Fortress of Owls

by C. J. Cherryh

  And lo! instead, acceptance and respectability was handed her in her own right, without struggle, from her enemy’s very hand, and Luriel was confounded and indebted to the Royal Consort at one stroke. As she backed from the foot of the dais perhaps her hard little heart even beat in gratitude; Cefwyn dared entertain that hope…at least of a calculated, weighed, and measured gratitude mingled with fear, for Luriel was, in terms of her own safety, no fool.

  Her advantage most certainly now lay down a different path than she must have envisioned when she

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  had written him letters pleading for royal rescue, and she must see that, either in gratitude or in fear…unless her scheming had turned one more corner than he had yet discovered.

  His invitation to court was not a summons back to his bed, above all else. From the time they were lovers he had known that her true and deepest passion was for the throne, and that only Luriel’s mirror ever saw love in those blue eyes. No, no one touched Luriel’s well-armored little heart, no suitor ever so much as dented it, and no one could be more aware of that quality than her former lover. It was perhaps tragic that she was incapable of wanting power in a useful and sensible way, for what power itself could do—move armies, build cities, leave a legacy to the ages…but alas! all that wit and cleverness bent toward the trappings of power, the jewels, the music, and the festivities. She was no wiser than her mother in that respect.

  But as of this moment and by reason of Ninévrisë’s action possibilities of such luxury lay before Lady Luriel, an entire array of possibilities which had not existed before she was bidden join the consort’s ladies: respectability, acceptance, clothes and music, festivities, the attention of handsome men, all the things that were Luriel’s life…all the ambitions that made her so cursed boring once the sun rose.

  The eyes of various gentlemen about the room, too, had kindled with interest, unmarried men and married alike, poor bedazzled fools. And Luriel when she retreated from the royal presence did so with all her powers of charm and wealth newly restored about her, a serpent having shed its old skin, leaving it now in the dust of her former disgrace. She glowed. Her uncle Prichwarrin now came seeking her hand, oh, yes, eager to assert he governed Lady Luriel, and ruled her for FORTRESS OF OWLS / 97

  tunes. She had been damaged by her willful daring, and now was repaired and shining new. Lord Murandys had a marketable commodity again, granted he could bid his niece with any better success than before.

  But almost before Lord Murandys could claim her hand, there was, yes, Rusyn, second son of Panys, offering his.

  It was no accident. Panys had agreed, when offered royal blessing for a swift and successful courtship, and the lad was more forward than even Cefwyn had anticipated, eager, his royally commanded act of chivalry now become the public and swift appropriation of a prize many men envied.

  And though Panys had never been overly friendly with the lands above Guelessar, young Rusyn immediately entered into polite converse with Prichwarrin and the lady, pressing his respects on the king’s former mistress with vigor and bright determination.

  Marry her, was Cefwyn’s private word on the matter. Marry her, bed her, and keep her from further scandal and rest assured that great estates go with her. A married and well-disposed Luriel, he had assured Rusyn’s father, would enjoy high royal favor…and a son of Panys would be in the approved line of inheritance in Murandys’ much larger lands and honors.

  “Well-done,” Cefwyn said to Ninévrisë under the general buzz of conversation, and the uncertain start of musicians who first thought and then doubted they had received a royal cue.

  He gave a second, indubitable, and added, “I love you.”

  “And is this Panys’ younger son?” Ninévrisë asked.

  “Yes. That he is. Rusyn is the name. A scholar and a fine horseman.”

  Whatever could he have seen in Luriel? He swore he had been ten years younger last year, a fool defiantly 98 / C. J. CHERRYH

  posed in his own perverse folly: rebellion from his father.

  Yet he had escaped marriage with Murandys’ niece. That was some credit to his wit.

  He had unraveled Heryn Aswydd’s treachery.

  He had lived to be king, against all odds, and to the barons’

  great disappointment, who had hoped for gentle, biddable, devoutly Quinalt Efanor.

  But one remarkable year had seen him bed Luriel of Murandys and Heryn Aswydd’s twin sisters…and fill his nights now with the woman he truly loved, whose name and image he could not put in the same thought with that unholy threesome.

