Fortress of Eagles

by C. J. Cherryh

  He drew a long breath and asked himself whether Ninévrisë

  would possibly, remotely condone it.

  But no, his bride was wise and she was tolerant and she was even canny enough she might agree in complete understanding and for the welfare of her kingdom; but he could not subject her to Guelen scorn, he could not have her pride assaulted by whispers and he could not enter Elwynor in the spring with her people resenting the slight thus done their Lady Regent.

  Every hint of scandal would come back in bloodshed, Guelen and Elwynim alike. Luriel’s ability to place her uncle in untenable positions had been her delight and his in times past; he was very sure Murandys had not brought that hellion to halter, disgraced as she had made herself. But she and he had had their falling-out, and he could not use her in the old way.

  Tempting, though, the very thought of Murandys’ agonized hope…and consternation.

  416 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “I cannot be the wastrel prince any longer.” A deep sigh, and a scowl. “I cannot be Efanor and sink myself in holiness, either.”

  “Then you must be the king,” Idrys said with brutal truth.

  “That I must.”

  “Then make them love you or make them fear you. If you are king, you cannot go by halves of it.”

  “Love!”

  “Unlikely as it might be.”

  “They love their own advantage, master crow.”

  “And love their wives and sons and daughters, love their comforts, their—”

  “Their horses, their hounds and hawks and mistresses, but I can hardly be a horse or a hound, can I, master crow?”

  “Nor hawk, nor mistress to Ryssand or these zealots. No more can His Holiness. To have these zealots in the ascendant would be as much a calamity for His Holiness as for you. But point it out to him and you may have his assistance with Corswyndam now that the ledge above his steps is less trafficked.

  You have accommodated him. Now charge him the fee.”

  He laughed, not a pleasant laugh, but pained and boding ill for Ryssand. And thanked the gods Idrys still confronted him when he needed a contrary, disagreeable voice.

  “Tristen having left,” Cefwyn said. “Who would have thought it would make such a silence in the town?”

  “Why, no gossip, no rumors, no whisper,” Idrys said, hands tucked comfortably behind him as the gray sunlight fell coldly on them both. “The town is still amazed to silence, considering his departure.”

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  “Would it had been Murandys.”

  “The old dog’s whelp hunts no better than the sire, my lord king, or I might suggest a horse might startle this very afternoon with fatal result.”

  A fortunate accident. But young Brugan would then succeed Corswyndam to the duchy of Ryssand, and Brugan was a greedy fool.

  Maybe, again, and on the other hand, a fool was better, to rule troublesome Ryssand.

  He pondered all its advantages, and pondered, too, the folly of a weak king.

  “I am not yet my grandfather,” he said with some resolve.

  And added, in brutal honesty. “And the son being worse than Corswyndam, a young and intemperate fool as well as ambitious, he saves my virtue. I wouldn’t stick at removing the father, if it weren’t for needing Corswyndam’s experience at the river next spring. Brugan would have his contingent slaughtered to a man in the first hour. Gods, gods! I fear fools!”

  “So will you send for Luriel?”

  Idrys’ jokes were frequently grim. And provoked him to short, brittle laughter. “Oh, aye. With trumpets.”

  “My lord king has a vast population of fools to draw on.”

  “She is less a fool than her uncle. She was young, she was too confident, too ambitious by half. She will not be queen.

  But she will not lack for suitors, or for power. Yes, send for her. By royal command. I warned Murandys, and now he has the result of it.”

  “Shall I go down and ask him for the petition, saying I will send it to the clerks to read? That might take a number of days.”

  “No! Say I am taken with headache and will retire. I 418 / C. J. CHERRYH

  have given no orders, nor permitted my chamberlain nor any officer to accept anything in my name.”

  “That will serve for today. There is tomorrow. And I am curious about the content.”

  “Tomorrow I see my tailor. I must see my tailor. I find the coat too snug. It’s a calamity. And the day after…I’ll think of it tomorrow. Damn them!” He found his spirits entirely fallen.

  He imagined all manner of ills before the wedding, and longed to take to his bed and claim headache for all the six days intervening.

