Fortress in the Eye of Time

CHAPTER 29

In the press of time, as regarded what the King himself willed, the King would gladly have drawn the barons aside for a few moments last evening before the ceremony, and held moderately sober council in the other chamber, considering the situation on the borders, and considering that moderate drinking might even assure a certain harmony in his diverse council — he had worked that ploy before.

But it would have intruded on the dignity of the betrothal, it would have slighted the Elwynim and the ladyʼs feelings, for whom he was surprised to realize he did have a tender consideration in the matter.

So he was further along the rose-strewn path than he had thought he would ever come for a lady he would for state reasons be obliged to marry. He was amazed to realize that he had spent an unaccountable amount of time today already thinking about the Regentʼs daughter and far too little time committing to memory details of the riverside fortifications, which did the Regentʼs daughter no practical service, and far too little memorizing the other matters on which he must not make a slip of the tongue, and, gods help him, he kept thinking about her face, her voice, her eyes. Which were gray. Again, gods help him — the Quinalt would not like that, and the Quinalt thought it had a right to be spiritual guides to the queens of Ylesuin — which his affianced bride refused to be, and that news was going to cause a clatter the like of which his fatherʼs approval of Emuin as his tutor had never remotely touched.

But they would not daunt him, not for the principle of the thing (he had sought ways to diminish their influence) and not for his personal choices. He knew his foolish faults, that he was easily infatuated, that it lasted a time, and vanished some unpredictable morning in total disillusion. He never wanted such affairs to end, but end they would, and yet, this morning after a commitment which should have been the most calculated and reasoned decision of his reign, he was appalled to find himself slipping closer and closer to that passionate mark with a woman who, first, was capable of launching war on his kingdom and who, second, had maddening and attractive personal qualities he had to admit his light-of-loves had never had.

He perceived himself in real danger, waking with Ninévrisë in his mind, and being entirely unable to recall the number of wagons he had already dispatched to the river — or to remember the third point he had to make in argument as, dressed in his regal best (except the crown) he walked with his guard and his household around him (except Idrys and Emuin) to meet Ninévrisë and her small household, with her sworn men, on her way down the stairs.

“My lady,” he said to her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. There were bows. There was pleasantness. Lord Tasien was glum as they continued down the stairs.

Gods, it was three months until the wedding — three months of hand-holding and chaste kisses on the cheek, such as he had had last night.

And he could not be thinking about a wedding. He had a ceremony to get through, a ceremony he had had to throw together, the next thing to a battlefield coronation on the day he was sending men to hold the Lenúalim against invaders — but he had seen increasingly even with Idrys that he could not continue as he was, not knowing clearly where the most loyal of his baronsʼ loyalties were. As importantly, he had to swear them assurances of his behavior, in the shifting of all familiar points of reference, his father gone, the Elwynim marriage — and Tristen arriving.

What he had to do and say this morning, he was certain was going to provoke controversy. Men still in some points enemies to each other had politely reserved opinions behind their teeth last night, knowing they were drunk. Today, politics would out, most coldly sober, equally as dangerous, and Lord Tasien had come here with strong reservations about any alliance. He was a relative on Ninévrisëʼs motherʼs side, married himself, and sonless, so he had had no designs on Ninévrisë—Lord Tasien was decidedly to win.

So was his own brother. And Sulriggan of Llymaryn. There was Sulriggan. And that damned priest of Efanorʼs.

But given that Umanon and Sovrag might have severe headache, and so might Lord Ysdan, by the quantities he had seen them imbibe, this morning council at least would render them more docile and less inclined to loud argument and debate. There were no more alarms to report to them: the daily messengers from the riverside had come in with no change and no sighting of the enemy — no better news, either, meaning no hope that lightning had struck Aséyneddin in his bed.

The council of barons and the ceremony he had determined necessary — he had arranged it with Annas and Emuin in indecent haste. The situation on the border afforded little time for true deliberation: such as they could do that involved the lords — they had done the night of his fatherʼs assassination; and to open the matter again to debate only gave the dissenters, this time with Sulriggan instead of the lord of Murandys, a chance to delay preparation he dared not delay. Granted rumors were cavorting behind every door in the Zeide — precisely because of that, matters had to be settled, today.

Ninévrisë and her entourage entered the great hall by the main doors. He heard the herald announce them. He did not intend to give the Elwynim lords time to stand and converse in that uneasy company. Idrys clearly had the same notion, joined him from inside, by the small side entry, and prompted him with, “When Your Majesty wishes,” while he was measuring the time that would carry Ninévrisë and her lords in decent order to their place at the fore of the great hall.

If he was lucky, he said to himself, he could deliver what he had to say while the barons were still numb, have the swearing done, and have them packed off to their own tasks before they had quite waked up to the fact they were being told that war with Elwynor was imminent and inevitable.

“Her Grace of Amefel is not here,” Idrys said, as the doors were opening a second time.

Cefwyn drew a deep breath and walked in and down the aisle with Idrys at his back and his guard around him, in the echoing proclamation of His Majesty of Ylesuin. He walked to the first step, turned and acknowledged a head of state, not his bride, with a direct look, a hand outheld in invitation, and, “Your Most Honorable Grace.”

Ninévrisë was there in her own right, as she insisted — composed, not a hair out of place, clear-headed and gracious. It was infatuation, Cefwyn feared, bestowing a kiss on her hand which, with the knowledge he could not place it elsewhere, served only to distract him. He led her from her escort to the last step of the dais where only his guard and Idrys joined him besides.

“Brother,” he said, to Efanor, in the first row of standing nobles, and invited him to the same place, which his father had not done with his own brother, but he did.

Then, taking that one step higher, he turned and looked over the assembled barons and household.

Orien was, indeed, not there. One assumed that Lady Orien still claimed her lordship over Amefel, but as she had not answered the general summons, they need not have the protests when he barred her at the doors, as, damn it, he would do. She might have attended in good grace last night and possibly, by a gracious show, won a step toward a royal pardon. She might have done many things besides what Idrys had reported to him she had done, and his tolerance of Orien Aswydd and all her kin was balanced on a knifeʼs edge this morning. He was very close to ordering her arrest before they left this hall.

Idrys had brought down the requisite, unmarked, maps. The servants had provided tables at the side of the hall, adequate to spread them out for general view. Everything was in its place. Everything was in order.

“My lords,” he said, receiving the bleary-eyed silence and courteous attention of the company. “Lords of the Elwynim, your plan to fortify a camp at Emwy Bridge has our agreement, and as some of you are aware, I have already set men and wagons moving with supplies, counting that you can quickly overtake them on horseback, today, as I believe is my ladyʼs wish.”

Ninévrisë inclined her head. “Just so, my lords.”

“Also,” Cefwyn said, “I am requesting those forces of the Dragon Guard which came to this town in my late fatherʼs company stay with me, as well as the Princeʼs Guard; I require that official messages now return to the heart of Ylesuin with orders for the movement of supply and the disposition of forces all along our northern border with Elwynor, as a precaution against an incursion taking an unexpected route. Also, far from least of my concerns, I am issuing orders for the arrangement of civil matters in the capital. The news of my royal fatherʼs assassination has undoubtedly reached the city by now, and I do not wish the court convening here at this time, for reasons I shall make clear. I have had documents drawn up which provide for the transfer of authority in the capital, and I am maintaining all my fatherʼs appointed councillors and officers pending a review of records.”