  The music brightened into a country dance, the son of the lord of Panys dancing a wild turn with Luriel amid the whirling ranks of the young and breathless.

  Solitary and out of sorts, Murandys went off to scowl by his column.

  C H A P T E R 4

  Servants set out supper, prepared plain glass goblets…not Lady Orien’s cups, to be sure, although her dragons supported the table and loomed insistently from the ceiling of the ducal apartment, brazen, silent listeners recalling to any who knew her the presence of a woman and a household less than friendly to Cefwyn Marhanen, or to Mauryl. Tristen had ordered new cups, new service, and replacement from unquestioned sources for any foodstuff that might be about the place, all this before he would consent to live in this apartment; and plain pottery would have served him very well. But Tassand had come up with sturdy pewter plates and the green glass and argued it was more fitting a duke’s private table.

  The furnishings, however, had remained what they were, massive and costly and part of the ducal trappings that were, unfortunately so in Tristen’s opinion, the pride of Amefel. The furnishings, the drapes, green velvet, he longed to replace, to exchange Aswydd green and gold for the proper deep red of Amefel.

  But as he had said to Crissand and Uwen, the essential matters of his rule here did not involve the color of the drapery.

  An army of workmen was already under-foot repairing the expensive scars of his accession, and the presence of a few dragons and green drapes seemed tolerable and harmless, oppressive as they might be to

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  his spirit. Accordingly he resolutely pretended the dragons were his, determinedly found a certain beauty of line in the snarling strike of scaled bodies, and told himself that green, besides being the Aswydd color, was the color of forest and hills.

  Now he prepared to receive a guest, dragons and all…had asked Cevulirn to come here, rather than to the great hall, on the excuse of Cevulirn’s exhaustion. But it was the privacy he courted, a chance to talk outside all hearing…while gossip flew through the town and in and out among the great houses.

  Everyone wanted to know what dire circumstance had stirred Ivanor out of Guelessar. The earls of Amefel (and by now everyone in Henas’amef) knew the same thing: that, alone of the southern barons, Cevulirn had stayed in Guelemara to promote southern interests; and now he was here, conferring with their new lord.

  An urgent message from the king?

  A breach between the king and the south?

  Were the Elwynim about to pour across the river, taking advantage of what they might deem was still a valid agreement for influence in Amefel? For the town by now knew that the rebels in Elwynor had agreed to come across the river in Edwyll’s scheme. Were they across and was the duke of Ivanor come as a prelude to a winter war?

  All these tales Uwen reported from his tour of the stable yard and kitchens on their return. Uwen was deft at sifting rumors out of the very air: more, he was a common man good at talking to common folk who heard them, and gaining the truth from them.

  “Bid the soldiers not gossip,” Tristen had said to Uwen from the moment they had come home, but as well bid the pigeons not to fly and not to profane the Quinalt steps. The soldiers simply did not understand and simply could not refrain.

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  So he took for granted the soldiers would in an hour or so have spil
led all they saw and half what they imagined (they would have some discretion) in the barracks and the kitchens to persons of great trustworthiness. From there it was an easy step to the taverns. And back again, by servants, to the noble ears…which would engender more questions.

  But the earls would have to content themselves with what Crissand could tell them, at least until the morrow. He had Cevulirn to himself. Only Emuin had he asked to be there…it-self a remarkable event. And a private word with Emuin Tristen earnestly wished for, too, on different but related business.

  But as yet there was not a whisper of wizardly attention, not in the gray space nor at his apartment door. Auld Syes was the name he had sent hurtling into the gray space when he had reached the inside of the wards and nearness to Emuin; and after it he had sent all that Auld Syes had said to him, with hopes that that name in itself would rouse Emuin out.

  To his profound disappointment, no. But for Cevulirn…yes.

  Emuin would come.

  Now with a quiet stir at the door, Cevulirn arrived and disposed his small escort with the guards outside, the four who watched over his door by night. He came in, modestly dressed, escorted by the youngest servant.

