Текст книги "Fortress of Owls"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Disarm him of this priest.”

“If not this one, there’ll be another one.”

“Oh, aye, my lord king, and if we down one of Tasmôrden’s men, there’ll be another. Shall we forbear to fight Tasmôrden?”

“You know it’s not the same.”

“Be rid of this one. And the next. And the next. Eventually there will be a dearth of Ryssandish priests.”

“And enough anger to breed there and fester. Words deal best with words.”

“Ah. Another of the Holy Father’s sermons?”

He let go a breath, beaten down by the mere memory of tedium and indirection.

“Give me leave,” Idrys said briskly. “And the matter is done by evening.”

“And the town stirred up to a froth.”

“A lackof a priest isn’t noisy.”

It was ever so tempting: his piety, such as it was, halfway argued him toward it, as the safest course for the peace, and all the lives he held in his hands. But he had Luriel’s public show approaching, on which there would be crowds, tinder for a spark, and that rode his thoughts, inescapable.

“I want the town quiet. I want Luriel safely wedded and bedded and no untoward event to undo that alliance. When Murandys has Panys for a bedfellow, and wehave Panys reporting to us… thenwe can consider measures.”

“I fear I’ve not told you everything, my lord king.”

Cefwyn drew a lengthy breath and sank, somewhat, against the back of his chair, Idrys black-armored and seeming by now like an implacable fixture of his office. “Sit, damn you, crow. My neck aches from looking at you. What morsel have you saved for dessert?”

“Cuthan, my lord king.” Idrys reluctantly settled his black-armored body onto a frail, brocaded chair. “The priest is a straightforward matter. Lord Cuthan, I fear, is not.”

“Cuthan.”

“Your Majesty may remember him… the one Tristen exiled, that vain old scoundrel…”

“Out on it! I know who Cuthan is and where he was and where his cursed ancestors slept, intheir own beds and out! I know Tristen exiled him, and I know he’s in Elwynor.”

“He is not in Elwynor, my lord king.”

“Where, then? DareI guess?”

“Ryssand?”

“Damn.”

“Ryssand is honest in one thing,” Idrys said, “that he bears a father’s grief for a son and heir. That, marriage with His Highness or no, he will never relinquish… not greed, not ambition, not the promise that his line might weave itself into the Marhanens can ever erase the matter of his son.”

“His one virtue and more inconvenient than his sins. Now he has Cuthan. And Parsynan. What a merry court!”

“I’ve not told His Highness yet. What I wonder is how he passed through all of Elwynor and its weather and all the way to Ryssand.”

“A rowboat. We’re not speaking of a regiment.”

“Yet my lord king knows the man is old, in no robust health. How did he bear the snow, the ice, the pillaging army, if nothing else? A very hardy man, or a very lucky, if he did that alone.”

“Damn. Twice damn. Tasmôrden!”

“Exactly so. I fear Cuthan may be very close to Tasmôrden. He may bear a message, or gather one.”

All of a sudden the depth of Idrys’ knowledge suggested a fearsomely deep involvement in Ryssand, volatile as it was, dangerous as the spying was—and fruitful as it proved.

“How did you learn this?”

“Efanor’s messenger.”

“ Efanor’smessenger. Crow, it’s my brother’s name, his reputation… his safety, for that matter—”

Idrys, rarely abashed, looked at him with a half-veiled effrontery, defense in every line. “Your Majesty, you once asked whom I served, your father, or you. And where there was a choice of loyalties, your father is in his tomb, and I have only onelord, as does His Highness.”

“So you insinuated a spy into Ryssand, a spy wearing my brother’s colors.”

“Briefly.”

“Do you know the furor if he were found? Efanor is honorable to a fault!”

“Very much to a fault. My lord king, but some risks are worth taking, and spies within Ryssand are hard come by.”

“Wearing my brother’s crest, good loving gods… I’d like to know where else you have them.– No! Don’t tell me! I’ve become worse at lying than Tristen is.”

