “His messenger, who said the duke found it on Lord Parsynan’s horse, and found it curious that a lord of Ylesuin should send a message ahead of a royal courier.”

“Very curious,” Cerwyn said, and held out his hand for the message, a steady, demanding hand, as Corswyndam’s, ceding it back to him, was neither steady nor demanding. “My deep sorrow for your loss, sir. Go mourn it in private. It would be untimely to read this to the court, considering your grief.”

“My lord king,” Corswyndam said in a small, choked voice, and, quite pale, he backed away, bowed, retreated, not just to the bottom of the steps, but beyond, and in a rising mutter of the crowd, out the door.

“Lord Corswyndam is overwhelmed,” Cefwyn said without mercy, “and needs retreat to Ryssand for a space of appropriate mourning. Good evening, sirs, gods rest you. Gods send him comfort, and all of you good grace.”

He rose, looked at his brother, smiled at the court, turned on Idrys a questioning look, to which Idrys only looked pleased.

The recall, this time to the lesser hall, brought two pale and bewildered earls to the foot of the dais, in a chill, less-lit chamber, but it echoed less, and was familiar ground. Tristen preferred it. He took his seat, his guards at every door, and looked out at Drumman and Azant, who were, after Edwyll, chiefest of the rebels, he was quite sure.

There were bows, courtesy due him. He was little interested in those.

“I have one question,” he said to them. “Did Lord Cuthan show you a letter? Or tell you of it?”

“A letter, my lord?” This from Azant. But Drumman failed to speak.

“Did you know of a letter? It’s the same question. Or tell me this, and tell me the truth: why did Edwyll occupy the citadel alone, and where are the Elwynim forces, and what have you done you wished to conceal from me? I wish you to tell me the truth, by your oaths given in this room, on these steps, sirs. I wishit, and you will tell me, will you not, sirs?”

“My lord,” said Drumman, and fell to his knees on the second step. “My lord.”

“The truth, sir. I will have an answer before you cause me to harm an innocent man.”

“Earl Tasmôrden sent messages to Edwyll, my lord, and we all knew. The king’s census drew us all to talking, the king’s wedding would give his claims on Elwynor a legitimacy they have never had…”

It was an assumption the treaty with Her Grace was valueless, but he let that pass in silence while Drumman poured out the rest.

“Tasmôrden would signal the time; and we would overthrow the viceroy. And when it came, the hour it came… that word… Cuthan said he had seen a letter, in the viceroy’s possession, that replaced the viceroy and sent troops.”

“And did Cuthan say that I was coming, sir?”

“No, my lord. I swear he did not.” Drumman shook his head, and so did Azant.

“And did he advise Edwyll?”

“No one knows what he advised Edwyll. The hour was on us. And Cuthan warned us. But Edwyll had already seized the king’s messenger the hour he rode into town. And we were all in fear then.”

Tasmôrden had moved his forces on Ilefínian, sent a message across the river to create as much confusion as possible… it needed no wizardry to effect a message, none to poison a party of men by accident. But wizards thrived on chance and accident, and worked best through vengeful men. The deeds of kind ones were more self-determined.

“So Cuthan is not your friend,” Tristen said.

“Nor yours, Your Grace,” Drumman said.

“Nor anyone’s,” Azant said.

“Whose man is he, do you suppose? And why did he hate Edwyll so?”

“Heryn Aswydd,” Drumman said. “He is Lord Heryn’s man.”

Tristen drew in a breath. “Edwyll was Aswydd.”

“And notLord Heryn’s man, nor ever was. Hence His Majesty never exiled him. He never supported Lord Heryn’s policies, Your Grace, but opposed them in council, opposed them to the edge of loyalty to the Marhanen, which Edwyll would not grant.”

“Cuthan was offered the duchy.”

Azant shook his head. “Cuthan would never swear to the Marhanen. He cultivated Lord Parsynan because it served his needs. And Parsynan warned himof all of us, thinking him a loyal man, the hour the rebellion broke.” Azant likewise fell to his knees. “My lord, we have been desperate men. We held back, we joined you, my lord, intending to save Lord Edwyll, and we had done it, until Parsynan took it in his hands to settle grudges… we were never rebels against you, my lord.”

