Fortress in the Eye of Time

by C. J. Cherryh

  “M’lord,” Idrys protested.

  “No, no, and no.” Cefwyn was angry now, and looked not at Idrys, only at the table, his face mad-eyed like Owl’s sulk. “Damn it, I am strangling in this Amefin hospitality. With the guard, with a troop of heavy horse and the Dragon Guard to boot, if you like, but I shall ride, Idrys. Tomorrow. Gods.” He slammed the chair legs down and turned his face toward Tristen with a frown and an exasperation that Tristen did not take for anger directed at him. “Tomorrow,” Cefwyn said. “Tomorrow morning, at first light, we will ride out to the west, have a glorious day in good weather and come back to a good supper, does that suit you?”

  “Yes, m’lord Prince.”

  “Idrys is careful with my life. It’s his business to suspect everything.—Idrys, is Annas waiting dinner, or has he deserted to the Elwynim? What is keeping him?”

  “Is my lord done with business?”

  “Yes. Finished, writ, waxed, sealed, and quit of. Not another lord with complaints, not another tax roll. I refuse. I deny them.

  I consign them to very hell.—No, damn it, you will stay, Tristen.

  You’ll have your supper here. Will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, bewildered. He had started to rise, thinking himself surely dismissed with this flood of complaint and exasperation, but with Cefwyn’s offer of supper, and perhaps someone to talk to, he suddenly found that he had appetite, even with his trepidations. He sank back down; he drank the wine: his mouth was dry. Idrys had gone to call Annas in, and in the attendant commotion of trays, bowls,

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  plates, and pages, a page hurried to fill Cefwyn’s cup and his, without his asking.

  “So what have you done with your time here—besides the birds?”

  “I read, sir,” Tristen said.

  “Do you gamble? Play the lute? Do you do anything but read and feed the pigeons?”

  “I—don’t think I have, sir.”

  “The court is abuzz with you. The men are jealous. The women are smitten. I receive inquiries.”

  “Of what, sir?”

  Cefwyn looked at him as if he had said something remarkable or perhaps foolish. He sat still, and Cefwyn ran out of questions.

  But the old servant Annas and the pages had laid a glittering table in the next room in a magically short time, and Annas announced their supper ready.

  So following Cefwyn’s lead Tristen went and took his place at the end of the table. Cefwyn took the other, while the man Annas walked between, serving them a delicate white soup that smelled of mushrooms. It was very good. It was, he thought, the best thing he had tasted in days.

  Meanwhile Idrys stood guard, as if his legs never tired and his back could not bend. Tristen turned from time to time to see him, wondering at the man, disturbed to have his eyes constantly on his back.

  “He will take his supper after,” Cefwyn said to his concern.

  “You don’t understand the manners here.”

  “No, sir.”

  “That is a virtue.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Is that all your speech?” Cefwyn asked. “Forever and ever,—sir and m’lord without end?”

  “I— can converse, m’lord Prince.”

  Cefwyn shook his head. “Idrys’ silence is comfortable since I know its content; and yours is, if silence pleases you.—Idrys.”

  “My lord?”

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  “No ceremony. You make our guest uncomfortable. Sit at table. This is no Amefin. For that reason alone I trust him.”

  Idrys walked over to the sideboard and with a clatter dis-burdened himself of his sword. He sat down at the side of the long table and Annas set a place before him. He loosed several of the buckles of his black armor and held up his cup as a page poured him wine.

  “Idrys is a man you should trust, Tristen,” Cefwyn said. “You should understand him. He is another fixed star in the firmament. And there are very few. He and Emuin, and Mauryl, each after his own fashion.—I think we shall ride out to Emwy, tomorrow, Idrys. That village has made complaint of sheep losses.

  I think we would do well to look into it.”

  “Too near the river,” Idrys said. “Too far. It would require a night.”

  “Near the river. Near the hills. Near the woods. There is nowhere on the gods’ good earth someplace is not near, Idrys.”

  Cefwyn took a calmer breath. “It would be politic in the countryside, would it not, for me to show a certain—personal—con-cern in local affairs? I refuse to be seen cowering from the attempts against my life. Or relying on Heryn’s assurances—or Heryn’s maps.”