“I fear you were never good at it. It’s Tristenwho’s become adept in the art.”

He was not certain for a moment it was no jest. But Idrys’ expression advised him the matter was serious.

“You don’t fault him,” Cefwyn said. There seemed a fist still clenched about his heart. “You don’t tell me he’s deceived me. This is my friend, damn you! You’ve spoken against him before, and you’ve been wrong.”

Idrys gave a rare and rueful laugh. “Lord Tristen is extremely canny about disposing my spies at distance from him. As a result, I have not a single man in Henas’amef. He’s sent them all to the river, beginning with Anwyll. I have better intelligence of Ryssandthan of His Grace of Amefel.”

“And what do your spies learn, beyond his sins at Althalen and his wall-building?”

“His fortification of the province? His permissions to the witches to flourish? His countenancing of Sihhë emblems, spells and charms openly displayed in the market?” Idrys held up fingers and ticked off the points, one by one. “His banishment of Guelen Guard, his appropriation of Your Majesty’s carts and drivers, his holding of Parsynan’s goods in consequence—” Idrys began the tally on the left hand. “His alienation of the Amefin patriarch, his banishment of an Amefin earl old as the hills in his title…”

“All these things he confesses. Justify your spies, master crow. I defy you to report to me one thingTristen hasn’t freely owned.”

“He’s holding winterfeast and invited all the lords of the south to come and camp under arms, for, one suspects, some use besides a winter hunt. The preparation is for a host as many as took the field at Lewenbrook.”

He forgot to breathe.

It was, on the other hand, exactly the sort of feckless doing he could always expect of Tristen—and it was not aimed at him. There was nothing of Ryssand’s poison in what Tristen did. Rather it was Tristen’s doing what his king could not do… and so secretly it had taken Idrys this long to know it.

“He’s doing what I did this summer. He’s gathering his allies about him, people he well likes… men who like him. He’s reknitting the damned southern alliance, is what he’s doing… and gods save him for the effort! What I can’t, he does, and I wish him success. I wish him every success.”

“But it will provoke just a small bit of comment among the northern barons, will it not? He’s told Anwyll prepare a landing for boats bearing grain. An immense amount of grain, out of Casmyndan.”

“He’s importing grain? I had to show him the use of a penny this autumn, for the gods’ good sake.”

“Well, and made him lord of Amefel, my lord king, which I do recall counseling you was a—”

“You agreed it was a good idea.”

“I agreed he would be a most uncommon lord of Amefel, and perhaps it was a safe direction for him, considering the Elwynim prophecy.”

“Damn the Elwynim prophecy! If he wants to be king in Amefel, between the two of us—” He drew a deep breath, his heart still laboring from the realization of new complications in all his plans. “Between the two of us and the walls, master crow, if he would beHigh King at Althalen and rule the damn province between me and Nevris’ kingdom, I’d grant it. The Aswyddsstyled themselves aethelings.”

“So does he.”

“When?”

“That the first night, in the oath of Crissand of Meiden, my lord king, who is also Aswydd, may I say? And who swore to him as aetheling. And may I say that that small rumor is starting to make the rounds of the taverns? The word came out of Amefel, I daresay.”

“Like Cuthan.”

“Never forgetting that now troublesome man. And now Ryssand’s priest knows.”

“Damn this zealot priest—what ishis name?”

“Udryn, my lord king. Chief of them, at least. And while Your Majesty has a very sensible desire to have the Lady Luriel’s wedding without incident—very many rumors may begin to make the same rounds, from the same lips, from the same source. Do you still bid me refrain from this priest?”

“I want none of his crowd creating a commotion at the wedding. No. No blood. Just keep that priest out of the way. That’s all I ask. If the Holy Father can’t rein him in… see to him. Frighten him. That’s the best course. And don’t let him know who’s done it.”

Idrys accepted that thrown stone without a ripple. “Will Your Majesty still wish, then, to see His Holiness today? Or Sulriggan?”

“No. I don’t need indigestion. But I’ll do something, perhaps, to uphold His Holiness.”