  “Ah,” Cevulirn said when he looked toward a set and ready table, and his weathered face relaxed in pleasure as, his cloak scarcely bestowed on one servant’s arm, Tassand set a cup of wine in his hand.

  “Please sit, sir,” Tristen said, with a gesture toward the table and its four places, one reserved for Uwen and one for Emuin.

  “I thought supper might come welcome.”

  “Very welcome, after days of hard biscuit and bad ale. And this,” said Cevulirn, lifting his wine cup, “is not bad ale.”

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  “I’m pleased,” Tristen said, as they took their places. He relied on Tassand for such choices, limiting his own instructions to the request for something simple and hot, after the freezing ride. “We needn’t wait. Uwen and Emuin may come, but then, they may not.” He settled at table, let the servants serve the meal, and his guest have at least a taste of supper before he began with what his friends called his questions. “Did His Majesty send any message, sir?”

  “I’ve heard nothing worse than the situation I left,” Cevulirn said, and this, in privacy, Tristen took for the whole, if not reassuring truth. “Say that His Majesty sent me home to Toj Embrel, and Ryssand mourns a son, hence my wintering at home.”

  “Brugan?”

  “Fair fight. Ryssand, however, will not see it that way.”

  Cevulirn, a man of few words, found a few more of them.

  “Brugan and Lord Murandys came with a document for the king’s seal…Do you wish to hear this during supper, or after?”

  “During, if you will. I shouldn’t enjoy a bite, wondering.”

  “So, then,” Cevulirn said. “Brugan and the document. Brugan came into the Guelesfort with Murandys, bringing this document which would strip the monarchy of power.”

  “Cefwyn wouldn’t sign such a thing.”

  “Ah, but they had a charge to make, if he would refuse. This was before the wedding, and they said if he wouldn’t sign, they’d bring proof of Ninévrisë’s unfaithfulness.”

  “Unfaithfulness? There’s no one more faithful to him.”

  Cevulirn, soup spoon in hand, gave him a lengthy and sober look. “I think Your Grace means in the ordinary way of honorable behavior, in which the lady FORTRESS OF OWLS / 103

  is unassailable. Their meaning was the traditional one, men with women, that manner of betrayal.”

  “Ninévrisë?”

  “Your Grace, neither you nor I would think so. But there are those ready to believe ill of her, as of you. It was never their intent to besmirch Her Grace’s reputation…no. It was the king’s signature they wanted, and he’d granted all else they came demanding. They were emboldened to have it written out, with all manner of seals, a guarantee of the Quinalt’s power…but instead of doing it himself, Ryssand, who has a wit, sent Murandys and his own son, Brugan, who, denied private audience with His Majesty, were fools enough to say it all before me, before Prince Efanor, and Idrys.”

  Tristen was appalled, not least at the folly of it. But Murandys had surely counted on Cefwyn and Efanor restraining Idrys, who would assuredly do whatever served Cefwyn.

  Cevulirn had not, evidently, been restrained.

  “And Brugan is dead? Directly as a result?”

  Cevulirn laid down the spoon and regarded him in great seriousness. “Let me spread it all out for you, Your Grace. The precise charge was that Ninévrisë had a lover. Brugan’s sister Artisane was ready to swear to it…that Her Grace had you for a lover, plainly put.”

  “Lover, sir?” The word fell at first confused on his hearing and then Unfolded in its carnal nature. He was disturbed enough by the word. Then he understood the rest of it, and his heart might have stopped. At very least it skipped a beat.

  “No, sir.”

  “I said that it was false,” Cevulirn continued, “and Brugan having said it was true, he died. Hence His Majesty suggested I ride out of Guelemara that night. I would not have assented, but I feared if Ryssand had my presence to inflame him, he might press His

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  Majesty with the same charges in public, and then the good gods know I would have had to remove the most pernicious influence in the court. To His Majesty’s detriment, he would insist, though I have a different opinion. So I honored my oath and left, against my will, and I have no knowledge how that fell out or whether the charge ever came public…but I know the wedding took place, which argues that it didn’t. And of you and Her Grace, I assure you, no one who knows either of you could credit such a thing. Unfortunately, many do not know you or Her Grace.”

