Fortress of Owls

by C. J. Cherryh

  That wooden scaffold might be the only recollection of the summer’s threats, a demonstration that these sheds and huts, yes, and the sheep and the small produce of its summer gardens, would be defended. Bandits or Elwynim intruders might find Modeyneth village too difficult a resource.

  The snow in the vicinity was trampled, quite thoroughly, by men and sheep. Of the ox train there was no sign but the continuing ruts in the road, so they were sure that Anwyll had pressed on, nothing delaying…commendable in him, Tristen thought, as many things in Anwyll were indeed commendable.

  He had ordered haste, and haste Anwyll had managed.

  But dare he think, far less worthily, that Anwyll had rather camp on the road than come under a rustic Amefin roof and ask hospitality of a rural lordling? Guelenmen were not loved here; and perhaps the place with its archer-platforms had felt too cold to a company of king’s men.

  At their riding in, however, with banners displayed, with the jingling of harness and the blowing of horses anxious for rest, first one door and then another cracked and faces appeared, cautiously.

  Then the thane of Modeyneth himself, a young FORTRESS OF OWLS / 217

  man, ran out into the yard of the manor, not pausing for a cloak, pale of face and completely astonished at the visitation…though he could not be astonished, after Anwyll had passed this way, that the lord of Ynefel and Althalen now held all Amefel.

  And the White Horse of Ivanor informed any eye the other lord in question was Cevulirn of Toj Embrel, who had never been anything but a friend…amazing indeed that he was here, but friendship of the armed men who had ridden into his village was not in question.

  “Your Grace,” was the thane’s salutation: not my lord, that might acknowledge fealty, but the Your Grace that any man might pay to him and to Cevulirn. The Amefin were independent souls, and the thane clearly reserved his devotion. “How may we serve?”

  He was Cuthan’s man; but he was the best of the thanes of the honor of Bryn: so the earls all agreed. A young man with a common wife, he had marched his contingent to join the muster of Amefel, when by simple expedient of geography he might have evaded the call. He had fought at Lewenbrook, when Bryn had otherwise been reluctant and scant of appearance. In the recent troubles he had stayed to his land and made no requests of the duchy, nor appeared in court at all during the viceroy’s rule…or yet come to town during his rule.

  “Lodging,” Tristen requested of the thane, aware as he did so that Uwen was accustomed to speak for him and he had become so accustomed to having Uwen do so that he felt uncertain of proprieties, making himself coequal with Cevulirn, speaking for himself and the small guard that rode with him.

  “Food.”

  “Safety on this house,” Cevulirn added, at which the young thane drew a breath, much as if he had doubted their reasons…perhaps with thoughts of

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  that great convoy of carts that had gone down the road to the river, the same direction his vanished earl had gone, right through this village.

  “Your lordship,” the thane replied to Cevulirn. “Your Grace.

  Welcome to Modeyneth.” Inevitably, the young and curious had gathered; but so had their elders, mothers bundled in skirts and heavy shawls and scarves, some carrying babes in arms almost indistinguishable from their own bulk; old men, alike wrapped in heavy cloaks; and craftsmen and herdsmen with the signs of their trade about them and in their hands. “There’s stabling for a few, shelter for more. Come in, let the boys tend the horses, and come in out of the wind.”

  The Ivanim assuredly would not abandon care of their horses or their gear to anyone, and in their example, the Guelens of Tristen’s guard thought the same, so they all went to the stables, Tristen as well, settling Gery and Petelly together into the endmost large stall, with his own hands and the village boys’

  help seeing to their food and water.

  After that, the manor opened its doors to him and all the company, and provided warm water for washing by a rustic, rough-masoned fireplace large enough for a sheep. To the stew cooking on the other hook, the women of the house added more water and more turnips and potatoes, while the young men of the house arranged benches and brought more in from storage, served up ale and bread to stave off hunger, all in a hall so small and quaint the rafters were hung with farming implements and the hounds had worn a small track in the earthen floor, with their restless circling the table and the surrounding benches against the walls. The dogs were shameless beggars, and in the way of men and dogs men fed them morsels and became less the strangers.