No one looked away from the King while he was speaking except the Kingʼs guard. He saw Efanorʼs face relatively complacent: a very lengthy missive had arrived at Efanorʼs door this morning — he had trod all around the edges of Efanorʼs religious sensibilities and superstitious fears, and wished him to stay at Henasʼamef at least for two more months, until they could establish a sustained effort against Aséyneddin and secure the border. Leaving the capital without a head was one sort of risk. Leaving it to Efanor, with Efanorʼs weakness toward religious appeals, was another. Idrys had urged that such was the case, and while the realm would carry on very well and stably in the care of old Lord Brysaulin, who though elderly and feeble was an iron-willed administrator, the realm would be in danger in the to-do surrounding a younger and obsessively religious prince unexpectedly turned up as caretaker of the realm, overturning Brysaulinʼs sensible decrees — which had never favored the Quinalt.

Disturb nothing that his father had set in place until it was time to take hold of it and shake it mightily, that was what he had determined: the roads to the capital were good enough — the winter would not greatly discommode them from travel to the capital once the wedding was a fact the Quinalt would have to live with, and by then—

By then he would have the border matter at least at a state he dared leave to Idrys and Cevulirn.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “the greatest change in my plans — precludes my waiting for the oath-taking of the northern barons before I pursue matters against this incursion on our frontiers. I had wished to have the winter to prepare. We are not to have that grace, I much fear, and while I had asked you, sirs, to remain here at disadvantage to your domestic affairs, I must now prepare differently. I took the crown on the field without ceremony. I have entered into agreements with the Regent of Elwynor. I have done many things—” For a moment he lost his thoughts and his breath at once. But the next breath brought the next line back. “—many things unanticipated. As King holding power from the gods I swear to them due observance and reverence, and am prepared to swear so. So I shall swear to you. So I ask you to give oaths of homage, first of all the provinces, and of fealty for yourselves as I am prepared to swear, without ceremony such as the capital could provide, so that when you part from this company of brothers and friends you will have the assurance of me, as I require of you.”

There were looks, shaking of heads in amazement, a little muttering from Sovragʼs lieutenants, who, with war pressing on the border, and — which they did not necessarily know — with Ynefel increasingly perilous, could not get their boats safely home. He could not permit the attempt. He had other use for those boats.

Emuin came, in his immaculate gray: his personal — Teranthine — priest, well-known to the court, now counselor to the King, bearing the battle-crown, and presenting it.

Then he could let go his careful grip on the things he had to say: then it was for Emuin to remember, and Emuin to deal with while he answered yes and I swear, and had the crown in his hand and in Emuinʼs.

The hall was very quiet. No one so much as coughed, the lords surely wondering by now why they had not been advised and where the trap might lie. There were the solemn bows and the oaths the Teranthine rite required. There was the setting of the crown on his head, the religiously valid coronation, which would hold valid against all claims until his death, and which settled any remote challenge to his kingship.

He called his brother first; Efanor knelt and swore the simple oath as he swore his to Efanor, confirming him as heir, in terms he had advised Efanor, against the getting of an heir of his own body. Then the officers of his household, the Marhanen custom; and third the barons, in the order their houses had sworn to his grandfather, first Pelumer, and then Cevulirn, in their true sequence. Third of ducal houses present was Umanonʼs, then Sulrigganʼs, and, far down the ordinary precedence of history, Sovrag, who, after swearing to defend the King and to be his friend, to preserve the life, the person and the honor of his sovereign, and receiving the customary vow of his sovereign to defend his life, his person, and his honor, asked if he could add the decks of his boats to his domains.

He could all but see Duke Umanon, with a port Sovrag used, gathering wind for a storm of protest: he knew the dispute on which the old pirate based his request, and the King did not grant it. “No,” he said pleasantly, and gave Sovrag his hand to kiss.

“Donʼt hurt to try,” Sovrag said.

“I need a brave man, riverlord. I hold you are that.”

“Then we talk?” Sovrag asked.

“Swear and give me your hands, riverlord. Iʼll repair your boats. Or build you new ones. And hold you dear as a friend.”

Sovrag gave him a look as sober as any he had had of Sovrag. He might have touched the man. “Aye,” Sovrag said in a husky voice, “aye, Majesty.” And kissed his hand with a grip fit to break it.

“Tristen Lord Warden of Ynefel,” the next proclamation was, as Sovrag went down the steps. “Lord High Marshal of Althalen.”

There was a murmur then. And he could feel the anxiousness arising among the Elwynim. But of Tristen he asked and gave only the oath of fealty, and set its term from harvest-time to harvest-time. “Annually to be renewed, an oath of friends, to save each otherʼs life, limbs, rights and honor, before the blessed gods and by their favor.” He lifted Tristen up and, embracing him, said against his ear, “Say, Before the blessed gods, and say it so they hear.”

“Before the blessed gods, Your Majesty,” Tristen said, and added, in his own way but with a straightforward look as clear and as knowing as ever he had heard from Tristen, “I am your friend.”

Thank the aforesaid gods he said nothing else. Cefwyn could see the clenched jaw of Efanorʼs priest, and Efanorʼs hand tightly clenched on a prayer-book.

No one knew what oath had existed between Mauryl and his grandfather. There had been no witnesses, no priest, nothing holy. The barons were surely asking themselves where Tristen ranked in relation to lords grown old in service to Ylesuin: the Warden of Ynefel had never been at court, nor ever fit within the protocols.

Cefwyn embraced him a second time. “Thank you,” he said into Tristenʼs ear, and released him.

After that, Ninévrisë in brief and in her own as Regent: “Before the gods, to bear true friendship to the land and people and the Crown of Ylesuin.”

Then he dared breathe. No one had refused their oath, no one had protested, and Lord Tasien through Ninévrisë was bound. “My faithful friends,” he said, and added, “truly first, as your houses were to the first of my line. I shall not forget who stood here, and who swore.”

“No one is here to swear for Amefel,” Cevulirn pointed out, “Your Majesty.”

“For Amefel we do as we can,” Cefwyn said under his breath. And more loudly: “Gentle lords, I shall swear for Amefel, under Ylesuinʼs law. Under my wardship Her Grace Duchess Orien holds the province. For one thing, we shall fortify all the bridgeheads leading to Amefel, since I take Amefel for Aséyneddinʼs immediate desire, rather than to attack the northern border, which would be exceedingly foolhardy. Aséyneddin, on my best information, believes that he can peel away Amefel easily and present Ylesuin a land-bound border directly fronting Guelessar. He thinks that Amefel will defect to him as lord. I think not. He thinks we dare not arm the Amefin. I think not. We shall fortify all along the river to protect Amefin villages from Aséyneddinʼs threats. Her Most Honorable Grace the lady Regent will herself send to those villages jointly with me, urging them to stand fast against Aséyneddin. Those messengers go today.” The politics of that joint appeal were an embarrassing fact Ylesuin was not wont to admit, one that brought mouths open and lords ready to speak, but he plunged ahead.

“We have already sent men and supplies for the fortifications; and Lord Haurydd has, by now, in company with Lord Sovragʼs nephews, entered Elwynor, to reach forces loyal to the lady Ninévrisë and defeat the rebel Aséyneddin, so that the lady Regentʼs loyal men may set her in authority at Ilefínian.”

That was a careful treading through a maze of prickly jealousies: he carefully skirted any statement that credited or rewarded Ylesuin in saving the Elwynim Regency, as if fifteen men with no more than their horses and their swords were going to accomplish that. There was a murmur of dismay, even indignation, among his own barons, but he refused to acknowledge it. “Lord Tasien will command the Elwynim fortification at Emwy, which we will supply. I ask that you delegate captains, my lords of Ylesuin, to command the extension of fortifications along the river, which these captains will build according to a design I shall give you.” Part of those instructions involved the last-moment destruction of the bridge decks on two bridges north of Emwy. But he reserved that for Sovrag, personally.