“A wedding largesse… that might serve.”

“And on the dayof the wedding, for the hour after. Make preparations, noisy preparations, all for the Wintertide, and a wedding feast in the square. Gods give us good weather. That will sweeten the mood in the town. Hard to make converts against a feast and free ale. Particularly if that zealot priest is too scared to show his face.”

“Dancing in the square, all the merry townsfolk.” No more unlikely proponent of festivities ever arranged a ball. “I’ll have the Guard drawn up, martial display. They willbe there, and the weapons will not be the parade issue. A royal decree to make merry and a proclamation from His Holiness to sanctify the wedding. Then a royal gift.”

“A penny a head. No, two. Make them say, Gods bless His Holiness, and give them the pennies, as from him. Gods! To think I should be doing this to bolster the old fox.”

“And your former—”

“Never say it! And for the gods’ sake don’t make any noise about this Udryn.”

“For the gods’ sake?” Idrys asked with irony. “Perhaps. Certainly for the kingdom’s sake. And a greater reward you could never give His Holiness.”

Chapter 3

The doors in Henas’amef were hung with winter garlands and the shrines in the Zeide’s East Court were festooned with evergreen and berries, with every manner of garland and banner, in anticipation of Midwinter Day and the turn of the world toward spring.

For the duke of Amefel the tailor brought forth splendid clothing, red, with black eagles on the sleeves; and a warm cloak with the arms of Amefel worked on it. It was wonderful new wool, kind as an embrace in the winter wind. Tassand and the tailor had insisted, for their own pride, to see he did not go to a new year in old clothes. There was magic implicit in that choice, and he agreed with it in all its meaning.

Still the weather held fair. It was cold enough to sting faces, but not a bitter cold.

Ale flowed with particular good cheer all over town, so the staff reported, and the two youngest of Tristen’s servants came back from town late, and in disgrace. The taverns were hung with lights and kept their doors open all night.

Pack-ponies went out the gates of Henas’amef heavy-laden with supplies for Anwyll, who was doomed to the watch by the river for the festive season: it was on Tristen’s order they sent him a special load of ale.

Another train of mules kept continual rounds between Henas’amef and the river and between Henas’amef and the winter camp at Althalen, where more and more of Auld Syes’ sparrows came. The mules brought special supplies, sweets, for the Elwynim, the same as the Amefin, hallowed Midwinter Day.

But beneath the cheer of the festal season, and despite the new clothes and the well-wishes, Tristen worried, for there was no sign yet of grain or boats. Especially in the evenings he watched the main gate from the windows where his pigeons gathered. Noting this congress of pigeons, some of the house servants said the birds were his spies, but this was never so, and his birds brought him nothing but comfort—never a hint of the passage of boats or of any other sort of transport that might bring him guests or grain.

What would be the outcome if he had made all this preparation and only Cevulirn returned?

So he wished, and he wished for days, all but in despair, and Uwen’s best wishes could lend him no assurance.

But one morning that he waked after a deep, peaceful sleep, he faced the windows early and with a joyous, inexplicable confidence.

He said no more to Uwen than that he had a hope this morning; and Uwen cast an eye to the banners cracking and straining at their poles, and said with that good south wind he had the same.

For the next three days after the wind blew from the south, so strong and so constant it might even melt the snow across the river… so Tristen began to fear, and he sent word to Anwyll not to let down his watchfulness a moment during the holiday.

But on that wind, he believed the boats were coming. Olmern was on the wing. His pigeons flew out to the north on the third day, and returned at evening, noisy on the ledge, all accounted for, but not so hungry as he would expect.

Paisi came in the same hour, announcing that master Emuin would attend in hall the Midwinter celebrations, and begged Tassand’s assistance to make his robes presentable.

There were travelers on the road as well as on the water. Tristen became convinced of it… distracted while Tassand complained that whatever master Emuin had spilled on his gray robe would not come out, and he must call on the tailor, who was busy with other holiday requests, and at his wits’ end, and might he afford the tailor an extra coin for the effort?

