Fortress of Eagles

by C. J. Cherryh

  Uwen said not a thing. But the sergeant from the detail at the door stood by fretting in silence, as if he, too, were somehow at fault. “Syllan,” Tristen said, and gave him the burned fragments in their contrived container. “Take this to my quarters, gently, very gently, and be careful of drafts.”

  “My lord,” Syllan said, and took it away, leaving them the archivist and the cavity in the wall. The industrious sergeant looked into it. But it proved empty.

  404 / C. J. CHERRYH

  But was the aetheling to whom Mauryl might have once written Lord Heryn? Mauryl had lived long, very long, and all those years might have been in these scrolls, decades of messages flowing between the Warden of Ynefel and the aetheling of Amefel, or things older still.

  This entire place had been ordered only as much as Mauryl’s papers, or Emuin’s, which was to say, not at all…and quite unlike the orderly arrangement in that of Guelemara. He had seen the latter, and knew at a single stroke he looked on a library that, like a wizard’s papers, concealed, rather than revealed.

  The two archivists had detested one another and come to their final disagreement. It was by no means certain that the thief had destroyed all there was of Mauryl’s letters: he could not have left unseen with a great many records. If he had taken anything away with him, it would have been the choicest, or at least the one a Man would most value.

  He had ordered a search. He had saved the fragments, for what sharp eyes could learn from them. The junior clerk was too heavy-handed; he awaited the senior, with Emuin.

  But hope of finding the thief? It was small. If Mauryl’s work wanted to be found, he would warrant it might be; or if lost, it would be that. He very much doubted a second archivist appointed by Heryn Aswydd could have contrived such a theft on his own.

  Where fled?

  Across the river, perhaps. But the gray space gave no clues but eastward, eastward, eastward, not toward the river, but toward Assurnbrook. And he stayed very still, not reaching further against resistance. Neither did Emuin.

  FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 405

  The Aswydd’s archivist, the thief was, after all.

  Uwen came up to stand by him. “Were it wizardwork?”

  Uwen asked in a low voice. “Is there some danger?”

  “None. I think, none. They were old letters, ’t was all. I suspect the archivists hid them from the Quinalt, from Cefwyn’s clerks. I suspect there were more of them and the clerk took the choicest to whatever place he’s fled.—But murder. Murder is far too much for fear. Here was anger, a great anger.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time two old men had a fallin’ out.”

  He stared at the shadows, at the base of the wall where dark flowed, beneath the tables, around the cabinets, within the wall. There was anger still here, but a muted, sorrowful anger.

  “Find a mason,” he said, “and repair the wall. Make it sound again. Hear me. Do it today, before the sun sets.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Uwen said, and went and gave that order to the Guelen sergeant.

  Tristen, meanwhile, stared out low windows that overlooked a walk that led to a gate, and through that gate was the other place he treasured, seen dimly, through inside glass no servant had cleaned in years. He saw leafless trees, brown, weed-choked beds on the approach to that gate. And he thought of summer.

  “Bury the man,” he said, turning about. “Have the windows cleaned.” They looked never to have been, in the regular upkeep of the Zeide, as if servants were forbidden here. “You,” he said to the Guelen clerk, “stand in charge of the archive. Set all this to rights. Account of what’s here, books of record and books of knowledge, letters, deeds, and whatever else exists here.”

  406 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “Your lordship,” the man said. The clerk stood still and stunned, amidst a library its keepers had set in deliberate disorder. But the clerks yet to come had other things to do, a province and its records, most of which were in this disorder. He had one man, one, to begin the work, and begin it must, before other things vanished.

  Tristen walked out the doors then, to the thump of a guard salute at the doors. Uwen and Tawwys trod close at his heels, never asking what he had read, or why he had ordered the ashes taken upstairs. He invited neither converse nor solace.

  He was distressed—knew he was angry, but not at whom: at the vanished archivist, perhaps; at Parsynan’s destruction, assuredly; at Emuin, possibly; even at Mauryl, remotely; knew he was afraid—of the scope of the disorder he perceived, certainly; of the disturbance he felt in the gray space, very much so; and of wizardly desertions, absolutely and helplessly.