“And instead of holding you here idle, I dismiss you now to attend matters of need in your own provinces, to return on the next full of the moon prepared to launch war against Aséyneddin. If there is an incursion sooner than that, I shall notify you to move on the instant, so you must have men ready to muster to a forced march to reach us. Leave all your baggage here, wagons, teams and drivers. We will bring them in our train. If I must call you before the appointed time, you will need all the speed you can make. I do not doubt that Lord Aséyneddin will take very hard my betrothal to the Regent of Elwynor when he hears it. We should be ready to defend all along the frontier. I do not think his attack will wait until spring. But I do not think it will be immediate: he has yet to subdue Elwynorʼs loyal men. He cannot move against us until he assembles sufficient force from various points in Elwynor where he is holding districts who would otherwise be loyal to the Regency. If he moves those troops out of those regions they now hold by such force and terror, they may attack at his rear. It is my earnest hope — though one on which I do not heavily rely — that a strong enough presence threatening that important bridge may distract his forces from regions of Elwynor uneasily in his grip, and encourage the loyal men of Elwynor to remove him. But if he crosses this border — as he may — at whatever point he crosses — he will face an army prepared to fight him in any season, and he will face the justice of our ally the lawful Regent.”

There was silence. Even Sovrag, who had his nephews off with Haurydd, and who had no water-route home but through Marna, had not been advised in advance of the full scope of what that night mission meant; and for the first time in recent memory it seemed not even the whisper had gotten out to the staff of exactly what he would ask. The barons were surprised, they were taking it with sober faces and likely a clear realization that they were, indeed, counting the inclusion of the Elwynim Regent against Aséyneddin, facing all-out war — costly, dangerous, and without a conquest of Elwynim towns and fields at the end of it.

“No,” said Tristen suddenly. “Please. I have to speak, my lord King.”

“Lord Tristen,” Cefwyn said, feeling the whole matter lurch perilously sideways. He sought to catch Tristenʼs eye, and failed. “We have another matter before us. Wait. I will hear you later.”

“My lord King, I know I—”

“Wait, I say.” His voice came out harshly. He took a step and the leg shot fire. “Privately, Tristen.”

“I cannot!” Tristen said. “You said I should tell you what I know. And I do know, sir.” Tristen crossed the hall, reached out his hand to the map centermost on the table and laid his forefinger on what, to Cefwynʼs distant observation, appeared to be the district of Arys-Emwy. “This is what must be stopped. There is the danger. He will not go to the east, not to these other two bridges, because he wants to draw you west and north, near Marna.” Tristenʼs face was pale and glistening with sweat, and Cefwyn found fear closing like a fist about his heart, fear that Tristen was, Emuin had said it, hearing things ordinary men did not.

“And he will come,” Tristen said. “He will not wait until spring — because you are threatening him, and he will not let you grow stronger.”

He, Tristen said. And they must all think he spoke of Aséyneddin — all who did not know better. But he did know, and felt everything, all the affairs of his kingdom and his reign, slipping into ruin on a wizardʼs purpose.

“The plan is made,” Efanor said, “and you should leave this to military men, lord of Ynefel.”

Tristenʼs gray eyes went vague for a moment, and he turned his head and stared at the other lords, one by one as if acquainting himself with them deeply. Lastly his gaze fell on Efanor, Cefwyn could see it, with that naked quality that made it hard to endure.

“How can I tell you?” The voice was scarcely louder than a breath. “I see it. Here, here by Marna Wood is a narrow place. Spread this Shadow wide over the land and there are no more places where you may hold it.” His hand moved over the wide frontiers of Amefel. “You must make this fortification so he will go past and straight onto the plain here. There will be no more chances to stop it. If he turns you back, you will fall as Ynefel fell. Everyone will die.”

“He is Sihhë,” Pelumer said at last. “I no longer doubt it. But let me ask, aside from the oaths we have all sworn, how he is disposed to us.”

Tristen looked about at all of them. “I know all your lands but Olmern,” he said in that hushed, strange voice. And indeed, Cefwyn realized with a chill, Olmern alone of all districts of Ylesuin was younger than a hundred years. Most had been independent kingdoms. “Yet I donʼt know how I am disposed toward any of you,” Tristen said. “I have knowledge of the devices you wear. I know names, but — they are not your names. I only know that you must stop him here, by Emwy.”

“One asks,” said Lord Sulrigganʼs cutting voice, “where your loyalties are disposed, sir. With these Elwynim? Or with Ylesuin?”

“At Emwy it will not matter how I am disposed to you. Cefwyn says that I am Sihhë, but Mauryl is all my memory. Cefwyn says that the Marhanen murdered me, but I know nothing of that, since I am clearly alive. I am Cefwynʼs friend. If you are his friends, you are mine. If you wish otherwise, still I wish that you were my friends. And that is not important, either. Your going to the river, here, is. There is an enemy all your plans are forgetting. And he is my enemy, and Aséyneddin listens to him. The lord Regent knew. I think the Elwynim know. I am certain that Aséyneddin knows.”

Efanor said not a thing, only made a sign against evil. As did his priest.

But Tasien: “It is at Althalen. It killed, there. It killed our lord.”

“Halfwit he may be,” muttered Cevulirn, “or mad, — or unnatural as the rumor is…but the further it spreads, and bordering Marna, the worse it is. We of Ivanor know whereof he speaks. As does Lanfarnesse. A wide battle is worse than a narrow one, if our task is to hold anything of that sort.”

“We may move the army to that quarter,” said Umanon, “and find no enemy; and then we shall have twice the difficulty. There is a certain danger in moving too soon — or committing force to one area. I agree with His Majesty. If we commit up there, Aséyneddin will immediately strike where we have no presence.”

“More danger in acting too late, where they do have one,” said Sovrag. “Iʼve got cousins on boats, holding the river near them bridges, with Marna twixt them and home, and I donʼt see no Imormen in danger. I donʼt trust may be and might wiʼ my men, mʼlord King, theyʼre damn poor whores, might and maybe. Iʼm for putting an army up there, damn fast. Hell with the harvest.”

“You may wish to hell with the harvest,” Umanon said. “Those of us who obtain our honest revenues from the land think otherwise, sir. As happens, I should be concerned, did the general council defer action; but we all have concern for that border — as well as for what flows out of Marna. But if units from Ivanor come in with that dust and to-do, and the Amefin on the riverside are roused, what enemy there is may melt away and strike gods know where and when. There are clearly Elwynim on this side, of ill intent.”

“Caswyddian of Saissonnd,” said Lord Tasien, “is no longer to fear. He is dead.”

“There are Elwynim rangers,” said Ninévrisë, “who doubtless are on this side of the river. But most do not serve him and none of them fight in the field. They know where your forces are, I am sure, Your Majesty. But if Ynefel says the attack will come to the north, I do indeed believe him.”

There were frowns. The lords were uneasy and thinking each of their own interests. Cefwyn cast a surreptitious glance at Emuin, who, damn him, had not said a thing, not to Tristenʼs ill-timed declaration, not to this supposition of disaster.

“Particularly difficult,” said Umanon, “if we drag this out. Each man returning to his village will bear tales and discontent. A smaller, more flexible force might do more.”