Cook had more preparations now than a general contemplating battle, for an arrival Tristen assured her was coming precisely on the day.

There were the tables in the stable-court, well to the side of the stables, where staff and servants would hold their feast, in a tent set up for the purpose, with torches set up to light the premises. There was the table in the South Court that would be spread for the notables of the town, aside from those high lords and guests the great hall would accommodate.

The hams, the preserved meats, all these things laid by since fall, came out to be decorated; so did the stored apples and nuts and spices. There were partridge pies. The whole west wing smelled of baking apples and spice cakes.

Tristen bade Tassand advise the lords to expect a Midwinter Eve banquet as well as on Midwinter Day, for as he had dreamed of white-sailed boats coming to Anwyll’s camp, now he dreamed of Modeyneth and Trys Ceyl, and of camps more distant, all with weather blessed with the south wind and not a hint of snow or hindrance. Emuin had foretold Midwinter Eve as full of chance, fearsome and dark, but now the prospect was of wishes fulfilled.

On the afternoon of Midwinter Eve, indeed, while the sun was still high, the bell at the town’s South Gate announced arrivals—and shortly thereafter the courtyard erupted in brawling confusion, horsemen and banners of not one but twolords, Umanon and Sovrag, who had arrived both from the riverside and down that short northern road from the guard stations.

Their arrival was the fulfillment of a promise. Their arrival together was a marvel, and the fact that they had traveled together was a miracle. Neither lord had liked the other. Yet here they were, and Tristen stood amid the din of yapping dogs and shouting stablehands to welcome them in great relief.

There were never in Ylesuin two more opposite men… even a wizard’s Shaping knew how very little likely they were ever to admire one another. Umanon was Guelen, Quinalt, proper and lordly, fastidious with his person, and Sovrag of Olmern was a stout old river pirate lightly glossed with nobility—king Ináreddrin having found it easier to ennoble him than to ferret him out of his river-cliff stronghold.

Umanon, having just precedence over Sovrag in any courtly encounter, hung back frowning and amazed at Sovrag swaggering ahead to meet his host with open arms and a broad grin on his red-bearded face.

“Well, well-done, lad,” Sovrag declared, clapping Tristen fiercely about the shoulders. “Lord of Amefel! Gods damn, I said to myself when I had the horse-lord’s letter that the Marhanen had a rare good sense, damn but he does!” Sovrag stood back then, ceasing his friendly battering in favor of a broad, estimating view of him. “And a far better neighbor ye’ll be to us all than lord thievin’ Heryn Aswydd or his sisters ever could be, an’ by this beginnin’, a good customer, too. I asked His Grace here“—this with a nod back to Umanon—”I said as he was supplyin’ the grain, he might as well come on the river and have a look at the far shore hisself. As I might say, your grain is all safe at the landin’ with that Guelen captain, who I trust’ll get it moved to some right place, wherever ye wish it.”

“He’ll manage,” Tristen said, having all confidence in Anwyll’s resourcefulness.

In truth, he had expected to feel great pleasure at the sight of familiar faces, but Sovrag’s assault was not within his plans, and his heart widened dangerously in the honest joy of that friendly embrace.

Yet he feared the disaffection of the silent man in the meeting. If Sovrag had never been his enemy and had never dealt coldly with him, he could not say the same for Umanon, who, being Quinalt, was least likely of all the lords to approve of a wizard’s Shaping. He had somewhat doubted Umanon would come. He had thought Sovrag might go to the south for grain rather than to Imor’s ample warehouses, for one thing because Umanon supplied Cefwyn, and might not have grain to spare from that army’s needs—and for the other, because Umanon would never trust Sovrag.

Yet Umanon had come with the grain. And on boats, not the heavy horses that were the pride of Imor. Umanon had, therefore, a share of Lord Heryn’s gold dinnerplates… he did hope it was a fair one.