  It was not a conscious thought that sent him toward the doors midway of the short corridor: it was the desire of his heart; it was a flight for rescue in the place that had always given him shelter. The opening of that door brought a flood of icy outside air; and the few steps set him and his guards under a sky clouded and changed from the dawn.

  He had come back to the garden…at last, was back in the place that he most enjoyed of all places, a place of winding paths, low evergreen, well-shaped trees, and summer shade.

  Indeed, he found in its heart the same neglect he had seen from the library windows, the herbs and flowers brown and dead as everything in the countryside…but he was not surprised. The trees were bare. That was only autumn. Understandably the walks were deserted: FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 407

  the wind blew cold across the walls, two of which were the building itself, and one of which was the library walk; and the other, a low one, it shared with the stable-court. It, at least, was not plundered, and held no dead men or vengeful shadows nor scars of yesterday’s fighting. He had found one thing unharmed, untouched, undamaged. And it was the most priceless thing of all.

  He walked to the edge of the pond. Fragments of leaves studded the gravel rim, but the tame fish that lived in the pond were still there, still safe…thinner than their wont, but safe.

  “No one’s fed them,” he said.

  “They sleep in th’ cold,” Uwen said. “But I’ll ask, m’lord.

  There’s things to tidy here.”

  “Will they die if the water freezes?”

  “I’ll imagine they stay here all the year,” Uwen said, looking around him, “but these beds is to dig an’ turn two months ago, says this man what was once a farmer, and that says to me there’s gardeners gone wi’ the rest of the servants and not yet at work here, maybe gone back to kinfolk an’ farms ’round about. We’ll find ’em, don’t ye fret, lad.”

  He was very glad Uwen called him that. Uwen was as distressed about the library as Uwen could imagine to be, and after a breath or two of watching the water Tristen put aside all anger with the guard, or with the clerk, or anyone remotely involved with the disaster. The brightly clad ladies and lords of the summer would come back like the singing birds, when the days grew warm again. Things that he remembered would come again and the year-circle would meet itself in this place of all places.

  Here he could believe in his summer of innocence. He could remember the trees of this garden as green 408 / C. J. CHERRYH

  and thick-leaved and whispering to the wind…and that was an archive as important, as intricately written, and as potent for him as the library. This place, failing all others in the Zeide, gave him a staying place for his heart, his imaginings, his wishing—his outright magic if ever Sihhë magic resided in him…he watched a few of his silly pigeons who had lighted on the walk, pursuing their business with their odd gait, feathers ruffling in the wind.

  In this place, most of all, he cherished fragile things. And was it a loss, that of Mauryl’s letters? It likely was. It likely was a great loss. But in a way it kept things orderly…kept lives in their own places, as Mauryl’s place and time was Ynefel, where everything was brown and full of dust, cobwebs, and ruin. It had held such a secret place, in the loft…but that was gone; and with it went Ynefel, and Mauryl.

  Now, standing in this garden brown with autumn, he wished this pl
ace to be again the way he had seen it, a green heart in the ancient stones. It came to him that something of the kind had always been here, must be here, from the time the Masons laid down the Lines of the garden wall and built the building.

  But, too…he had never understood until he had seen the Holy Father misconstruing a Line…there had been the gardeners’ work, patient over centuries, and the servants’ work, and all the people who had laid loving hands on the earth and the walls of the Zeide…all of them had gone on establishing those Lines by their simple acts, daily repeated, and strong as any wizard’s ward.

  Were not Masons common Men? And did not they work magic? And might not gardeners?