It was possibly good advice; and still Cefwyn had that fear, that Tristen knew what he was saying, and that Tristen — and Emuin, standing there silent as a stone — had sources beyond any of them.

“Your own counsel, lord of Ynefel,” Efanor asked sharply, “or a wizardʼs sorcery? Where is Emuinʼs advice?”

Cefwyn glared at him, wordless for the instant under the witness of the others.

“Your Majestyʼs pardon,” Efanor said, “but you are my brother, and I ask you again before these lords — abjure sorcery altogether. I have serious doubt whether it be friendly to you or to us. Stay by the plan. Do not listen to this.”

“No,” Ninévrisë said in that perilous silence. “I would believe Tristen. I saw this thing, lords of Ylesuin. I saw it. Every man with me saw it. Ask Lord Cevulirn what his captain saw. We were all witnesses. There were Shadows behind the walls, and trees broke with no one touching them, and men died.”

“Your Majesty,” Idrys said from behind Cefwynʼs shoulder, and Cefwyn found his heart pounding. For a moment he could not answer, and then caught his breath and made his voice level and calm.

“Your concern is appreciated, brother. But Tristenʼs urging is not to use sorcery; his warning is that unholy sorcery may be aimed at us.”

That sent more than one misgiving glance toward Tristen, and toward Emuin, who stared, arms folded in his sleeves, at the floor of the dais.

“You and I are old friends, Lanfarnesse,” Cefwyn said, feeling the whole alliance, the whole kingdom tottering. “How do you say?”

Pelumer drew a deep breath. “I have already come here on faith, my lord King. My house and the Marhanen were first to rise against the Sihhë kings. You became kings; we, your most loyal subjects on Marnaʼs very border. I have a great respect for wizards. Iʼve lived too near ʼem, too long. I like less committing my men into any pitched battle. Lanfarnesse will support you with archers, the best of my men. But I much prefer the notion of fortifications.”

“No,” said Tristen. “They will not hold. There will no man be alive, sir. There will be substance and Shadows to fight. Enough men, enough men can deter even my enemy, because he has no substance without moving men to act for him, and if his men can be frightened, it may daunt him. At very least it would remove some of his strength. If the men can be stopped, it will stop him — at least in the world of substance. But you cannot replace numbers of men with walls.”

“I like this not at all,” Sulriggan said. “This is folly, Your Majesty. One cannot fight unholy magic with swords. Our war is against Aséyneddin. We should root out the influences — all godless influences — we should purify our land of taint and accept no advice from those who carry that vile taint into our land.”

“Tristenʼs is advice worth listening to,” Cefwyn said sharply, because, now it was launched, he had to keep his hand on its scruff and not have the Elwynim war and Tristenʼs war become the same thing in the lordsʼ minds. “I suggest, sir, that we do so.”

“Wizardry and Elwynim,” Sulriggan muttered. “On our very souls, Your Majesty, — we—”

“A warning of wizardry; and these are allies opposed to intrusion into this border!”

“Heretics, Your Majesty! We cannot swear with heretics!”

“By the blessed gods whose anointing I bear, sir, hold allegiance to me, or count yourself forsworn. Bear faith to this kingdomʼs allies, or, if not, wait at your fireside for the issue, and deal with me later. And I warn you, if you fail my summons when attack does come on this province, if I go only with what Guelen and southern forces I can muster, then pray for our enemies across the river, because if I prevail, I shall be next at your gates, sir, with questions to which I shall want answers. Iʼve no doubt of Lord Tristenʼs good will to us, and if his advice runs counter to my plans I shall still heed it and take precautions of both sorts. I will support the Elwynim who are fighting with us: it is unconscionable and foolish to turn away from them, and I will not! Olmern is already in a predicament: he cannot withdraw; and I think that Ivanor may stand with us. I think that Lord Cevulirn understands me.”

“Aye,” said Sovrag. “You do got us, mʼlord King.”

“You will have cavalry, Your Majesty,” Cevulirn said, his thin lips taut.

“Cavalry and foot,” said Umanon, “as soon as we can muster, Your Majesty.”

“I shall be with you,” said Pelumer heavily. “If so many fall, we have no safety, else. But I greatly fear for us, Your Majesty.”

Cefwyn found himself almost trembling, angry at Pelumer, angry at Sulriggan, angry at Efanor, and tried to disguise it by leaning on the table. “Brother?”

“Aye, my lord King.”

Gods, that infuriating, punctilious manner.

“Will you hold Henasʼamef for me? Will you be my right hand here, my viceroy, to serve here and gather forces, and advise yourself what action should be taken should anything go amiss? At any time you find it wise to withdraw to the capital, do so, but I would have you here, at my back, close enough to be of help.”

“As the northern lords come in, Your Majesty?”

“Yes. If needed. — My lords of Ylesuin, prepare to meet on Lewen plain in Arys-Emwy at the full moon. Sooner if we must. Give me the tallies you anticipate before you depart. Establish signal fires along the way through Amefel — we shall do the same for outlying villages — and set those men by fives, under canvas, and well supplied. The weather may turn any day and it will be a difficult, long watch for them.”

Heads nodded, Pelumerʼs reluctantly, Sulrigganʼs last of all and but slightly.

The trembling did not leave his hands. Gods, gods, he thought, first thinking it was rage, and then knowing it for fear. Why am I in such haste, he asked himself, to start this menace from cover? It might bide longer and give us more time, time to bring in the northern lords. Efanor could be right…sometimes he is right.

Northern lords of Sulrigganʼs ilk, or at least men solidly Quinalt, and Sulrigganʼs natural allies. That arrant fool Sulriggan will politic with any situation. And dares front me, in this hall, and in peril of the realm? He has to fall — and soon.

“Brother,” said Efanor, “by your leave Iʼll dispatch a messenger of our own, summoning half the Guelen levies. They can be in reserve in Henasʼamef against Your Majestyʼs need.”

He looked at Efanorʼs frowning face, suspecting his motives, suspecting that Efanor, with the help of such as Sulriggan, wished to protect himself and keep himself isolated from the Amefin as much as he meant to have those men in reserve for his rescue. Did he send for them in some hour of need, there even was a chance Efanor would not send them: in his worst fears, Efanor, realizing Henasʼamefʼs defensive deficiencies and besieged by his priest, would feel constrained to secure a peace with Aséyneddin, abandon Ninévrisë, and cede heretic Amefel to the Elwynim for peace in his reign over provinces solidly orthodox.

But that was only supposition. And it gave too little credit to the clever little brother he had once — loved — when the enemy was their grandfather.

Efanor gave him nothing—nothing—of what he thought, or agreed to, or purposed. Efanor had not ventured an opinion — except to bring in the Guelen regulars in force, which, with their officers, gave the new heir of Ylesuin a Quinalt force under his hand.

“Call them,” he said to Efanor. “And call Lord Maudyn with them.” That was, next Idrys, the most experienced of Ylesuinʼs commanders. “We dare not risk both of us. I know you would rush in if I needed you. But I forbid it. I forbid it, do you hear me? Send Maudyn.”

Something like guilt, or was it bitter shame? touched Efanorʼs face and Efanor ducked his head. He clapped Efanor on the shoulder in walking down from the dais, closed his hand on Efanorʼs arm and pressed it. Emuin had always counseled him that if he would have the best from a man it was needful to expect that best. And (his own sullen thought) to do so as publicly as possible.

Then he walked on down the steps, taking a chance, desperately willing the leg to work — to convince the lords it would. It didnʼt hurt so much. He could ride in two days, he thought, with sufficient bandaging — it would heal by the next full moon.