With all that in mind he resolutely braved Umanon’s icy calm and dared a warm welcome and a reach toward Umanon’s hand. “Thank you for coming, sir. Thank you ever so much.”

“Lord of Amefel,” Umanon said, distant as ever, but pleasant, amazingly so. In fact Umanon had a far different expression toward him than he had ever had, not so much that the face changed, but that the eyes lacked hostility and the hand that met his had no coldness at all.

“Welcome. Very welcome, sir.” He found he had no idea quite what to do with Umanon, or how to keep him in this good pleasure, but he had learned at Lewenbrook that this was a brave, hard-fighting lord, if a prickly and difficult one; and well-begun with him secured all the rest.

“A bold choice on His Majesty’s part, your appointment,” Umanon said. “I take it there are northern noses sorely out of joint.”

“Very much so, I fear.”

“And this moving of grain? What’s the purpose here? To finish the business we left unfinished this summer?”

“Aye,” said Sovrag, having followed on Tristen’s heels. “Cevulirn’s man had no great store of news, and your man out riverside’s no better. But partridge pies was a lure good as gold, well, close on it, and here we are. There’d better be those pies. I promised me lads there’ll be pies.”

“There will be,” Tristen said. “Cook says so. Master Haman! Take the horses!” The horses on which Sovrag and Umanon had ridden in had Imorim and Olmern emblems on their tack, no mark of Anwyll’s company. And how they had gotten them upriver on boats he could not imagine. More, they were handsome, well-groomed animals, having no signs of a hard passage. He was quite amazed, and thought of large barges, as if the thought had Unfolded to him, Boats such as he had never quite imagined.

“And our answer?” Umanon asked. “Is it to Ilefínian, then?”

“Sir, before we say much, I think we should have all of us at once. But you do know Ilefínian’s fallen.”

“That news indeed traveled,” said Umanon, and Sovrag:

“I said we’d pay for not goin’ on across last summer, didn’t I say it?”

“Many of us said it,” said Umanon, and then, dryly: “Our grain is in this Olmernman’s boats, towhich I have tally sheets, fair written, and signed to, and in my possession.”

As if the grain coming from Umanon might somehow become confused with the tally coming from Olmern’s warehouses. Tristen would not have understood that possibility so long ago, but he knew it now, having dealt with Parsynan’s accounts, and saw Sovrag’s wicked grin.

“Enough grain for an army,” Sovrag said, “twixt his warehouses an’ mine.”

“I’ve men on the way,” Umanon said, “heavy horse. I took Cevulirn at his word; my escort is large.”

“An’ my boats,” Sovrag said, “an’ my men with all their war gear. Are we goin’ deep into Elwynor? Is that the game? Or do we sail to the northern bridges?”

Cefwyn had found it hard to contain Sovrag’s disposition to bluntness. Tristen foresaw no less difficulty. But there was no one, in hearing who was not aware of this gathering of forces, even down to the stableboys busy gathering up the horses, and that Cefwyn was preparing in the north.

“The question is what Tasmôrden may do when he learns boats have come,” Tristen said, “and since you’ve come, and we have supplies, his choices are more limited.”

“I asked had you indeed taken counsel of His Majesty in our gathering,” said Umanon, equally blunt, and straight back to Sovrag’s question about the north. “Ivanor’s messenger professed not to know that answer.”

“I’ve not yet advised the north,” Tristen said with utter candor, “and I was never sure till now whether I could gather everyone. He’s given me leave to build, and to fortify, and that I’ve done, so Tasmôrden won’t cross the river southward. But here and now, sir, nothingagainst the king’s welfare, sir, ever. The northern barons have objected to my being here, they’ve raised accusations against Her Grace, and the last man I sent to Guelessar with a message went in fear of his life, going there and bringing back Cefwyn’s message. Idrys watched over him, and even that wasn’t enough. It’s not safe to send. I’m not sure Cefwynis safe.”

That brought a worried frown to both lords.

“At dinner tonight, when the others come, then I’ll tell you what I know besides,” Tristen said. “I’ve asked you here for your advice, among other things.”