“And do you speak for Cuthan?”

“He is still,” Drumman murmured, “still Lord Heryn’s man.”

Tristen considered the two lords, kneeling, as Amefin did not customarily kneel… turned his hand, where it rested on the throne, and signaled them both to rise.

“Go home,” he said quietly, “in peace.”

“Lord Sihhë,” Drumman whispered, and bowed, and with Azant, went away.

The room was still after. His guards did not move from their places. Nor did Uwen.

“Lord Cuthan may come to me as these lords came, tonight,” Tristen said in a moment more, “or he may have a horse and all his household, tonight, and cross the river by whatever means he can find. There are boats, I think, at Maldy village. Because he is an old man, he wants help getting there.”

“M’lord,” Uwen said.

“I am notOwl,” he said, doubtless to Uwen’s bewilderment. He had gazed at the far end of the room, where he saw not the vision that troubled his dreams these last nights, that of the old mews with light shining through broken planks, a place astir with wings and dusty years. “I will see Earl Crissand, now, if you will, Uwen. I have questions for him, but none so strict as those I have for Lord Cuthan.”

CHAPTER 8

Emuin arrived a week late, in a gust of snow, toward the mid-afternoon. The bell rang, advising of an important visitor, and Ness, from the gate, arrived to say so; and soon the train of ox-drawn carts and wagons and pack-bearing mules began to make a commotion in the stable yard. Master Emuin would not leave it despite the falling snow, which did not surprise Tristen in the least. Every bird’s nest and bottle would find its way to master Emuin’s tower, which was vacant, and swept: Tristen had foreseen that necessity, and that master Emuin would simply begin sending baggage upstairs, or go himself, expecting it.

“Good day, sir,” Tristen said from the west outside stairs, looking down, and finding master Emuin in the midst of chaos. All of the cobbles except the patch where master Emuin stood were trampled snow obscured with offset baggage. Some, off-loaded, were going out the open ironwork gate; more were coming in, including a wagon, which was having difficulty.

“There you are!” Emuin said sharply. “Do we find the town burned down? The cellars plundered?”

Tristen came down the steps, with Lusin and the guards behind him. “Did the lord viceroy say so?”

“He gave me dire reports of disorder. I expect ashes, at least active conflagration.”

“The town is quiet,” he said. “The Bryaltine abbot came this afternoon. The Quinaltine father here is far friendlier than the Patriarch in Guelessar. He sent a basket of apples.”

“A relief, a decided relief.”

“Earl Edwyll is dead. His son has the earldom. Earl Cuthan fled to Elwynor, by boat; we found Mauryl’s papers in his possession, little use he could make of them. I think he only meant me not to have them.”

Emuin gave him a sharp look, and looked longer.

“I had to make decisions,” Tristen said, “and made them, sir.” It was no place to discuss details of policy, this swirling, bawling yard, but it was common knowledge now through all the town.

“Well,” Emuin said, seeming only moderately surprised. “Well,” he said again, and said no more about it, choosing instead to shout at a servant to be careful with the boxes.

“You would not advise me, sir,” Tristen said, not without asperity.

“So I did not,” Emuin said. “Stand in the path of Mauryl’s working? I? I have come to provide counsel– not direction, young lord, as lord you are.”

“ Mauryl’sworking? Dare you say so, sir?”

“That is all I dare. You have made your path, young lord. NowI am here. Not before.”

The wagon finally gained the courtyard, with Tassand and the others of his servants, whom he was glad to see, and to whom he only needed say, “Orien’s apartment,” to have Tassand completely informed, and immediately busy, and his baggage and belongings destined for upstairs.

He went inside, then, into the noise and confusion of arriving baggage, of a hundred more Guelen troops to be housed, and clerks finding their accommodations. Boxes and bundles passed him. He retreated to the safety of the upper floors, leaving master Emuin to call on him when he pleased, since he knew he could never persuade master Emuin to leave his precious boxes—only two months removed from the tower, and now coming back again– in the hands of servants.