  But then the gossips would be taking omens by that, declaring the king was ill, joyfully arranging the succession.

  It was one more round, one more attempt to delay the wedding, this time with priests and subclauses.

  “Go bid Murandys and the young fool wait for the audience day. I have a headache and a meeting with my tailor. Can a bridegroom be expected to think of revenues? Suggest so, at least. —Suggest to Panys I may seek a match for his eligible son. A royal whim.”

  “Your Majesty,” Idrys said, and left with satisfaction evident.

  It was done. They were besieged, but the walls held firm.

  And with Sulriggan doubtless to arrive and with Idrys bound to send letters to Murandys’ niece, one might trust intervention might precede the snows…trifling snows, Cefwyn judged, looking out the window he avoided, not enough to prevent Sulriggan reaching the trough of money and power, not enough to prevent Lady Luriel from reaching court…oh, the quandary the lady would be in: an invitation, and last year’s wardrobe.

  Was it only last year that he had danced with Luriel?

  The wax had poured thickly onto the little scroll and FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 419

  it was bound about with enough ribbon for a state document.

  He took his dagger to it, and scattered the rim of the map table with shattered sealing wax and bits of ribbon. It was wrapped about with a vengeance, no simple slitting of strings, Ninévrisë’s intent to necessitate destruction no spy could repair.

  I love you, it began, as all her messages began. Then:

  “His Highness,” a page said, a high, childish voice. “And the duke of Ivanor.”

  Efanor, with Cevulirn?

  There was consternation in the hall. Even the prince did not burst through into the king’s map room uninvited, and Efanor and Cevulirn trailed an outcry of pages.

  Cefwyn waved a hand, permitted the intrusion, and the pages stopped.

  Efanor shut the door in their faces, faced him, with Cevulirn, grim-faced.

  “They have a petition against Her Grace.”

  “Quinalt rights in Elwynor. Idrys informed me so.”

  Efanor paused for two breaths, and his shoulders fell. “But did Idrys say what’s not in the petition?”

  “What is not in the petition?”

  Efanor caught a breath and failed to say.

  “Infidelity,” Cevulirn said quietly.

  “Cleisynde,” Efanor said. “Cevulirn had a message from Prichwarrin’s niece. They have a witness, and they will make the charge public.”

  Efanor might have said more. He failed to hear it for the moment, turned away and remembered the letter in his hands.

  Artisane does not scruple to lie. Henceforth she is my enemy. I am

  420 / C. J. CHERRYH

  beset and alone, and trust not even the page who brings you this message, except Dame Margolis says he is an honest boy. I fear what may reach you. Be assured of my love.

  “Damn them all!” He thrust the message into his belt and strode for the door.

  “Brother!” Efanor said, attempting to block the door, to no avail. He ripped it open.

  “Annas! Fetch Idrys!”

  Pages ran.

  “Your Majesty,” Cevulirn said, a low voice he regarded of past experience. “The proof rests with Ryssand’s d
aughter Artisane, who is prepared to swear.”

  Idrys failed to appear. Annas, however, was as quick as aged legs could carry him.

  “The page.”

  “Her Grace’s page?”

  “The very.”

  “Has left, my lord king, frightened out of his wits, to look at him. Was there a reply to be sent, after all? Shall a boy carry it?”

  “No! Is Murandys still in the lower hall?”

  “I’ve no idea, Your Majesty, but I’ll inquire.”

  “If he’s left, find him! If he’s not left, I’ll find him! This will not stand! Gods blast that fox-faced girl!”

  “Cefwyn!” Efanor said. “Temper will not serve, here!”

  “It served our grandfather, and it will serve me!” He was out the door, and they followed, both. He walked through a startled scatter of pages and servants, past the tall windows, gathered on his coat and swept up the full complement of guards as he left, his, Efanor’s, and Cevulirn’s two men.

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  No furtive, ill-reported visitation, this, but a thumping, rattling collection of men and weapons as the king went downstairs.

  Guards at the stairs came to attention. The hall showed vacant.