“By way of advice,” said Umanon, “wise to move sooner rather than later, considering the temptation of all that grain, not to mention the boats.”

“Which I’ll wager already ain’t stayed at Anwyll’s crossin’, beyond the night,” Sovrag said. “Is that right, Sihhë-lord?”

“He’s to move it behind the Modeyneth wall. Modeyneth’s to send men, to carry it on their backs if nothing else.”

“Drays are coming with our heavy gear,” Umanon said.

“And the boats is off south,” Sovrag said, “quick as they set their cargoes ashore, and back after more grain, supposin’ Marna stays passable. Hooo, such a place as that woods has become.”

“Is it different?” Tristen asked.

“Unsavory,” was Umanon’s succinct answer. “A place I was glad to go through by day. All that passage, there was no breath of wind on the river, yet we saw the treetops bend. We heard voices in the woods, the sounds of a battle, but no sight of anyone.”

“Them old trees,” said Sovrag, “is sadder an’ lonelier than they ever looked in Mauryl’s day. Haunted, if ever a place was.”

“Even before Lewenbrook,” Tristen said, “it was haunted.”

He had not ventured into that part of his lands, not in the gray space and not in the world. He was sad to know that it had gone darker than his fond memories of it under Mauryl’s rule… it had frightened him, then, too, but that had been a moderate fear, a friendly haunt to him, much as Sovrag had treated it with casual familiarity in all his trade with Mauryl and never professed to fear it.

But now Sovrag gave a different report—and still came. He valued Sovrag of Olmern, for the courage he had, and found new respect for Lord Umanon, who had dared it in coming with him.

“I wish them safe passage,” he said. “And I’ve lodgings ready for you, west or east or south, whatever your preference of windows, since you’re the first here. The west, above the kitchens, is warmest.”

“The south, for the clean good wind,” Sovrag said, and Umanon: “The east, for the morning sun.”

He had looked to dispose these two men at opposite ends of the fortress, but if they had shared the boats and the river, there was surely no fear of quarrels breaking out among, their bodyguards. They went up the stairs and down the inner hall together, asking news of Cefwyn’s court, and asking what he knew, and most of all what things were coming to when the Lord Commander himself had to protect a messenger.

The halls echoed back things that had been secrets and servants paused, respectful of lordly visitors, wide-eyed at what they heard: Tristen did not miss the fact. But Sovrag had come: there would be few more secrets in Henas’amef with him here, and certainly there was no more secrecy for what would gather in the fields and pastures beyond the walls.

An army was on the move, and Tasmôrden, if he reached out to have the grain, would find that out to his peril; but learn it soon?

Beyond a doubt he would.

It was not the last arrival of the day: for before Sovrag’s and Umanon’s horses were sorted out in the stable, the bell rang again at the town gate, reporting more travelers in the distance, this time on the western approach.

The banner they flew, a rider informed them, was the Heron banner of Pelumer of Lanfarnesse; but it was no great number of men.

They had provided for five hundred men, as Cevulirn had said he would ask of each lord. But Pelumer at last came riding in under the West Gate of the Zeide, lord and men alike in modest gray and green, he came with only his banner-bearer and eight of his house guard.

They were likely rangers, these men, riding horses, as they did not when they fought… Pelumer’s was a foot contingent, far more comfortable in deep forest, even daring Marna’s edge… and on that thought, Tristen did not give up hope of Pelumer.

“Welcome,” he said.

“Ah,” Pelumer said as he stepped down and cast a glance to the banners in evidence, two lordly banners flying in equal honor with the Eagle of Amefel above the curtain wall. “Olmern and Imor.”

“Your own banner to join them, sir, and be welcome, as you were in the summer.”

“Good news out of Amefel, after a great deal of bad. I’ve watched this business since summer in no good heart. I was glad to hear the call. I have wagons, with the winterage of a company of a hundred, and other men disposed on various byways among the villages. My rangers know the intrusions to the west, and the gathering at Althalen, not spying, I trust you’ll know, but being aware you have forces there, sir, being aware is all.”