His household was complete, wizard, wardrobe, and all.

He settled again to the table on which the appeals and petitions waited, and took up those he hoped to accept. Master Rosyn, the tailor, was one who had served Cefwyn, and who now begged to deliver “werk of most excellent qualitie.” Master Rosyn had written the letter in his own hand. And he was a good and diligent man. Tristen put that down as something he might simply give to Tassand to arrange. Red and black was the banner under which the commons of Amefel had marched to Lewen field, and red was, in one of those small definite notions of his mind, the color of Amefel, the Aswydds only holders of it by conquest.

And whence that knowledge? For a moment he saw the hill on which the fortress of the Zeide sat as girded by winter wilderness, only the smallest hint of the town, and the sense of direction said that that town, almost a village, had stood where now the more remote stables were, exactly there. It was a night, and lights showed at the Zeide gate; and where the long, sprawling streets of the town went down now to the outer walls of a populous town, now there were only a few trees, a road that wended up to a wall little different from that which stood today, but gates of iron and oak.

“My lord duke,” Tassand said, arriving with another load of baggage, snow in his disheveled hair. “Will ye mind the comin’ an’ goin’?”

“Not in the least,” he said. The stir of servants dispelled the vision, wrought its own magic. Tassand went to the window, drew the green draperies wide, let in both sun and chill. The light outside was white, white the adjacent roof, and blinding white the sky.

He had warded the window. But Tassand and the servants warded him. Uwen came up with a load of his own baggage, refusing the servants who offered to carry it. All the men were seeking out baggage that had arrived, belongings parted with, simple things they had done without.

He went back to his writing, sat down at Lady Orien’s desk, and took up his pen.

I have taken Henas’amef and dislodged the lord viceroy, who killed unarmed men against my orders. Tasmôrden promised the earl of Meiden assistance against your army if the earl would seize and hold Amefel, which he had begun to do. Cuthan, warned by the letter from Ryssand which I sent Your Majesty, dissuaded the others at the last moment. Tasmôrden is occupied with Ilefinian, I am well sure, and would never have provided the help he promised: his aim was for Edwyll’s action here to distract you from the eastern approach you might make against his forces and to discourage Ylesuin from any relief that you might send to Ilefinian. So Tasmôrden would have time to take firmer hold of the town before the spring, and meanwhile Edwyll would wear down your forces and engage you to the south. His attempt has failed. I have exiled Lord Cuthan.

The town has been quiet for four days. I have taken the oaths from all the earls, and I have confirmed Meiden’s heir, Crissand, who will fill his father’s place. I regret the deaths of the earl’s men, as well as your honest messenger.

Meanwhile I have secured the archives, and I am learning what I need to know.

I wish Your Majesty very well and Her Grace also, and do not forget His Highness’s kindness.

A dragon sat on the desk beside it, a dragon that held the inkpot, and spread wings wide on either hand. On all sides were the green draperies, the Aswydd colors, and he did not know when, in the need for more important things, they might contrive to change them.

He set the quill back into the dragon’s claw, rolled the message and tied it with cord. Then he tipped red wax, red for Amefel, onto the cord and stamped it with the ring Cefwyn knew, no ducal seal. It was enough.

The apartment was very quiet, very still, in a lull of the servants’ traffic, the bronze-and-gilt dragons looming dark against the light of the window.

It was foolish, perhaps, to be afraid of them. They were metal. But he thought of the oak and the carving, and the constraint of the wood to be what it was not.

He thought of wings, and of his silly pigeons, and of Owl abroad in a snowy, winter world. At least he found his household in some order today, if he might say as much of master Emuin, of whom he could detect cold feet, cold hands, a cold nose, and the taste of tea.

EPILOGUE

Pearls shone in candlelight, and the bride looked up, a hint of violets. Cefwyn closed warm fingers in his own, half heard the droning of the Holy Father, the promised blessing. It was Ninévrisë that filled his eyes and shortly filled his arms. It was the custom to kiss a Guelen bride.

And Cefwyn soundly did.