  “I’ll have the lord of Murandys!” he shouted to the hall in general, waking echoes. “And his damned petition! And Ryssand! Find him!”

  Men ran. He stood on the steps, and Idrys arrived, saw the tenor of things and asked no questions of him, nor did a thing but stand to the side.

  And in not many moments came the tread of Murandys and a ducal entourage from the east end of the hall, servants scattering like mice along their route, finding niches that took them aside from the course of confrontation.

  Murandys had the petition, a parchment trailing ribbons.

  He had Brugan beside him.

  “Your Majesty,” Murandys began, proffering the document.

  “Herein—”

  Cefwyn struck it from Prichwarrin’s hand. It rattled some distance, and Prichwarrin stared at him in shock.

  “Your Majesty surely is misled,” Prichwarrin said, tucking his hand against him. His face was white…he was not a young man. “This petition for the welfare of the realm and the Holy Quinalt…”

  “…is a sham. And a treasonous sham to boot.”

  “Never so, Your Majesty.”

  “You press me much too far, Murandys. Have a care to your neck. A lord is not immune.”

  “These things must be settled before the wedding. They are essential—”

  “No. They are not. The pigs may enjoy your petition, and beware lest I send you to feed it to them.”

  “Your Majesty is misled,” Brugan said, looming 422 / C. J. CHERRYH

  over most of the guards in attendance, and full of confidence.

  “And if there’s misleading, my sister witnessed it. Midnight visitations. Her Grace calling out at night after the lord of Ynefel…the…”

  “Liar,” Cevulirn said. And death—someone’s death—became inevitable.

  Please the gods, Cefwyn thought, realizing to his dismay a fool, twice Cevulirn’s size and strength and half his age, had maneuvered himself into a direct challenge.

  Brugan grinned.

  The Elwynim marriage, the entire southern alliance stood in jeopardy. Cevulirn had no heir.

  “Your Majesty can sign the petition,” Murandys said, wheyfaced, “and things might be hushed, for the good of the realm.”

  A hiss of steel accompanied that into silence. Cevulirn had drawn, against all law and custom, under the king’s roof.

  Brugan backed, drew, and Idrys came away from his posture near the wall, hand near his sword. Cefwyn inhaled deeply and lifted a hand, forbidding Idrys, and his guards, and the duke and his guards, as Cevulirn stepped down from the last step.

  “Brother,” Efanor said faintly.

  “Hush,” he said.

  There was a tentative posturing on Brugan’s side, an attempt to draw Cevulirn after him. Cevulirn grounded his sword against his off-hand boot, and waited, an older man not attempting the young man’s game.

  Brugan shouted and rushed with a sweep of his blade.

  Blade grated off blade, Brugan went past toward the very steps and guards flung themselves in his path, an iron and determined wall. Cefwyn seized a sword from the nearest, and settled it in his own grip as Brugan rees FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 423

  timated the lord of the Ivanim, a slow circling, this time, a slower advance attended by the rattle and thump of other guards running to the scene, held at bay by a wall of onlookers.

  “Stop this!” Prichwarrin cried. “Your Majesty!”

  “Bid them stop, Prichwarrin! You incited this! You stop them!”

  “Ivanor!” was Prichwarrin’s next appeal, but Cevulirn paid him no heed, and Brugan, from a crouching, cautious stalking, sprang with a wild sweep of his blade.

  A second time blades rang and grated past one another, and Cevulirn was not in the path.

  Brugan spun around, straight into Cevulirn’s edge. Blood fountained, followed the weapon in its sweep, and described a delicate spatter on a carved white column across the hall.

  Brugan went down like the ox he resembled, and Cefwyn observed it in a sense of satisfaction unrelated to the catastrophe the act represented.

  “Ivanor has drawn weapons in the king’s presence!” Prichwarrin cried. “Arrest him!”

  Cefwyn raised the sword as the first of Prichwarrin’s guards imprudently moved. The men stopped.

  “The king,” Cefwyn said in measured tones, “may forgive the lord of Ivanor. Any man else that draws I will cut down like a dog.”

  “Your Majesty!”

