Fortress of Eagles

by C. J. Cherryh

  because I think Cefwyn is in danger of these barons as

  much as of the rebels across the river.

  —Free. Free. What does that mean, free…do you at all

  know? Free of what? Free from what? And what more

  could you do for cefwyn that you have done?

  Hard questions. Fearsome questions. Free to help my

  friends. Free to defend Cefwyn. Free to ride through Why

  village and have the children not take alarm. And what

  I might do stands in the corner yonder. By my own will

  I would never touch it, But I will, for Cefwyn’s sake, when

  I must. These men that press Cefwyn with their wants,

  they are not his friends. Never were they mine, nor will

  ever be. I could win Cevulirn, even Lord Pelumer. Never

  these men.

  The gray space shadowed, showed clouds, rare detail, in this place that teased the eye with no shapes at all.

  —Beware of anger, Emuin said, and the clouds grew lighter. Anger and folly walk arm in arm, young lord.

  Enough that Cefwyn dallies with them, do not you join

  him.

  —I shall meet with Efanor, by your leave, sir. Idrys is

  on his way to ask you. He counseled caution. But Cefwyn

  said…Cefwyn said if the Quinalt could shape a way for

  me to enter, it would shape a place where all Elwynor

  could fit.

  —Revising their doctrine to accommodate

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  Mauryl’s heir, is it? And so master crow will consult me.

  A wonder in itself. Master crow will consult. Most often

  things are already settled and have grandchildren, before

  master crow consults. Gods save the king, I say.

  —Can they? Save the king, that is? What are the gods,

  sir? Are they shadows?

  -I’m sure I don’t know. I leave that knotty matter to His

  Highness. I leave him heaven and bell and all blessedness.

  I made that choice for good and all when I took up wizardry again, And what I gave up, the gods know that,

  too.

  —Is Efanor wise, sir?

  —Ah, now you ask me.

  —Shall I rely on him for truth, sir? He perceived master Emuin retreating from him, growing more distant, and more distant again, and he erased a little of that distance, enough to make himself heard without shouting…erased a little of that distance, because he could do such things here. He could do more than master Emuin in this place, truth be told; but he knew his own ignorance, too. I ask you advice, master Emuin. I ask you plainly, are there gods, master Emuin?

  And are they as Efanor will tell me?

  —There is a greedy, conniving man in Murandys, the answer came back to him, troubling, at the edge of sleep. There

  is the love of comforts in Llymaryn. There is a frightened

  man in the Quinaltine. Those three things and those three

  men move half the court. Ryssand’s malice would be

  powerless without Murandys’ greed. As for gods, there

  may be. Go to sleep. Do what I cannot prevent you from

  doing.

  —Ought I not, sir? Ought I to do what Cefwyn wishes,

  and lie, as he wishes—or not?

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  —Ah, now the second true question. Now that it’s far

  too late, the question none of us can answer. Go, do as

  you can do. If Idrys comes tomorrow to consult me,

  probably I shall agree. Cefwyn held you out of all questions and now he places you in the heart of them. That

  will have consequences, young lord, and predicting these

  things might change them. You will do as you will. Efanor

  seeks gods. Let Efanor beware lest he find one he does

  not expect.

  Emuin was fading, and slid away from him. Perhaps, Tristen thought with a chill, priests or gods could hear them. But he had seen no one else in the gray space. That Ninévrisë was so close and he had not heard or seen her during his converse with Emuin meant they had been more subtle than her near and sleeping presence could detect. She was in a way their sentry, and never knew.

  He lay in his bed, beneath the painted sky. A staff faithful to him was sleeping all around. Uwen was there, his day guards, too, asleep, while the night guards stood their posts.

  He felt the presence of a full score lives, knew their solid, mortal faithfulness to him, a precious attendance, and frail, and protecting all he was. He could fight battles and lead armies. But the simplest of his servants was wiser in the world than he, and understood, perhaps, the questions he would never answer.

  In bestowing Ynefel on him and not on Emuin, who would have been the more reasoned choice, Cefwyn had cast far too much on his understanding, and it still was so scant. Emuin would say, always, judge for yourself, young sir.

  Or, Gods know.

  Did they, indeed?

  C H A P T E R 5

  Dry leaves wandered, amazingly so, and flew even over the walls of the Guelesfort, stark, stone precinct that it was, lodging in such unlikely places as against the little ledge of the study window where the disapproved pigeons gathered.

  Through the open side pane, Tristen plucked a leaf from its resting place, and fed breakfast crumbs to the birds that crowded up at the little window, careful to see they each had their share. They fluttered and they flapped. They were greedy birds, and could be unintentionally cruel to the weakest.

  They had no respect of the Quinalt porch, or the Five Gods, and he tried to think what to do about it. The pigeons had no respect of him, either, not a bit. That was why he courted their presence, because for all their sudden fears and frights, they had no respect for him. They or their cousins had been at Ynefel and at Henas’amef, doing no worse than here. But the Quinalt’s dignity was too frail for them, so now he must send them away, if he could find the means. He wished he knew how to tell them he was sorry. He would wish them home, if any had come from Ynefel. He would wish them a safe flight over Marna, and safe lodgings in the loft.