  “Not overnight. Not this place. Not with an untried horseman.”

  “Emwy.”

  “My lord Prince,—”

  “Emwy, Idrys. Or Malitarin. Now there’s a village loyal to the Marhanen. And only four hours’ ride, do I recall?”

  “Emwy overnight,” Idrys said stiffly, “might be better.”

  “A peaceful village. Missing sheep, for the good gods’ sake.

  In the Arys district. I’ve been looking for excuse to see the hills there, from safe remove, I assure you. I want very much to know how that land lies—how wide that precious forest is, apart from Heryn’s maps. And I had as lief know what the local grievances are, beyond the missing sheep. How they think the border stands recently.”

  “A double Patrol would be at minimum wise, my lord 194

  Prince.—And lodge in Emwy, not on the road. Walls and an armed presence in the village.”

  “I grant you. But no advance warning. No word to anyone where we ride. And polite and moderate in our lodging. I’d have this village stay loyal.”

  “May I point out your guest has only light clothing?”

  “See to that.” Cefwyn’s quick eyes darted back. “You’ve never ridden?”

  “No, sir. M’lord. Mauryl had—”

  “No skill with horses. Have never handled weapons.”

  “No, lord Prince.”

  “Idrys chides me that there is at least a possibility of Elwynim on our side of the river. Not in force. But best we do have some caution.”

  “The Elwynim are not safe, m’lord?”

  He amused Cefwyn, who tried not to laugh, and struggled with it, and finally rested his forehead on his hand, shaking his head.

  “There is hazard,” Idrys said, completely sober.

  “Indeed,” Cefwyn said, and soberly: “Ynefel once prevented that sort of thing. But my captains believe now there will be a set of trials of that Border—which is still far from Emwy, and I doubt there is anything to be feared there at the moment.”

  “Your enemies pray for such decisions,” Idrys said. “And I remind you our young guest is not—without any impugning of his good will—entirely discreet.”

  “And I,” said Cefwyn, “doubt anything at all in Emwy’s strayed livestock but a straggle of hungry Outlaws, pushed out of the woods, if anything, by our real difficulty over on the riverside.”

  “Outlaws,” Tristen said, lost in the notion of Mauryl and Elwynim, sheep and Borders. “Men in the woods.”

  “Men in the woods?”

  “I did see some. They were cooking something over the fire.

  But I know it wasn’t a sheep. It was much smaller. They gave me bread.”

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  “Near Mauryl’s crossing?” Idrys asked, so sharply attentive it startled him.

  “I suppose, sir, near the bridge, but not—I was walking so far—”

  Pages had whisked away the soup bowls and served them instantly with a savory stew and good bread. The smell was wonderful, and he had a mouthful of bread and sauce. His stomach felt better and better.

  “Most probably,” Cefwyn said, “there is the cause of Emwy’s strayed sheep. Bandits. Outlaws.”

  “The gate-guards thought I was one,” Tristen said.

  “Well you might have been,” Idrys said, “but for that book.

  How fares that wondrous book, Lord Tristen? St
ill reading it?”

  No question from Idrys ever sounded friendly. No question from Idrys was friendly.

  “Do you read it?” Cefwyn asked. “Emuin said you made no sense of it.”

  “I do try, sir,” Tristen said faintly, and swallowed a mouthful of bread, which he had made too large. A page had refilled his wine cup and he reached for it and washed the bite down. “But nothing comes to me.”

  “Nothing comes to you,” Cefwyn echoed him.

  “Not even the letters,” Tristen confessed, and saw Idrys look at him askance.

  “Emuin said nothing?” Cefwyn asked. “Nor helped you with it.”

  “No, sir, but I still try.”

  “Sorcerous goings-on,” Idrys muttered. “Ask a priest, I say.

  The Bryalt might read it.”

  “Damned certain best not ask the Quinalt,” Cefwyn said. “Eat.

  Plague on the book. It’s doubtless some wizardly cure for pox.”

  “Mauryl said it was important, sir.”

  “So is the pox.”