Meanwhile Efanorʼs precious Quinaltines were not doing outstandingly well at praying calamity away from their borders. Call it fate, call it the actions of wizards more than one in number — he had his heart in his throat when he thought about entering battle with a very demonstrable wizardry as one of the weapons, far more demonstrable than the godsʼ presence on the field; and when Tristen admitted that he was afraid — he began to worry indeed.

Change the plans? Rely on Tristenʼs untutored skill? Tristenʼs guesses which were no guesses?

Somehow, in the push and pull of wizardry that seemed to be a condition outside plain Guelen sensibilities, Tristen might prove their worst ally or the best defense they had. The wound that kept him sleepless with pain had only happened when he sent Tristen away. His father had not died until he sent Tristen away. In constant pain, he was exhausted of mind and body and becoming outright childishly superstitious about Tristenʼs presence, as superstitious, he feared, as Efanor had become about his gods: he wanted to know where Tristen was. He began to feel safe only when Tristen was in his vicinity. Tristen had brought the Elwynim to him, which was more than good fortune; Tristen had brought him Ninévrisë when malign force had meant otherwise. He had never ignored Tristenʼs warnings except to his peril and now he took the most emphatic one entirely to heart.

He knew what Idrys must think, and he sensed Idrysʼ worry, when he had begun improvising on their already deliberated plans that suddenly, on as little sleep as he had had — Idrys would warn him. Idrys would have very strong things to say to him for this morningʼs work, though Idrys had renewed his oath without demur or question.

Meanwhile the lords must be scratching their heads, trying to figure had they witnessed a real change of plans or a maneuver cleverly devised to sweep their objections sidelong into an agreement with the Elwynim and wizardry that they would not have otherwise taken.

But he took Ninévrisëʼs hand, and left the hall the private way, by which they could reach the stairs, Ninévrisë to her guarded apartment, himself to his own, in search of privacy and rest. The leg, although it would stay under him, hurt so much, walking and standing on it this morning, that the pain had begun to cloud his thoughts. He was scarcely past the door when a page came running to bring him the stick, all concerned — was his misery that evident? he asked himself, and in relative private, he followed Ninévrisë and her guards up the stairs, seeking his own floor and his own apartment where he could limp and hurt and worry about whether he could in fact sit a horse in the requisite time. He could not send a leaderless army into a battle on the scale this required. The King had to be on a horse and on that field.

“My lord,” Ninévrisë said, delaying on the steps, in her ascent to the floor above. “My lord?”

The air was cold on his face. Ninévrisë was concerned, as if he should not be trusted to carry himself down the hall. Ninévrisë—whose plans — whose life and welfare — relied on him, as everyoneʼs did.

“Climbing steps,” he said, out of breath. “Not the easiest.”

“You changed what you said you would do,” Ninévrisë said. It might accuse him. It might be a question. It was uncertain. He took it in the most charitable light.

“I believe Tristen,” he said, leaning on the stick. “I have not entirely changed what I plan. We will still deal with the whole riverside. But if Tristen is certain enough to insist — I believe him. He knows things.” It sounded foolish. He did not know how to explain.

“I think he does know,” Ninévrisë said, and added, in a quiet, diffident voice: “And he is truly your friend. I see that. I have no doubt of you, now.”

Upon which saying, she was up the stairs in a quick patter of steps, with her guards hurrying to catch up.

He was staring. He knew that his own guards were waiting, Idrys among them witnessing his drift of thought, and he bit his lip and limped off the stairs and on toward his own door.

And toward his ill-assorted guard, the disposition of whom had entered his mind this morning, but he had not wanted to give warning of his intentions.

Now he stopped and looked at the two in question, the Ivanim Erion Netha and the Olmern lad, Denyn Keiʼs-son. “You were given to my service,” he said in a low voice. “Youʼve paid for your trespass. Iʼve given your lords orders to prepare for war. Ivanor is bound for a brief sojourn at home and Olmern has its boats to see to. If you will rejoin your lords, go and do so. Or remain in my service and take the field with the Dragon Guard or the Princeʼs Guard, at your will. I give pardon. It is without condition. Commission I also grant.”

And he passed into his apartment, walked to his own fireside…not alone, never quite alone; he heard Idrys behind him.

I have loosed everything, he thought. I have let go all the power I gathered. Gods hope they think of no excuses and I get them back, or I am no King, and this kingdom will fall.

He looked around into Idrysʼ disapproving frown.

“What, Idrys? Speechless? Have I finally amazed you?”

“Leaving yourself only a few Guelen, the Olmernmen and the Amefin to guard you? I find nothing left against which to warn my lord King. You have done it all.”

That angered him, so that for a moment he did not speak. Then reason came back to him and he nodded. “As you say. But occasionally I do as pleases me, Idrys.”

“I am well aware.”

“It is good, is it not — for a king to be generous…while he has a good man to watch the recipients of his generosity?”

“You have given me many causes to watch, my lord King, and in too many places for your safety or the realmʼs.”

“I shall mend my ways hereafter. Will you leave me? You may, without prejudice. I could well use your talents in the capital.”

“My lord.” Idrys shook his head, with contrition in his dark eyes. “Leave you in this — I will not. Did I not swear?”

“I need you. Gods help me, you are my other nature, Idrys. What would you advise me, granted I am committed to war and have done what I have done — for very good reasons?”

“That you be very thorough in your dealing with your enemies, lord, domestic and foreign. That if you pursue this war, you leave no half-measures to haunt you, however prettily your bride asks. That you beware of your brotherʼs priest and beware most of Orien Aswydd and her sister.”

“And Sovrag?”

“Cannot safely negotiate Marna now. He will take orders.”

“Pelumer?”

“Has never committed himself to a quarrel; smiles on all; fights for none; in the wars against the Sihhë his father sat snug in Lanfarnesse and fought by withholding forces from a Sihhë ally. Pelumer has a poor memory, mʼlord.”

“I did mark that.”

“Otherwise, take it that Lanfarnesse is loyal as a rock is solid, — and, like a rock, will prefer to sit. Lanfarnesse rangers are another matter. They are not for battle in the field: Pelumer objects very wisely there, and did you ask him to lend you those men even to venture Marna, you might obtain a fair number of them. But Pelumer says this time he will commit archers in a pitched battle. I have found no reason to doubt his given word, mʼlord King, and they will be well drilled.”

“You confess there is one honest man in council? You confess that Tristen is telling the truth?”

“As he knows it,” Idrys said, as if the irony of that were wasted on him. Likely it was not. Cefwyn waved a dismissal, sank wearily into a chair.

He had left himself nothing but war, from the time he had accepted the lady Regentʼs hand.

The Elwynim lords and their men were saddling up in the stableyard, the afternoon of Cefwynʼs charge to them, and there were horses waiting for Cevulirn at the west door. Sovrag was off to the river, he said, to see to his boats; he had left at noon with two ox-carts loaded with cordage and pitch and another with seasoned wood. The lords of the south were all breaking camp and leaving with the same suddenness with which they had arrived, and Uwen said if one didnʼt want to wait forever while master Peygan the armorer took care of the other business that His Majesty had set underway, it was a very good idea to get master Peygan started as soon as possible, the proper outfitting of a young lord for war taking a fair long time.

Uwen had known Peygan for years: Peygan had come from the capital with Cefwyn and had taken over an armory in disarray — so Uwen said on their walk across the yard. “The place was full of rats what ate the leathers, and the old armorer was drunk by day and night, with accounts all in a muddle, gods, yeʼd be amazed.”