  “I weary of you, Murandys. I have made one duchess over a province. I may make another.”

  “This is the son of a loyal baron, murdered in your presence, his heir, his sole son!”

  “A loyal baron!” He pointed at the discarded parchment with his borrowed sword. “Gather that up!” he said, and one of his guards complied. “Every man who

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  signed that is party to this, and will be questioned. Any man who impugns the honor of myself or my household or Her Grace or her household will be accounted a traitor. You have bedeviled me, you have insinuated, insulted, inveigled, and imposed on my goodwill too long! I am not my father, sir. I am not my father, and you have been fatally mistaken to think so!”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing stark fear seep through the self-importance of Lord Murandys, before the cold reckoning crept into him that while he was rid of Ryssand’s heir, he had declared a war on the northern barons, and could not continue it, not now.

  Men gathered up Brugan and bore him away down the hall, a trail of blood which Prichwarrin was obliged to follow. Servants had not yet stirred forth.

  Cefwyn ventured a look at Cevulirn, who had calmly cleared the blood from his blade and stood, despite the spatter, composed and awaiting some word from him…as something had now to be done between Ryssand and Ivanor, and the king had to mediate it. Idrys stood silent, giving away nothing of what he thought, but he was not frowning. Efanor stood near him, pale and shaken, but having his dagger in his hand—Marhanen at last.

  Cefwyn gave the sword back to its owner.

  “Ivanor,” he said then to Cevulirn, and indicated the way up the stairs. At the top, where the stairs went up to Ninévrisë’s apartment, he cast a glance up, wishing he could go in person, lay eyes on her, hold her and assure her.

  As it was he might send a page, and a brief message: The accusation was raised in my presence, answered by His Grace of

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  Ivanor, and will be bitterly repented by Ryssand.

  Dismiss Artisane at your pleasure. I no longer suffer fools, nor should my bride suffer them any longer But it was not all a victory. Ryssand would take this exceedingly hard, and become not less, but more set on challenges, very likely directly so, if Ryssand could find men who w
ould face Cevulirn. And a man might take on one challenge, but not challenge after challenge, all hired by Ryssand’s gold…if they were at all willing to contest on the field, and not in some dark stairway. He put nothing past Ryssand.

  And before he had quite reached the crest of the stairs he knew he had to protect his southern alliance against just such an attempt, and he had to send away one more of his friends, to save all the rest. Snowy evening that it was beginning to be, Cevulirn himself should ride, not delaying for men or servants…most lords could not move with such dispatch, but the lord of the Ivanim might, with a handful of men, and before Ryssand knew that he had gone.

  C H A P T E R 6

  Snow came down in this sinking of the persistent wind just enough to powder the roofs of the Zeide. An iron-hued canopy of cloud dulled the late-afternoon light so the white stones looked gray and the gray steps turned to pewter. And there had been no word, the Guard scouring the town, of the missing documents. No one had seen the archivist, and the Guard had blocked the gates from the start of the fighting until midday of that first day; but after that, they had opened, first when master Haman came in bringing Liss and after that to known individuals, until with the discovery of missing documents and murder, the order came to shut them. Anwyll reported some stablelads and pigkeepers had come and gone, various of the Guard, and their stablehands, the quartermaster and his staff, a freeholder or two, and woodcutters, charcoalers, and the considerable number of chief men over orchards and outlying establishments of all sorts belonging to the ducal lands and to various of the town-dwelling lords, besides a miller with a load of flour and a tanner and various others taking out refuse and coming back.

  In short a flood of people had gone in and out the gates that second day, and now more found need to go in and out, the weather holding passable and people

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  growing anxious about last-moment winter supplies, so Uwen said. To Tristen’s notice the gray space stayed but slightly troubled, master Emuin was camped in utter discomfort and utter lack of news at Maudbrook—the farrier’s wagon had broken down utterly, and blocked the ford. Yes, Emuin had heard a rider pass in the night; and yes, had seen the lord viceroy and had provided the stranded man a horse and several of his guards, how not? And what had set the man in such a plight and in such taste?