A hundred men, not five. Lanfarnesse fielded few men, and despite all assurances managed never to fight in the field.

What Lanfarnesse knew beforeany battle, however, might pay for all, and though Pelumer had fallen out of the favor he had once enjoyed with Cefwyn, perhaps, Tristen thought, his heart beating more quickly—perhaps these elusive few men never belonged on a battlefield.

“At Althalen,” Tristen said, “Elwynim have settled, and we supply them. But you know that, too.”

“Ah,” Pelumer said as if he were surprised. He turned evasive the moment anyone asked him his men’s doings, and that had repeatedly angered Cefwyn, to the point their alliance was in jeopardy.

But these were not heavily armored men who fought in the Guelen way.

“Settle your men where you will, sir. At Althalen or here, or any lands between.”‘

That did catch a glance, a second, even alarmed assessment.

“Where you will,” Tristen repeated. “For their best service to us.”

“I take you at your word,” Pelumer said, and earnestly so. In his youth Pelumer had been first to the taking of Althalen, Tristen recalled, and forever after had the right of precedence over all the lords of Ylesuin, north or south. SelwynMarhanen had valued him… but Ináreddrin and Cefwyn, steeped in the Guelen way of war, had ordered him.

“I need you,” Tristen said from the depths of his heart. “ Welcome, Lord Pelumer.”

“Amefel,” Pelumer said with uncommon warmth, and clasped his hand in both of his. “Well, well, we’re here with our finery, for a feast. Where shall we lodge?”

“Olmern is south and Imor is east. The west is free, and warmest. Come, if you will. I’ll bring you there.”

Pelumer had wounded him once, when he had overheard how Pelumer spoke of him, and then was friendly to his face. But Pelumer went in gray and green through a forest; he had no less skill to put on the right face with every man: so Tristen saw, and forgave him his past offense. Pelumer learned most from men who thought Pelumer was of their opinion, and what Pelumer didthen was the important thing.

There were only the horses, and them, Haman’s lads attended; Pelumer himself took up the light saddle kit he brought, and ordered his banner set beside the others on the wall.

“Olmern reported the forest darker and sadder than ever,” Tristen said, as they went up the steps together, his guard and Pelumer’s easy in company and admitted to confidences. “Did you see it so?”

“Remarkable if not,” Pelumer said. “It’s very law-abiding, Marna’s verge, at least in Crown law. The bandits all are dead. We’ve found them by ones and twos, fallen in hazards sane men would avoid. A rash of bad luck, or the like. I’ll not risk my men in the heart of it. I trust it does very well by itself.”

“Do you think it does well?”

“You would know that sooner than I, if it were otherwise, would you not, sir?”

“I think I would.”

“Ghosts aplenty walk that woods. The old trees have their roots amongst far too many bones.”

A gloomy sort of converse it was, but it lent a vision of the Pelumer who had served the first Marhanen… wary now, having saved his life when many another had died, and having lived long enough to be a repository of old lore, interesting tidbits—and warnings.

“We should have crossed this summer,” Pelumer said. “So I told the king.”

It wanted only Cevulirn. And the day went on toward dark, cloudless and still.

The lords had rested since their arrival. Now they began to ready themselves for the festivities of this day of welcoming, and servants ran to and fro with buckets of hot water for baths, buckets and towels, turning the stairs treacherous. Others mopped, lest someone slip, while still other servants laid fresh fragrant evergreen along the tables in the great hall.

The musicians warmed their instruments by the fire, sending up a disordered, somehow soothing sound. One tuned a drum.

Tristen walked the circuit of the great hall with Uwen at his heels, assuring himself that everything was in order to accommodate the guests that he did have, and trying not to worry for the one yet to come. Certainly he had no need to remind Emuin of the doings in hall. Tassand had taken Emuin his festive robe, and Paisi was in and out and among the preparations downstairs in a beatific anticipation of cakes.