“What happened to him?” Tristen said.

“Oh, he took out the day we arrived and nobodyʼs seen ʼim since. The old fellow wouldnʼt complain, thatʼs what I guess. That rascal Heryn was making of them books what he liked, and the old armorer knew he should have taken the business to the King, but he drank, instead, being afraid to report the state things was in. The armorers, ye may know, mʼlord, is all Crown men, master and ʼprentices, alike, soʼs ye ainʼt dealinʼ with anyone of Herynʼs lot, here.”

“They belong to the King?”

“Same as all the arms stored here, mʼlord, in name, at least. The lords is to manage it all, and the Kingʼs armorers is to keep accounts. And accounts gets kept, now. They donʼt put nothing over on master Peygan. If somethingʼs broke it donʼt go on the rolls.”

They walked up the steps, and into a place which had fascinated him and frightened him from the first day he had seen it, a place with Words echoing of War, and Iron, and Blood, a place with rows and rows of orderly weapons, displayed on the walls and in the racks, banners hanging in still array.

He wished to turn on the step now and rush out of the place, and not to take anything it offered. He disliked the mail shirt he was bidden wear, although it had saved his life. He had no desire to have any armor heavier or more extensive than he did — and most of all he dreaded the dark and metal feeling of this place.

But Uwen was to draw armor of a guard issue better than he had ever worn, which pleased Uwen mightily; Uwen was carrying a paper to that effect, which Idrys himself had given him, commissioning him into the Dragon Guard: and Uwenʼs enthusiasm made him think differently from moment to moment, that it was not the armor that threatened to smother him, but the constraints of purpose it imposed — and that it was not the weapons that frightened him, but the skill in his own hands.

“Heavy armor,” Uwen said. “Plate and chain. If happen somebody bashes ye square down on the shoulder, mʼlord, as do happen in a close tangle, or if ye catch a lance-point, a lot better you should have plate. The King,” Uwen added, “wouldnʼt be limping about now if heʼd had a good Cuisse in that melee, ʼstead of them damn light-horse breeches.”

It was a language of its own. The names of the pieces and of the weapons did come to him, and he knew that Uwen was right, for a man who did not look to ride hard or fast.

“But,” he said, while they waited for attendants in the darksome and echoing hall, “are you happier with it, Uwen?”

Uwen laughed. “Mʼlord, Iʼm a Guelen man. We was always the center of the line, heavy horse and foot. It ainʼt but since I turned gray they sent me to protect young lords who fly off in the dark wiʼ naught but a mail shirt and a stolen horse.”

He did not think Uwen should joke about that. He knew he had been rash and he wished that Uwen would not follow him if another such moment came on him — that was the consideration Cefwyn had laid on him, by giving him Uwen.

Peygan came, welcomed them, looked at Uwenʼs paper and gave it to a boy who gave it to a clerk who was setting up in the entry. Master Peygan looked him in particular up and down, muttered, “Tall, sir,” and with a well-used piece of cord took various rapid measurements of his limbs and across the back of his shoulders.

“Iʼve little that will serve,” Peygan said, then. “At least — that Iʼd have confidence in. His Majesty gave strict orders, and I must say, it will not be gold or gilt, Lord Warden, nor pretty nor even matched. I cannot swear to that. But quality and a right fit I do swear to.”

“Iʼve no objection, sir,” he said. “As best you can, sir — light. I wish to see.” He rarely objected to othersʼ choices. But this frightened him, despite Uwenʼs assurances.

“A challenge, Lord Ynefel.”

“Yes, sir. If you please. And whatever Uwen wants — Iʼd have him safe.”

Peygan rubbed his chin, scratched his unruly hair — it was liberally grayed, like Uwenʼs; and Tristen stood watching while Peygan measured Uwen, too.

“Hmm,” Peygan said, and walked off.

So he sat down to wait with Uwen for most of the next two hours, while the master armorer, clearly working on a number of requests at once, fussed and marked this and that strap his assistants would bring him, and a man Uwen said was Peyganʼs son sat at a bench using an array of curious implements and mallets on the fittings Peygan had marked.

In time, Peygan came back bringing an armload of pieces, and cast them on a nearby bench.

“Itʼs old,” Peygan said, of a fine piece of brigandine. “Still solid, though they say—” Peygan seemed hesitant. “They say itʼs Sihhë work, Lord Warden.”

His fingers did not tingle when he touched it. It was black, and showed wear, and was not like what the Guelenfolk wore. But it felt right.

“Mʼlord,” Uwen said dubiously. “Sheʼs pretty, but a lotʼs come and changed. She ainʼt modern.”

“Neither am I,” Tristen said. “Isnʼt that what they say?” He liked weapons no better, but this was the only piece that made him feel safer.

“Mostly,” said master Peygan, “thereʼs no such silk these days. They say it came from oversea. Thereʼs some as is afraid of the piece, truth to tell.”

He did look, in that gray place, but it showed not at all.

“There is no harm in it,” he said. “Though such things seem to come and go.” It felt comfortable to the touch. He could not say the same of the mail shirt he wore. “Iʼd try it.”

Uwen was less pleased. But he said, “I am very sure, Uwen.”

Uwen gave a tilt and a shake of his head. “Might be, then, mʼlord.”

The straps and laces of the silk-woven brigandine were worn, and wanted work. And Uwen was still to fit out. So they waited. The armory was echoing with the comings and goings of Peyganʼs boys, who were, by now, with the afternoonʼs work in full clatter and bustle about them, counting out to Guelen and Amefin sergeants and attendants the equipment they requested, and counting in what tents and wagons and other such things the departing lords were leaving behind.

At a table near the door, master Peyganʼs clerks kept careful account of what went out and what went in. Carts pulled up at the door and bundles of pikes went in, long arrows by the score, as well as buckles, girths, bits, harness, pennons and odder items of equipage: all of it came in from the armory storage, and from the armoryʼs outlying storage, and the whole flowed in past the clerk, who kept a painstaking and amazingly rapid account in various codices stacked on the table by him, while stacks of requests accumulated beside him, and a junior clerk, reading the requests, sent a score of stout armorerʼs boys running with apprentice clerks to read the orders.

It was a tangle, lordsʼ pages demanding their equipment be taken to shelter immediately, since there were clouds overhead, threatening a shower, and master Peyganʼs clerk informing said pages that nothing would go into or out of storage without it being written fair and wide in request, which went on the stack.

Meanwhile Amefin companies were being equipped for weapons-drill, and someone was complaining about a box of buckles that had gotten set down and swept up with someoneʼs equipment.

A clerkish young man came out lugging an armful of odd plate up to them, then, and said they were to have bards for two horses, and would he approve what he had found so he could put it with their gear.

Tristen had no idea. He had never handled horse armor, but Uwen said that it was very fine, he was sure, but they were mistaken in the number of horses unless they wanted a spare.

Meanwhile another boy came with a tablet and said he had to draw the arms for the man who was going to paint the shield, and was the device correctly displayed?

That, Tristen could answer, and had the Star set a little larger and the Tower a little smaller above it; so the youth went off busily to inform the painter. Uwen said that likely they would stitch up a caparison for his horse and all — the horse Cefwyn had given him being still on his way in from the country, from what they knew. But the standard he would have carried before him would be the one they had unfurled in hall.

It was an amazing amount of activity, and they were often crowded upon, where they sat, so Tristen took the notion to tell the clerks where they were, and go out to the smithy which stood next door.