  But would a boy bring them the stale bread, and sit in the loft and try to read?

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  100 / C. J. CHERRYH

  Perhaps he still would. Or did. Or they would find their way to that place and those days. He was far from certain. He only wished them safety, and if he might draw a little of the light of the gray place out to touch them, and protect them—

  “His Highness Prince Efanor,” a servant darted near to say, and startled the pigeons into a cloud of cold, sunlight-silvered wings. Magic unraveled.

  He had not expected Efanor so early in the day. Uwen had waked red-eyed and looking miserable this morning and at his behest had gone back to bed…rather too much of autumn ale last night, Uwen had said, greatly begging his pardon. Uwen would be chagrined when he knew their visitor had come and his guard still abed.

  He had forewarned Tassand, his chief of household, that Efanor might come…he had not, however, imagined that Efanor would arrive on the clearing of breakfast from the table.

  He had not yet heard from Idrys…though Emuin had said he would say yes when Idrys asked. And had Cefwyn made a special point of telling Efanor before Idrys had roused master Emuin? Efanor was a great deal easier to set in motion than was master Emuin.

  It was unkind to think so. But Cefwyn did have such ways.

  It went with being king, he supposed, and with being sometimes too clever for his own good.

  So here was Efanor, early, and after a late evening when any man might be excused a certain sluggishness, Efanor’s face shone with a daunting cheerfulness.

  “Good morning to Your Highness,” Tristen said.

  “Good morning to you, Your Grace.” Efanor had brought with him, Tristen saw, a small book, the con FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 101

  tents of which he suspected. Efan
or had given such a gift to Ninévrisë.

  “If it please Your Highness,” he said. Everyone observed formality, with Efanor, as if he were somehow fragile. “I’m sure there’s tea, easily, and I think there might be cakes. The fireside is the most comfortable place. The red chair is the best one.”

  “I have a gift for you,” Efanor said just before they settled, and presented him the tiny book, an exquisitely bound and jeweled little book with the Quinalt sigil worked in gold.

  “This is beautiful,” Tristen said with sincerity. He was very fond of books of all sorts, and it was one of the prettiest he had ever seen. The writing inside was that intricate sort priests favored, but which he had learned to read. “Thank you very much, Your Highness.”

  “A book of devotions,” Efanor said. They sat down next the moderate warmth of the fire, Efanor in the red chair. “I hope Your Grace will consider them as more than a convenience of state. I know my royal brother’s notions. He bids me show you the forms and he cautions me against confusing you, intending of course that I teach you nothing. But I will give you honest, earnest answers, Your Grace, if you wish the honest truth. I would be pleased to give you honest answers.”

  “I would be interested in the truth, sir, thank you.” He felt awkward in the extreme, though he was relieved to know Cefwyn had been honest with Efanor. “What do the priests know about gods? That seems a place to begin.”

  “May I ask,…Your Grace.” A clearing of the throat. “Tell me.

  To begin. —What do you yourself hold about the gods?”

  “I wish to see one.”

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  “One would hardly expect to see one, Your Grace. That is, ordinary men would hardly see them.”

  “Perhaps, however, I might.” He had already resolved not to tell His Highness about the gray place. Emuin had always held that secret. So had everyone who could go there…unless praying sent one to some special place he failed to go.

  Efanor’s troubled countenance, however, said that he might have misspoken even this early in their dealing. “That you are Sihhë would be no advantage at all in seeing them, I fear.”

  “I may be Sihhë, he corrected Efanor gently. “I am almost certain and everyone says so, but there are other possibilities.”

  “As—”

  “Galasieni, perhaps,” He named Mauryl’s lost people. “It’s possible. Though I think Sihhë is more likely.”

  “Neither would make it easy for you to approach the gods.

  Nor the chance that you may be Barrakkêth, and an enchanted soul, a despiser of the gods.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. It might be true. It was more likely than other origins. He himself concluded nothing, accepted no past name, and perhaps by that refusal made his own essence chancier in the world, more difficult to seize on. “But I am Tristen. Mauryl named me when he Called me, and I should not say differently, Your Highness. Knowing less than Mauryl knew, I should never change my name.”

  Efanor seemed more and more distressed. “Tristen, then. But magic is not your way to the gods. Believe me that it opposes your salvation.”

  Was there indeed a way to leap over his origins and seize on a life such as other men had? And were gods the way to live past the spring? Emuin had complained FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 103

  he had lost his salvation, taking up wizardry again. But he would not discuss Emuin’s affairs, told to him in confidence, with Efanor. “And what would favor in?” he asked Efanor.

  “Faith. Good deeds. Prayer. The gods’ good grace and mercy.”

  None of that seemed difficult, or even daunting. “It hardly seems difficult. Except finding the gods.”

  “You cannot do it by wizardry.”

  “I understand so.”

  “Nor by magic.”

  “How, then?”

  “Pray and listen. Pray and listen. One hears them in one’s heart.”

  There at last was a hint. Magic needed the heart and the will and the inborn gift. “So one need not be born hearing them.”