  In that warmth and ease armor buckles were loos FORTRESS OF OWLS / 219

  ened, men lounged about the walls on the low fixed benches that embraced the room, and young folk brought in a snowy table-plank from outside, with its supports, to add more seats with the lords. There followed another bustle of preparation, village women in their aprons and winter wraps turning up at the door of the great house to offer additional spoons and bowls from their own hearths, as Tristen was curious to see…one or two apiece, for this was by no means the Zeide, and very far even from one of the great town houses in luxury.

  When they sat down it was at a plain, scarred table among several tables, at the head of the room, and with the dogs hanging close by their master’s elbow, waiting in tongue-lolling hope as the young folk brought the pottery bowls and the bread. More of that was baking, and the ale had already found approval. The stew went down with comforting warmth, all with small talk of the day, the weather, and, of greater import to the village, the news out of Henas’amef: the arrival of the Ivanim, the disaster to Meiden, and the aid to the southern villages.

  That, and the great wagon train that had passed, only using the well, taking offered ale, but bound resolutely for the river.

  “Guelens,” the thane’s older cousin said, as if that summed up everything, “fitted out for war.”

  “And bearing Your Grace’s orders,” said the thane himself.

  “And leaving a great curiosity behind them. Is it war before spring, and on this road?”

  “Not so soon, sir,” Tristen said, “and if I have my will, not on this land. I wish to prevent the war from crossing into this district. Did your former lord advise you, passing through, what had happened?”

  “Our lord,” the thane said, a man anxious and troubled from before their arrival: he gave that impres 220 / C. J. CHERRYH

  sion; and having seen Guelen forces going through his land, followed by wagons and supply as of some great force, he had sure reason to regard it all with doubt. “Our lord, Your Grace, passed in the dawn a fortnight back, with Guelen soldiers about him, and no happy look.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “Not that the soldiers would allow. I took it for some mission to the Elwynim.” Perhaps the thane did not now so take it: he had a worried look, and his eyes shifted from one to the other of them…for as it turned out, he knew nothing of what had transpired to cause his lord’s exile.

  “You fought at Lewen field,” Cevulirn said.

  “Yes. I did.” This with a small lift of the head, a motion of pride.

  “Those of us who did saw things, did we not?” Cevulirn said.

  “Such things as give a man an understanding of our enemy that the court in Guelemara does not have. The southern lords were there, to a man; all the south takes it of great importance to end this matter with the Elwynim, before some wizard or other finds Tasmôrden’s side and gives us a far worse enemy at our threshold. Your new lord attracts that sort of opposition, sir, being what he is. I think you may understand that, too.”

  The thane cast a wary look Tristen’s way.

  “But it was not a mission to the Elwynim your former lord had,” Tristen said.

  “Our former lord, Your Grace?”

  The guard they had with them along with the thane’s men had found place on the benches around the sides of the rustic hall, with ale and wooden platters. Conversation there had fallen aw
ay in a great listening hush so deep even the hounds stood still from their restless pacing.

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  “Your lord is banished. There is no lord of Bryn.” All breath in the hall seemed stifled.

  “And what then brings Your Grace?” the thane asked.

  “Lord Cevulirn is right: the longer Elwynor fights, the more likely some force will take advantage of Tasmôrden’s danger…when the king comes. You’ve not asked me why I dismissed your lord.”

  Modeyneth’s face became guarded and still. “It’s in your right and your gift to do so, Your Grace, and so with us all.”

  “You have yet to call me your lord. Am I that?”

  The hush deepened, if it were possible, and lasted a moment longer. “For my people’s sake you are my lord, and within your right.”