  He had come here to Rule, and to Defend a land FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 409

  against harm, and within its limits as within this garden, he realized himself defended by all these living hands, all these servants, this people, these guards. And when he wished it safe, strength underlay it as dry, deserted Ynefel had had none of that within it at all but the mice, the pigeons, and Owl. He had not expected to be defended, but he was. He breathed it in, he felt it under his feet and around him and he sat down on the stone bench, the Unfolding was that strong. To disguise his confusion he bent and tossed in a pebble from the side of the pond. The fish, chilled as Uwen said, scarcely moved, but the ripples went out. Under the gray-shining surface, even through winter ice, the fish would live and wait, enduring through the death that was around them.

  Crissand, he thought. Crissand. Crissand.

  He will come here, he thought for no reason. Not today, perhaps, but he will come in his own time. He must. He is mine, as no one, even Uwen, even Cefwyn, has ever been…as this place is mine, and all who have their lives here.

  The wind, meanwhile, was cold, and riffled the surface of the pond, blew at their cloaks and chilled to the bone.

  A wisp of something flew on the wind. It was ash from the kitchen fire, he thought at first as he looked up. But he saw another, and another.

  “Snow,” Syllan remarked, looking up at the gray sky. “Here’s snow, m’lord.”

  He looked up, too, and saw the snow fly across the dark evergreens. He saw one snowflake land on his sleeve, and marveled at it, how delicate it was.

  Delicate and beautiful, and many, many of them would turn all the land white. He caught them on his 410 / C. J. CHERRYH

  glove, jewels of differing structure, and it Unfolded to him that the shapes were numberless and nameless. They melted to nothing, but more kept falling.

  He was aware almost at the same instant of a pitching wagon, and a trace of snow across the backs of oxen, and it was gone like a wisp of a thought, with a surly unpleasantness.

  Master Emuin, in great discomfort, and at long last, was making an urgent effort to reach Henas’amef and wished him to know it.

  C H A P T E R 5

  Wisps of white flew on the wind, past windows gone cold and lifeless—two days of spitting snow and bitter wind had done no more than frost the edges of the slates, and the few remaining pigeons walked, disconsolate, on the adjacent roof.

  Amazing how a presence never frequent could be so missed in a man’s life or how eerie the lack of pigeons could seem.

  Perhaps the loss and the omen felt more grievous since the weather had set in cold and gray as it had. But with nothing but that loss outside, Cefwyn avoided looking out the windows, while his restless pacing delivered him to their vicinity every time he set himself on his feet.

  He will be at Assurnbrook, Cefwyn had thought on one morning, and on this one, he should be arriving in Henas’amef today, bag and baggage and master Emuin. He’ll be safe now and so will Emuin. Gods save us all.

  “Your Majesty.” Idrys, black shadow that he was, had been absent with some business at the door—servants came and went—or had gone out for a time; Cefwyn had no idea which.

  Now the Lord Commander intruded, grim and businesslike.

  “His Grace of Murandys with a petition.”

  “Outside?” He almost welcomed distraction.

  “In the hall downstairs, whence he hopes to be 411

  412 / C. J. CHERRYH

  summoned to your presence, he, with Ryssand’s son, bearing a petition.”

  He had rather most men in the kingdom than Murandys, and Murandys before Brugan, Ryssand’s arrant ox of a son.

  But today even that distraction tempted him. “Regarding?”

  Idrys’ eyes darted to a stray page who had ventured into this, the gold room, which had the map tables, and in which the pages were never permitted.

  “Out!” Cefwyn said, and the page darted for the door, turned, bowed.

  “But Her Grace sent a message,” the page blurted out, and bowed again, and ducked about, ready to flee.

  “Stay! Give it me!”

  “Your Majesty!” the page said, white-faced, and offered the rolled, sealed paper to his hand. Relieved of it, the boy fled, and sped left and right around a priceless orrery.

  “Damned boys,” Cefwyn said then. “That is a new one. From Panys. They rattle about in this great place and bounce off the walls and furnishings.”

  “The consequences of majesty,” Idrys muttered. “Likewise this petition in the downstairs hall.”