  “If I learn anything of it—”

  He saw by Cefwyn’s expression he had been foolish.

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  Cefwyn had stopped eating, crooked finger planted across his lips, stopping laughter.

  Tristen stopped eating, too. Cefwyn composed himself, but did not seem to be angry.

  “Sometimes,” Tristen said, “I don’t know when people mean what they say.”

  “Oh, you’ve come to a bad place for that,” Idrys said.

  Cefwyn was still amused and tried not to show it. “Tristen. I care little for pox, except as I could apply it to Lord Heryn.—Which,” Cefwyn added, before Tristen found a need to say anything, “is a very boring matter and a very boring man.—Eat.”

  “Yes, sir.” He felt foolish. But Cefwyn said nothing more about it, and the stew went away very quickly as Idrys and Cefwyn discussed the number of men they should have along on their proposed excursion.

  But the Name of Elwynim nagged at him. So did the accusations the gate-guards had flung at him. So did his recollection of the men in the woods. He reached for wine. He recalled the guards that had thrust that Name at him amid blows. It was a Name that would not, as commoner things did, find the surface and explain itself. He pulled at it, as something deeply mired.

  “Are not—” he ventured to ask finally. “Are not Elwynim and Amefin both under Heryn Aswydd?”

  “Mauryl’s maps are vastly out of date,” Cefwyn said.

  Idrys said, “Or perhaps the old man never quite accepted the outcome of matters.”

  Cefwyn frowned. “Enough, sir.”

  “They are no longer under one lord,” Idrys said. “The Aswyddim are no longer kings. The capital has moved. Did Mauryl never say so, master wizardling?”

  “You see why he does not sit at table,” Cefwyn said, leaning back with the wine cup in his hand as pages began to remove the dishes. “He provokes all my guests.”

  “Only to the truth, my lord Prince.”

  “But—” Tristen said, confused and not wishing to provoke 197

  a quarrel. “Why should the Elwynim be crossing the river to steal sheep from Heryn Aswydd?”

  “Easiest to show,” Cefwyn said, and thrust himself to his feet.

  Idrys pushed back his chair to rise, and Tristen did, in confusion, thinking they were leaving the table, and looked for a cue where to go next; but Cefwyn immediately found what he wanted among the parchments stacked on a sideboard and brought a large one back to the table, carelessly pushing dishes aside to give it room as pages frantically rescued the last plates. The salt-cellar became a corner weight. A wine pitcher did, moisture threatening the inks. There was an up and a down to the words, and Tristen diffidently moved closer as Cefwyn beckoned him to see.

  In fair, faded colors and age-brown lines, it was a map; and Cefwyn’s finger and Cefwyn’s explanation to him pointed out a design that was subscribed Henas’amef; and a pattern that was the Forest of Amefel, and then, differently made, and darker—Marna, and the Lenúalim which wound through it.

  “Here sits Ynefel and the river. There is the old Arys bridge.

  Our realm of Ylesuin ends here—” Cefwyn’s finger traveled up where the Lenúalim bent through forest, and Marna Wood stopped. In that large open land were divisions of land, drawings representing fortresses, and the whole was marked Elwynor. He saw one fortress, Ilefínian, that touched recognitions in him.

  Ashiym was the seat of a lord, a place with seven towers, but they had only drawn six…

  Names: Names, and names.

  “This is Elwynor. Did Mauryl show you nothing of maps?”

  Cefwyn’s voice came at a distance. He tried to pay attention, but the map poured Names in on him. “A few. I know he had them. He never showed me. But I know what they are, sir.

  They—”

  A haze seemed to close about his vision.

  “Tristen?” he heard.

  “Elwynor was much larger once,” he said, because it 198

  seemed so to him, but that was not what he was seeing. His heart pounded. He felt the silence around him.

  “Yes,” Cefwyn said, in that awkwardness.

  He could easily find Emwy. It was where it seemed to him it should be. He ventured to touch that Name, which he had not known, though Cefwyn and Idrys had spoken it, until he saw it written on the map—Words could be elusive like that: there, but not there, until of a sudden they unfolded with frightening suddenness and he saw them—he saw all of Amefel, and the air seemed close, and warm, and frightening.