  “Will you swear to me, sir?” This across the bread and cups of ale, the remnant of an excellent stew which the thane’s young wife had provided. “Lord Cuthan hasn’t released you, but I release you from your oath, and as of a fortnight ago you’ve had no lord. Will you swear to me, sir, or cross the river to join Lord Cuthan? I’ll give you safe passage if that suits you.”

  “These people can’t cross, with their land and their livestock.

  This land can’t cross.”

  “Lord Cuthan might cross here to take it back.”

  There was another space of silence.

  “Your Grace is asking me for my oath against my lord.”

  “Yes, sir, for your oath, and your loyalty to me and to whomever I grant the lordship of Bryn. Lord Cuthan betrayed Meiden and held knowledge from him which cost his life and a good many other lives, besides other crimes. Therefore I exiled your lord, and therefore I took back the title and honor.

  If you still are Cuthan’s man, I give you leave to take whatever goods and men

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  you wish and join Cuthan across the river, to share his fortunes, whatever they may be. He is my enemy, and he became the council’s enemy, and Meiden bled for it.”

  That the thane hesitated long spoke well for his honesty. He rested his elbows on the scarred wood of the table and clasped his hands before his mouth, his eyes bright and steady, if troubled. “I marched behind you at Lewenbrook.”

  “I know.”

  “That the king in Guelessar sent you is on the one hand not astonishing. But it is unexpected, if Your Grace will forgive my saying so. It bodes better than Parsynan.”

  “Him I sent away. He was a thief, not alone of the jewelry we found. That Cuthan worked against him I find no fault at all. But that Cuthan conspired with Tasmôrden and betrayed Meiden to the king’s soldiers, I do not forgive, and will not forgive. Nor will the other earls he failed to advise that the king’s men were coming forgive him, either.”

  “Did he do such a thing?”

  “That, yes. And more.”

  “So I’ve heard, too,” Cevulirn said, “from young Meiden, and others of the earls.”

  All this the young thane heard with a sorrowful face, and a thoughtful one, and at that last, he nodded. “Then you’ll have my oath to whatever lord you appoint. I do swear it and will swear, and will obey the lord you set over us. How may I serve my lord duke?”

  “Build a wall, between the two hills beyond this village, and be ready to hold it if trouble comes. Let those hills be your walls.”

  Modeyneth leaned back from the table with a wary look.

  “The king’s law forbids Amefin to fortify, except at Henas’amef.”

  “The king hasn’t told me so,” Tristen said, “and I FORTRESS OF OWLS / 223

  say you should build a wall, and this is the lord of Bryn’s charge.”

  “But the lord of Bryn is across the river, Your Grace.”

  “Is he? I think not. You are the lord of Bryn, sir. You are my choice.”

  “I?” The thane now earl bumped an ale cup and all but overset it. “Gods save.”

  “The earls in Henas’amef recommend you. So I make you earl of Bryn, and I wish to have all the arms you can find in good order, fit, if war comes to Amefel. As I hope won’t happen, if you build the wall I ask for and build it quickly. I am in great earnest, sir.”

  “My lord.” The thane’s own name was Drusenan; and now Earl Drusenan, and this rustic place had become an earl’s estate.

  A woman who might be Drusenan’s wife had heard and come to his side, drying her hands on her apron; and the new-made earl was still pale and trembling. “What shall I say to this?”

  “Say that Tasmôrden will not pass,” Tristen said. “That this road will be protected. That all the lands of Bryn will have justice and good advice.”

  “My lord, they will.”

  “Then you’ll have done all I ask,” Tristen said, and the new earl set his wife beside him, the woman’s face with a hectic flush and her hands making knots of her apron. She was a lady with work-reddened hands and sweat on her brow, and by the laces of her midriff, swelling with child. Tristen had learned such signs. So the new earl would have an heir to defend.

  Drusenan, being young, would be earl for years if he lived so long as summer, and that was the question for all this district…for the bridge down the road was a likely place where Tasmôrden’s forces might try to drive straight for Henas’amef by the shortest route.