  “Ninévrisë is my friend,” he said lamely and at disadvantage, he, who had never had more than a fleeting glimpse of the flesh of women…and that, in Lady Orien Aswydd, whose allure was a dark and dangerous one. He failed entirely to compass the thought, he was so astonished and appalled. “How can they have said so?”

  “Artisane lied,” Cevulirn said simply, “to please her father.”

  Cevulirn tore off a piece of bread. “Now are you sorry not to have had supper first?”

  “I think I should be ill. I should go to Guelemara!”

  “By no means! The lie, such as it is, is at least silent enough that I believe the wedding took place. No more can we do.

  Your presence there would break it all open again, to what result none of us can predict. And listen: you will be amazed.

  Efanor was willing to draw, he was so outraged.”

  Efanor. Prince Efanor, who had given him the little book of Quinalt devotions, which he had by his bed. Efanor the pious, who thought so much of the gods he would never act inconsiderately: Efanor would draw his sword and fight for Her Grace’s innocence. To such desperate violence the court had come, and so far had Efanor gone to side with his brother against Ryssand’s lie.

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  “I am astonished,” he said, finding the presence of mind to pick up his spoon.

  “So His Majesty has married the Lady Regent, and I delayed at Clusyn until I had firmly and clearly received that report.”

  “Then you went home to Ivanor…and came here.”

  “Here I wished to come. But I’d been long absent from my own hall, and things there wanted at least a glance and a question. In these times, to ride the true road, straight west to you, was to invite comment…and a certain hazard, for a man feuding with Ryssand. I regard my men too highly to do that.

  Yes, I went home, advised my folk to prepare even against a raid from the north, or assassins. Then came I here, with no delay, hearing rumors of unrest in Amefel. I’m glad to find it settled.”

  Cevulirn’s spies were nothing less than skilled, and in every court in the land, Tristen suspected, for little as the man said on most occasions, he always was well informed.

  “The rebell
ion was against Lord Parsynan’s vice regency,”

  Tristen said directly. “Earl Edwyll had a promise from Tasmôrden to bring Elwynim forces across the river to support a rebellion; but Tasmôrden is still besieging Ilefínian. He only looked for Edwyll to make war here and keep Cefwyn’s attention away from him.”

  “I’m hardly surprised in Tasmôrden’s actions. Only in Edwyll’s simplicity. I had thought him wiser.”

  “He was desperate.”

  “He died.”

  “Of accident. In this very apartment, while his men awaited an answer on their surrender. He’d drunk Lady Orien’s wine…have no fear,” he said, at Cevulirn’s lifted brow. “We’ve changed the cups and drink from no other vessel she ever used.

  You heard

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  this evening how Edwyll’s son Crissand surrendered the citadel to me on a promise of safety. But the lord viceroy killed the men who surrendered; and almost Crissand himself. So I sent Parsynan out of Amefel, and retained the Guelen and the Dragon Guard until I can find Amefin enough to make a guard.”

  “Prichwarrin counseled Cefwyn to put him in office. He’s of that faction; I would wager any sum you like that he’s Corswyndam’s man.”

  “I have proof of it,” Tristen said. “Ryssand had sent Parsynan a message warning him I was to have Amefel, and the messenger rode to reach here and deliver it before the king’s herald.

  Uwen and Anwyll and Emuin all say it’s against the law to do that.”

  “Treason to do so, unquestioned.”

  “More, the lord viceroy called in only one of the earls to warn him, Lord Cuthan, Earl of Bryn, and Cuthan also knew Edwyll was about to seize the citadel; but Cuthan was Edwyll’s rival.

  So when Parsynan warned Cuthan a change was coming Cuthan kept both sides’ secrets until after Edwyll had attacked the viceroy’s forces. Then he told the rest of the earls. That way all Edwyll’s support failed, and no matter whether the Elwynim crossed the river to support the rebels or whether Cefwyn’s troops took the town back, Cuthan would be safe. Some of the others held back to see whether the Elwynim would in fact come in, but I don’t mention that to them, and they know now it was a bad notion. The other earls never hesitated to join me.