  “Emwy, indeed,” Cefwyn said. “That’s where the sheep go wandering.”

  “More than near the river,” Idrys muttered. “The stones of that place are uneasy. I still would speak with you privately, m’lord, on this matter.”

  “Pish. Sihhë kings. Before my grandfather.—Did Mauryl teach you the history of Althalen?”

  “No, m’lord, nothing.” Tristen felt faint, overwhelmed with Places, and distances.

  “Probably as well. It—are you well, Tristen?”

  “Yes, sir.” The haze lifted as if a cold, clear wind had blown onto his face, and now the solidity of the table was under his hands. He caught a breath and set his wine cup farther away from him. “Mauryl said I should be careful of wine. I feel it a little warm, sir.”

  “Gods, and us straitly charged not to corrupt you.—Annas, open the window. The fresh air will help him.”

  “No,” Tristen said quickly. “No, I am well, m’lord Prince, but I have drunk altogether enough.” He made himself stand straight, though the dizziness still nagged him, a distance from all the world. “I’ve not eaten today. Not—eaten well—for several days.”

  “So I had it reported. Cook is a spy, you know.”

  “I had not known, sir.” He found Cefwyn’s humor barbed, sometimes real, sometimes not. He feared he was being foolish; but he truly had no strength and no steadiness left.

  “A dangerous young man,” said Idrys. “My lord Prince, 199

  for his sake as well as yours, do not bring him into your society.

  His harmlessness is an access others can use. And will, to his harm and yours.”

  Trust this man, Cefwyn had said. Yet Idrys called him dangerous, and spoke of harm, when he had only looked for a little freedom. Idrys might be right, by what Cefwyn said. It might well be that Idrys was right.

  “I shall go to my room, sir, if you please, I want to lie down.

  Please, sir.”

  “He has not drunk all that much,” said Idrys.

  “Much for him, perhaps. Perhaps you should see him to bed.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Tristen turned, then, to go to the door, and had to lean on the table, bumping the salt-cellar. “Sometimes,” he tried to explain to them, “sometimes—too many Words, too many things at once—”

  “Too much of Amefin wine,” Cefwyn said with a shake of his head. “Debauchery over maps. That you’ll sleep sound
tonight I don’t doubt. Idrys, find some reliable Guelen man that can stand watch on him personally, someone he can confide in, and mind that the man is both kind and discreet. He’s utterly undone.

  Have care of him.”

  “Sir,” Tristen murmured, yielded to Idrys’ firm grip and made the effort at least to walk, foolish as he had already made himself.

  He wondered if Cefwyn would after all take Idrys’ advice and send him back to solitude.

  But Idrys’ advice he already knew, and asked him no questions.

  Idrys escorted the wobbling youth to the care of the assigned guards—one could take that for granted, as Idrys knew his duties.

  And for no particular—and more than one—reason, Cefwyn wandered to the clothes press in his bedroom, and to a chest that, with a turn of the key set in its lock, yielded up a 200

  small oval plaque set in gold, with a chain woven through with pearls.

  Ivory, on which an Elwynim artist had rendered black hair, green gown, a face—

  A face lovely enough to make a man believe the artist was bewitched himself. A face fair enough to make a man believe in Elwynim offers of peace and alliance, while Elwynim bones bleached above the gate for trying to cut short his tenure in Henas’amef.

  A face of which one could believe gentleness and intelligence, wit and resolve alike. Could such clear eyes countenance assassins? Could such beauty threaten?

  There might for all the prince knew be a bewitchment, not on the artist, but on the piece itself, which warmed to his hand. He should have sent the piece back with the last dagger-wielding fool, or flung it in the river, but he had not. He had not been fool enough to reply to it, save by the means of word passed to suspected spies that he wished to hear more—how should a man or a prince wish not to hear more of such a face, even from his mortal enemies?—but no answer had come, either floating the river, flying pigeon-fashion, or trudging down Amefin roads.

  And, failing such elaboration—he should have tossed the miniature out the window, lost it, forgotten it at least, and kept the chest, which was finely done, of carved wood and brass.