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  “Gods save you and your house,” Cevulirn said, the sort of thing Men said to one another, but Tristen had learned he could not utter it…being, Cefwyn had always said, a bad liar…so he simply ducked his head and let Cevulirn pay courtesies in a land that was not his.

  Meanwhile the lord’s men had caught up the enthusiasm and brimmed over with it; and in very short time the word slipped out of the small hall on serving boys’ feet…hasting, doubtless, to pass through the village.

  No doubt at all, when men turned up at the door, with ale broken out and every house in the village having turned out in the snowy yard. Out of nowhere in particular a piper came to the hall, and the new earl turned out the dogs and cleared back the tables, making a small space in which the determined might dance.

  It was a commotion about the event which Tristen had not foreseen, though he said to himself it was foolish not to have realized how quickly word would spread and how excitedly Men would receive it. The dancing imperiled the best pots and a persistent dog, both of which the new earl’s lady hastened out of the way…and the ale flowed free with noise and commotion until the mid of the night, or so it seemed to saddleweary men with a long ride tomorrow.

  But none of the Ivanim was drunk, nor were the Guelens, not nearly so much as the villagers…for, as Cevulirn had said under the cover of the noise, “I trust our host, but I don’t know our host. That says all.”

  The drunkenness, however, grew noisy and inept among the villagers, and continued in the yard, after the new lady of Bryn chased out the celebrants in favor of pallets for the soldiers and a bed for their noble visitors.

  “We’ve ample place for ourselves,” young Bryn said. “Take our hospitality and our bed in the upstairs, and welcome, very welcome.”

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  For his part, Tristen, and, he was sure, Cevulirn, would have far rather spread a pallet near the men he knew and trusted.

  But how was it possible to refuse when the couple, having received such an honor from him, was so set upon offering their best? And when this was the man to whom he had entrusted the sleep of an entire district of Amefel, should he not cast himself on his decision and trust the man?

  “Thank you,” Tristen said, and the lady without a word rose and began to lead the way.

  A word, a single word, passed between cevulirn and his lieutenant: wariness still, on Cevulirn’s part, and Tristen bent his attention to the gray space on the instant.

  Nothing. Nothing but the sense of Men in the vicinity, some dulled and sleep-beguiled, others not, and anxious…but how should Men not be, when their peace was so disturbed? He
trod the worn wooden stairs up to the loft, with the new lady of Bryn in the lead, and Cevulirn went behind him.

  The hall offered a floor for men to sleep on, and so the men would, but a sort of bedchamber was snugged in as a half loft above, wooden-floored, and lit and warmed by the light of the fire in the hall downstairs. It was a sensible and comfortable arrangement, assuring warmth and even a certain dim light, which was not the case in most rooms in the Zeide.

  There the lady left them. Cevulirn never needed say aloud that he was ill at ease in this separation from his men…Cevulirn, who had a little of the wizard-gift, and perhaps a sense of things in the gray space, still was a troubled presence.

  “I find no threat to us,” Tristen said aloud, and Cevulirn said nothing, but cast him a resolutely com

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  forted glance and sat down and took off his boots.

  Tristen did the same, all the while listening, listening, surmising the anxiousness he still felt was the villagers’ anxiety, and most of all the new-made lord’s and his lady’s, all disturbed at the storm that had swept down on their peace. Drusenan might be troubled at his lord’s banishment and fall; at his own accession to unexpected heights in the same brief space. He might be mulling over the instruction to muster and build. All these things were possibly in Drusenan’s agitated mind, and two wizard-gifts in their midst could only gather it up with unusual force. And their concern might cause others’ concern by their frowns.

  Yet the house did settle, and the presences in the house went out one by one as the fire downstairs was banked. Tristen settled beside Cevulirn in the soft feather bed. For a short time they talked of the river and the bridges, and then fell away to a mutual silence, both of them courting sleep in a house which had grown quiet and dim around them.