  “Regarding?” It occurred to him they had just been at that point, before Ninévrisë’s messenger had come to him (a messenger, because neither the consort-to-be nor the lord of Murandys could approach the king uninvited, but a towheaded child could.) He felt constrained, trapped, surrounded. “Sulriggan can’t be here yet. So, pray, what have we? Murandys and his damned salt fish? A petition from young Brugan to be first across the bridges come spring?”

  “Murandys on behalf of others, and would it were so pleasant as that.” Idrys’ face was glum. “I have not FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 413

  gotten a copy of this document, which was composed in close secret, I suspect, in the Quinaltine, by elements aside from the Holy Father, notably Ryssand’s priest, and Romynd of Murandys. I pray you, my lord king, not to sign that document nor invite Murandys himself today. Ask only for the document.

  What little I do know suggests traps in it. Numerous ones. And priests are behind it.”

  When Idrys said so in that tone of voice, it was time to break out the battle gear. “Aiming at what?”

  “Ultimately? Your Majesty’s endorsement of the Quinalt over all religious orders.”

  “They dare.”

  “Not yet, but will dare. One clause, if you please, regards revenues. The regularization of the Crown’s annual gift to a set sum.”

  “Two pence if they press me!”

  “More. They wish a Quinalt presence assured in Her Grace’s provinces.”

  “Kingdom!”

  “This is the wording, as best I know. It has a clause…” Idrys hesitated. And that meant it was very objectionable. “…accepting Her Grace as a prince within the Quinalt domain.”

  “Sovereign ruler.” They had battled out that phrase in treaty.

  And now did this petition deny it? “Damn them!”

  “The Holy Father, lately trembling in disfavor, has stayed behind in the Quinaltine and let only a cat’s-paw bring this infamous document. I’m sure His Holiness would wish Your Majesty at least to notice his brave act of loyalty.”

  “Oh, aye! Whose lunacy is this?”

  “The blunt fact is, His Holiness cannot rein in his 414 / C. J. CHERRYH

  priests and I think if he dared write Your Majesty a plea for help, he would. His acceptance of Your Majesty’s terms has weakened his voice where it regards certain elements. That is serious for peace within the Quinaltine.”

  “Six days,” Cefwyn said. “Six days, and I am wed and then heads will be in jeopardy, gods blast Murandys and Ryssand!”

  “I fear the Holy Father has the orthodoxy sniffing round his money chests, his private library, and his closets. The danger to him is real, Your Majesty. Ryssand has suborned his private priests, and joined those who do not favor the Pat
riarch. This petition has perched at your door with an importune, pious lord, aching for his sins, concerned for the realm’s descent into wizardous influences, suspicious of the victory at Lewenbrook, and above all Her Grace’s Bryalt priest, if Your Highness wishes to know what’s set the fox into the henyard in the Quinalt.

  The orthodoxy inside the Quinalt is counting the days, knows your disposition toward them, and they will grasp at any straw.

  I have not been able to secure a copy of this document; all I have is rumor. But it may even be a petition for a Convocation of the Council. I believe a threat is mounting against the Holy Father, aided by Ryssand and Murandys. In this, gods attend, Sulriggan may be Your Majesty’s ally, if weather doesn’t preclude his getting here; he may be a defense to the Patriarch. In the meanwhile I wish to have a look at this petition before Your Majesty contemplates an audience for its bearers and certainly before Your Majesty formally receives it.”

  In former days, in his dissolute princehood, he would call for wine and women of the enemy’s ambitious kinship…or their hire. He would sink himself in

  FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 415

  an unavailability trembling toward an absolute incapacity to do what his besiegers wished, while abed with their precious, perfumed influences…leading them on with such hope, and never performance.

  “Sober modesty has many disadvantages,” he remarked to Idrys, who alone of all men but Annas would know precisely what he meant. “So does negotiating with celibate priests.”

  “Call Luriel to court. That news will discommode her uncle, and distract him. Her presence, even more so. And her acceptance by Your Majesty would certainly distract him.”

  Imply a liaison or feign one, on the very eve of his wedding?

  Torment Murandys between the hope of influence and the fear of disgrace? Redeem the slight to Luriel, restore her value to her uncle?