  Efanor hesitated. “Men can learn. Whether their power could extend to a Sihhë, no one knows. I asked my priest what I should say to you, and he was entirely at a loss. A very learned man. A very fine scholar. But he knows nothing, nothing that he finds of help. There is a chance, a chance that His Holiness may receive a word, and find a blessing especially for the Warden of Ynefel, considering Your Grace’s office and goodwill to the kingdom. There is no question of your being malevolent, none, sir. Even His Holiness admits your services to the realm, as indicating a type of divine calling.”

  “It was Mauryl who Called me.”

  Efanor seemed to think the matter over for some few moments.

  “But the gods will all that’s good,” Efanor said finally. “Harm never comes from them. Magic can harm.”

  104 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “Against the gods’ will? Is magic more powerful?”

  “For a time. Only for a time. The gods set all things right.”

  “Then the gods would have defeated Mauryl’s enemy without Mauryl?”

  “Perhaps not in a time convenient for us,” Efanor said.

  “But if they can prevent harm and will not to do that, then is that justice?”

  Efanor stopped a second time, and now he was frowning.

  “The Brisin Heresy holds so. A wrong view. The gods cannot be unjust.”

  “But if so many died and the gods might prevent it—”

  “Perhaps we should go to the book,” Efanor said, in that way Emuin had with him, too, when he had persisted too long in a question. “Read the first devotion. Aloud. Let us begin on firmer ground.”

  He was slightly dubious, unsatisfied in his suspicion that, if the gods were greater than magic, then they might have prevented Hasufin altogether, saved very many lives and set the kingdoms in the very peace they were seeking through war with Tasmôrden. But perhaps it was deeper than that. And on any account he was not willing to offend Efanor, who was here for his good, and for Cefwyn’s. He was anxious about reading the book, as Efanor wished him to do: he feared Words far more than he feared knives on any ordinary day, but he opened the little book to its first page, and read: “Blessed are the Five Gods by whom all the earth is blessed. Blessed is the man who hears their voice…” So it was a voice, he thought. That was what he should be hearing. “Blessed is the man who does their will…”

  That made Blessed clearer. He read, and heard no god’s voice, nor even Emuin’s or Ninévrisë’s, only the crackle FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 105

  of the fire. The text went on some little time regarding Blessedness, which seemed to bear on the gods and their approval, and probably on having the gods for allies. It seemed desirable, if the gods wanted safety for his friends, and if they could be trusted.

  “Are the Teranthine gods the same?” he asked, interrupting his reading.

  “Mostly,” Efanor said. “Except the Teranthines believe in indulgence for sins. And allow”—Efanor hesitated and seemed to choose a word carefully—“master Emuin’s curiosities. You might be Teranthine, easier. It has a much wider gate—Yet it seems you refuse it.”

  “Not refuse. Master Emuin has never offered to teach me.”

  “Read the devotionals. Practice the things I will show you, merely the forms, merely the show of respect. Read that each day. If you fail the Quinalt, there may be hope in the Teranthines. You could do worse than that for your soul. And pray the gods send you understanding.”

  “Read until the Words Unfold to me? Like that?”

  “Gods forfend.” Efanor knew about the Unfolding, if not the gray place. Whether a godly man ever experienced that Unfolding or not was a question. “It’s not magic. Remember that. Use no conjury—I charge you, no conjury.”

  “But the Words will Unfold, all the same?” A wizard’s book held dangers and knowledge. He had lost Mauryl, who had used to explain things to him, and since in large part lately he had lost Emuin, Unfolding had replaced those guid
es, an understanding that had arrived continually, sometimes with a chill and a fear and sometimes with delight, all paths down which he

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  sometimes began to suspect Emuin himself could not follow.

  “Your Highness, with all my heart, I thank you for coming here.”

  “Love the gods,” Efanor said. “Love those who made the earth and everything in it.”

  “Do they make the seasons and the forests?”

  “The mountains and the sky, the rivers and the sunsets and all.”

  It had never occurred to him to wonder how the mountains and the forests came to be. He thought rather that the forests grew from acorns and such, and that mountains simply were.

  Nothing greater Unfolded, nothing in fact Unfolded at all, so perhaps he had found no key to it yet. It caught his curiosity but offered no answers.

  But where had the world and the mountains come from?

  Darkness gaped around that wondering. He saw looming ahead of his inquiry that Edge the gray place could make, the place toward which he had no wish at all to go. He all but dropped the book, and came back to himself with a skip of his heart, sweating, finding himself all too close to wizardry.

  But Efanor had never stopped talking. Efanor rattled on about the gods’ making of the world, and how the Five Gods had shaped the hills and made the rain come at their whim, pouring water down from the fountains of heaven.

  Fountains of heaven, Tristen said to himself distressedly.

  Were there discrete sources of water aloft? None of that agreed with the gathering in the air that he felt as the rain and the clouds, on which he was sure Emuin could call at need: which he supposed that he could call on, too, though he had never tried.

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  Everything Efanor said should have excited his heart; but none of what Efanor said now about making all the world perfect explained the weather or a forest in all its changes.

  “If the world is perfect, why should there be seasons?” he asked before he thought.

  “Because the gods will that there should be seasons,” Efanor said.