So they went out into the cool air and in again to the heat and smoke. He liked to watch the smiths work: he was always entranced by the sparks and most of all by the metal when it was hot and all but transparent. He hung about as long as he had an excuse, but the smiths and the wheelwrights were as harried as the armorer, since several of the lords, independently, it seemed, had been postponing work on various transport in the thought it would last until they got home. Now they were leaving the wagons here in the care of the drivers and the Crown would not count them in unless they were received in good order, so the drivers were frustrated, and felt they were put upon by someone.

It was the most amazing lot of racket, not alone the hammering, but the shouting and the arguing. And things growing hot there, and the wind shifting and carrying smoke into their eyes, they went back to the relative quiet of the armory, to sit and wait again on the bench against the wall, where at least they would not be impeding the traffic coming in and out the door.

It was a lot of standing and sitting and waiting, it was now toward supper, and he had hoped to have it over and done long since. He thought of asking Uwen to go for a book — but watching him read was dull for Uwen, so he sighed and thought otherwise.

“Iʼve seen a lot of odd doings,” someone near them was saying, “but I never thought Iʼd see the Elwynim for allies.”

“In the winter.” He knew that voice. It was Lord Pelumer. He had, Tristen thought, come in while they were gone. Pelumer was talking to someone behind a rack of equipment. “I make no secret I donʼt like it at all,” Pelumer said.

“Wizardry, is what it is — grave-dust and cobwebs for an ally. Give me a man that has somewhat more natural in his veins, to my preferences. Ghosts and now this Elwynim bride? You have the Kingʼs ear. Urge him against this folly.”

“Oh, this is the man that has the Kingʼs ear. Iʼm certain I donʼt, nowadays, sad to say.”

Uwen had started to get up. Tristen prevented him with a touch on his arm. And he recognized the first voice, now, as Sulrigganʼs.

“If we deal with the old man of the tower, even dead, what can we look for?” Sulriggan was asking. “This Tristen is Sihhë. Thereʼs Sihhë blood all through Elwynor. Gods know what theyʼll do. Did you mark the brideʼs eyes, Lanfarnesse? Gray. Gray as I stand here.”

“I confess I mislike the turn things are taking,” said Pelumer. “We were neighbors to Althalen, we in Lanfarnesse. Marna Wood covers a great deal that the east has forgotten. But we remember. Some things there are that cannot be made friendly, even by their own will. I count the new lord of Ynefel as one of them.”

It stung. He knew not what to do or say. Clearly they did not know he was present. Clearly they had said things they would not have said to his face and could not be comfortable with if they knew he had heard them.

Then someone said, a whisper that sounded like one of the boys that ran errands, “Heʼs here, mʼlords. Be careful what you say.”

“Here?” He imagined them looking around, and he knew nothing now that would help matters, except to indicate to them that, indeed, he did know. So he rose from the bench, which was along a rack of axes, and confronted them with, he hoped, a mild if not friendly expression.

“Sirs,” he said. “Good day.”

“Spying on a body,” Pelumer said indignantly.

“Hardly by intent, sir.”

“I make no secret I donʼt like the plan you advanced, sir. Iʼll say that in polite discourse. I donʼt like assuming it will be Emwy and I donʼt like to start a campaign in this season.”

“It will be by the new moon, sir. I might be wrong. But I believe that will be the time.”

“He believes that will be the time,” Sulriggan said. “Do you hunt?” Sulriggan asked. “Do you gamble? Dʼ ye have any common pleasures, lord of the cobwebby tower? Or do you spend all your time chasing up and down the roads and making mysterious predictions?”

“I read, sir. I feed the pigeons. Such things as that.” He knew that he was being baited. He saw no reason to hunt or to gamble or to be like Lord Sulriggan, which seemed to be all that Sulriggan approved.

But for some reason Sulriggan failed to seize up what he said and mock him in those terms as he expected Sulriggan to do. Sulrigganʼs face went quite angry and red.

And abruptly Lord Sulriggan stalked out of the armory.

“Ynefel,” Pelumer said, “he had that for his due. Accept my apology, if for nothing else than indiscretion. I am sure we may differ on a question of tactics without anger.”

“I am not angry, sir. I am sorry he is.”

“Ynefel, you will not win that man. I listened because for His Majestyʼs sake I would know what he is about. Believe it or not, as you have learned me to be.”

“Sir, I find no reason to doubt what you say.”

The old man bit his lip and gnawed at his white mustaches, seeming unhappy, but thinking, too.

“Well, well,” Pelumer said then. “He would have been mistaken to attack you at arms. I think he thought you an easier mark than that. I think he had expected to entrap you into a challenge — which is not lawful, under the Kingʼs roof, as you may recall. You possess the field, sir. I congratulate you.”

Pelumer went away then, out the door, pausing to pick up some paper of the clerk at the door.

“I fail to understand,” Tristen said.

“I think Lord Pelumer meant you scairt His Grace who left,” Uwen said. “Meaninʼ Sulriggan ainʼt the fool altogether. That ʼun wasnʼt on the field at Emwy. That ʼun come in after all was done, and settled in wiʼ Prince Efanor. He ainʼt seen you fight, mʼlord. But I think he knows now he was in deep waters.”

He wished he understood, all the same. That the man did not like him hardly surprised him. But that the man wanted to fight him did not make sense. That the man wanted to entrap him and to discourage Cefwyn from friendship with him — that, he did see. He didnʼt know if it was fair to warn Cefwyn. It seemed to him that there were intricate Rules to govern menʼs behavior, and to govern what they told authority about and what they did not and settled unto themselves.

He did not know those Rules. He only saw they existed. He was quite, quite stunned by Sulrigganʼs kind of malevolence. But Hasufinʼs sort of harm and this manʼs seemed to have tactics in common, and he found it worrisome this was the man who stood closest to Efanor, except only Efanorʼs priest.

Efanor did not, over all, like him, and at least this one man, possibly with Efanorʼs knowledge, possibly without it, was going about quietly trying to turn Pelumer to their side, too.

He was not certain where Fairness lay, in this — whether it was Fair for him to tell Emuin, who would surely tell Cefwyn, and that would make trouble with Efanor, which would make Cefwyn unhappy, when Cefwyn had enough pain.

It seemed something he could deal with. It seemed at least the man had gone in retreat.

So it was not something he chose to tell Cefwyn, in the meeting they had. And Cefwyn was not angry with him. Tristen was very glad of that. He had gone to Cefwynʼs door specifically to apologize for interrupting him in council, but Cefwyn took his hand and said it was very well, he had been right to speak out under the circumstances. And Cefwyn had asked him in and shared a cup of tea with him, and directly asked him about the armor, which he said was very fine.

Then Cefwyn told him he had ordered Haman to make a choice of horses for Uwen as well, since, as Cefwyn said, for the Kingʼs pride he could not have the chief of personal guard of a lord of Ylesuin drawing his mounts at random from the stables. He gave Uwen the horses and their upkeep, the written order said, as long as Ynefel stabled horses at Henasʼamef.

It was a very handsome gift, Tristen had no difficulty in recognizing that. It was another in the succession of gifts Cefwyn had poured out on him in the context of his betrothal to the lady, and he did not know altogether what it meant. “If I had any means,” he said to Cefwyn, troubled and embarrassed, “I would provide for him. I understand what I should do, and I cannot, and I am very grateful.”

“If I had any desire to weigh you down with the administration of a province,” Cefwyn said, “I swear I would bestow Amefel on you and send Orien Aswydd packing. As it is, I find it a very modest upkeep for an entire province of Ylesuin. The horses have come in, Haman advises me. You will need, of course, grooms, standard-bearers, their horses and upkeep. And upkeep for your servants.”

He could scarcely conceive of it — or understand what Cefwyn was doing to him: pushing him out on his own, perhaps, which was not unkind, and perhaps even timely; but he still had the suspicion that gifts and generosity came before bad news and parting.

“I am not a lord in any useful sense. I hardly need more than Uwen.”

“Oh, you are far more useful and far less expensive than, say, Amefel. How did you find Orien? Civil? Or otherwise?”

“Idrys told you.”

“Oh, my dear friend, Idrys indeed told me. And I wish to know if you have any complaint against her.”

“I know that I shouldnʼt have gone there. I was there before I knew that. But her guards were wiser than I was: they told Idrys and he came for me.”

“Idrys says you made it out on your own,” Cefwyn said. “Which is far more sense than I had.”

That was a joke, but Cefwyn did not laugh, and Tristen did not. He did not think of anything to report that Cefwyn did not know, but he did not think he could as freely forgive Orien the way he had forgiven the gate-guards and Idrys and all the people who had done him harm of one kind and another. Orienʼs action seemed somehow more mindful and of a purpose he did not wholly guess, nor wish to. But he tried to guess.

“I have no idea what she wanted,” Tristen said, and Cefwyn looked at him oddly.

“I believe I know,” Cefwyn said, as if he were being a little foolish, even for him. But beyond the evident conclusion, he thought it far more than a ploy to lure him to — what he only dimly visualized. Still, he did not wish to launch into that discussion tonight, for Cefwyn seemed very tired, certainly in pain, and should go to bed. “Iʼll deal with Orien,” Cefwyn promised him. “I am very aware of her displeasure.”

“You should rest,” Tristen said.

“I fully intend to,” Cefwyn said, and declared his intent to go to bed like a good betrothed husband, after which Tristen made his excuses and withdrew across the hall to his own apartment.

Cefwyn had seemed in increasing pain since last night, and that was hard to watch as well as disheartening for their preparations. He could not imagine of his own experience how acute the pain of such a deep wound was, but Cefwynʼs face had been quite pale, at the last, and damp with sweat. Tristen wished — desperately wished — that he had Maurylʼs ability to take the pain away and to heal the hurt; but he did not.

And worry over Cefwyn might have put him out of the mood to have supper, except Uwen was so entirely delighted and overcome when he heard about the horses and the King taking a personal interest in him, it was hard to remain glum.

So he took supper in his sitting room with Uwen and the four servants, who were, since he had come back from Althalen, very willing to linger by the table and gossip. He learned, this evening, for one thing, that Lord Sulrigganʼs personal cook had had a dish turn up very, very salty at the betrothal feast, and Lord Sulriggan called it witches, but the servants thought it likelier the scullery-lads.

Tristen found himself laughing, in far better humor than he had begun. He felt a little guilt, because it was a misbehavior, but not harmful; and by now the servants and Uwen probably had traded stories, so Lord Sulrigganʼs discomfiture in the armory would probably make the rounds, too — and find especial appreciation in the kitchens.

Opinions about Ninévrisë were also making the rounds of the staff: there was a deep curiosity about a woman who would be, if not queen, still, the next thing to it. The general opinion the servants gave — far more cautiously — was that she was a very kind, a very gracious lady, who, moreover, politely had not complained of a wool coverlet, though her skin could not bear anything but lambswool: it came of being a princess, the staff said, and the servants had had to send after more linens to case all the blankets until they could find proper ones.

Tristen was duly appalled that such information was a matter of common gossip, but Uwen reminded him what he had said to him from the beginning, that a lordʼs reputation among the servants was just as important as that he achieved among his peers — because it rapidly was among his peers. So Ninévrisë was well begun, at least with the staff, who thought her very proper and very accepting of the staffʼs good intentions.

There was a muttering of thunder as they finished supper. The clouds today had gone over with no more than a spit of rain, and would shed their burden on Guelessar. The farmers of the south and west were doubtless happy, and so, doubtless, would be the lords and their men who, leaving their tents with the baggage, had started home to their own lands.

Tristen for his part thought it a good night to sit by the fire, and in that comfort, still thinking of Cefwynʼs misery, he took it in mind to try just a little magic, foolish as the attempt might be, to see if it worked for him at all. Cefwynʼs well-being was something he wanted very much — and that might help. Mauryl had said it was easiest to make things what they wanted to be.

So he lit the candles in his room — he always thought of his bedchamber that way, his room, as opposed to the outer room where the servants came and went and where Uwen sat and talked with them, or talked with the off-duty guards. Usually the doors stayed open between the rooms, but he shut his tonight, saying that he would retire early and manage for himself, so the servants and Uwen could play dice or whatever they pleased.

He took his Book from the shelf and sat down to read by firelight, the page canted toward the warm glow, and after a little, he looked into the fire as sometimes Mauryl had done, and made pictures to himself in the fire as he had used to do. He saw mostly faces, that suddenly seemed to him like the faces of Ynefel, which was not at all what he wanted to conjure.

He tried to think of Cefwyn, instead, and of Cefwynʼs wound being well. Mauryl had done it so effortlessly, and he wanted so much, just, for a beginning, for Cefwyn to be able to rest without pain, and to walk without pain.

A wind gusted up, and came down the chimney, fluttering the fire. He did not like that.

Then he heard a rattle at the window-latch.

He liked that far less.

He shut the Book. Then came a tapping at the glass, which he had never heard, and could not imagine what it was in the middle of the night, on the upper floors, until he thought, as he had not thought in some number of nights, about Owl.

He rose from the fireside, Book in hand, and went over to the window. The tapping kept up, in a curious pattern, and in the light coming from inside the room, he could see a pigeon on the narrow, slanted window-ledge.

He had left the bread out earlier. But it was an odd time for pigeons to be after it. He could not think that it was natural behavior, and the bread was, he saw in that same outflow of light, gone from the ledge.

Tap. The bird pecked the windowpane, perhaps attracted by the light. Tap-tap. It lost its balance on the narrow ledge and used its wings to recover.

Tap. Tap-tap.

It sounded more frantic. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. It wanted in. It was a bird he knew. Perhaps for some strange reason it had decided to take his offerings of food from his hand and wanted him to feed it. But he would have to open the little windowpane, and he hesitated to do that.

He tapped the glass with his fingernail to see if that would deter it. Silly bird, he thought. But it hammered the glass with its beak, more and more frantically, beating with its wings. Then it dived away into the dark.

That was very odd, he was thinking; and of a sudden the bird came flying out of the dark and hit the window so hard it left feathers stuck to the glass. It was gone. It had fallen into the dark — broken. He could see in the light from the window a smear on the glass and its soft down stuck there.

He was shaken.

More, he knew who was responsible, and that it was a prank, nothing but a wretched, cruel prank, using a creature he had taught to trust that window for good things.

He was angry. He was very angry.

— Hasufin, he challenged the dark and the Wind. That was not brave. It showed me nothing new about you. I have met a man like you, vain, and sneaking, and a liar.

— It was only a bird, the Wind said. You should worry about other things.

Hasufin was trying to scare him. The latch rattled and the pane rocked back and forth.

— You have much more to lose than this, the Wind said, and with a thump at the windowpane, it was gone.

Then it began to rain, a brief spatter that showed drops against the pane, and washed away the feathers and the blood.