“As the northern lords come in, Your Majesty?”
“Yes. If needed.—My lords of Ylesuin, prepare to meet on Lewen plain in Arys-Emwy at the full moon. Sooner if we 616
must. Give me the tallies you anticipate before you depart. Establish signal fires along the way through Amefel—we shall do the same for outlying villages—and set those men by fives, under canvas, and well supplied. The weather may turn any day and it will be a difficult, long watch for them.”
Heads nodded, Pelumer’s reluctantly, Sulriggan’s last of all and but slightly.
The trembling did not leave his hands. Gods, gods, he thought, first thinking it was rage, and then knowing it for fear.
Why am I in such haste, he asked himself, to start this menace from cover? It might bide longer and give us more time, time to bring in the northern lords. Efanor could be right…sometimes he is right.
Northern lords of Sulriggan’s ilk, or at least men solidly Quinalt, and Sulriggan’s natural allies. That arrant fool Sulriggan will politic with any situation. And dares front me, in this hall, and in peril of the realm? He has to fall—and soon.
“Brother,” said Efanor, “by your leave I’ll dispatch a messenger of our own, summoning half the Guelen levies. They can be in reserve in Henas’amef against Your Majesty’s need.”
He looked at Efanor’s frowning face, suspecting his motives, suspecting that Efanor, with the help of such as Sulriggan, wished to protect himself and keep himself isolated from the Amefin as much as he meant to have those men in reserve for his rescue.
Did he send for them in some hour of need, there even was a chance Efanor would not send them: in his worst fears, Efanor, realizing Henas’amef’s defensive deficiencies and besieged by his priest, would feel constrained to secure a peace with Aséyneddin, abandon Ninévrisë, and cede heretic Amefel to the Elwynim for peace in his reign over provinces solidly orthodox.
But that was only supposition. And it gave too little credit to the clever little brother he had once—loved—when the enemy was their grandfather.
Efanor gave him nothing— nothing—of what he thought, 617
or agreed to, or purposed. Efanor had not ventured an opinion—except to bring in the Guelen regulars in force, which, with their officers, gave the new heir of Ylesuin a Quinalt force under his hand.
“Call them,” he said to Efanor. “And call Lord Maudyn with them.” That was, next Idrys, the most experienced of Ylesuin’s commanders. “We dare not risk both of us. I know you would rush in if I needed you. But I forbid it. I forbid it, do you hear me? Send Maudyn.”
Something like guilt, or was it bitter shame? touched Efanor’s face and Efanor ducked his head. He clapped Efanor on the shoulder in walking down from the dais, closed his hand on Efanor’s arm and pressed it. Emuin had always counseled him that if he would have the best from a man it was needful to expect that best. And (his own sullen thought) to do so as publicly as possible.
Then he walked on down the steps, taking a chance, desperately willing the leg to work—to convince the lords it would. It didn’t hurt so much. He could ride in two days, he thought, with sufficient bandaging—it would heal by the next full moon.
Meanwhile Efanor’s precious Quinaltines were not doing outstandingly well at praying calamity away from their borders.
Call it fate, call it the actions of wizards more than one in number—he had his heart in his throat when he thought about entering battle with a very demonstrable wizardry as one of the weapons, far more demonstrable than the gods’ presence on the field; and when Tristen admitted that he was afraid—he began to worry indeed.
Change the plans? Rely on Tristen’s untutored skill? Tristen’s guesses which were no guesses?
Somehow, in the push and pull of wizardry that seemed to be a condition outside plain Guelen sensibilities, Tristen might prove their worst ally or the best defense they had. The wound that kept him sleepless with pain had only happened when he sent Tristen away. His father had not died until he sent Tristen away. In constant pain, he was exhausted of
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mind and body and becoming outright childishly superstitious about Tristen’s presence, as superstitious, he feared, as Efanor had become about his gods: he wanted to know where Tristen was. He began to feel safe only when Tristen was in his vicinity.
Tristen had brought the Elwynim to him, which was more than good fortune; Tristen had brought him Ninévrisë when malign force had meant otherwise. He had never ignored Tristen’s warnings except to his peril and now he took the most emphatic one entirely to heart.
He knew what Idrys must think, and he sensed Idrys’ worry, when he had begun improvising on their already deliberated plans that suddenly, on as little sleep as he had had—Idrys would warn him. Idrys would have very strong things to say to him for this morning’s work, though Idrys had renewed his oath without demur or question.
Meanwhile the lords must be scratching their heads, trying to figure had they witnessed a real change of plans or a maneuver cleverly devised to sweep their objections sidelong into an agreement with the Elwynim and wizardry that they would not have otherwise taken.
But he took Ninévrisë’s hand, and left the hall the private way, by which they could reach the stairs, Ninévrisë to her guarded apartment, himself to his own, in search of privacy and rest. The leg, although it would stay under him, hurt so much, walking and standing on it this morning, that the pain had begun to cloud his thoughts. He was scarcely past the door when a page came running to bring him the stick, all concerned—was his misery that evident? he asked himself, and in relative private, he followed Ninévrisë and her guards up the stairs, seeking his own floor and his own apartment where he could limp and hurt and worry about whether he could in fact sit a horse in the requisite time. He could not send a leaderless army into a battle on the scale this required. The King had to be on a horse and on that field.
“My lord,” Ninévrisë said, delaying on the steps, in her ascent to the floor above. “My lord?”
The air was cold on his face. Ninévrisë was concerned, as if 619
he should not be trusted to carry himself down the hall. Ninévrisë—whose plans—whose life and welfare—relied on him, as everyone’s did.
“Climbing steps,” he said, out of breath. “Not the easiest.”
“You changed what you said you would do,” Ninévrisë said.
It might accuse him. It might be a question. It was uncertain.
He took it in the most charitable light.
“I believe Tristen,” he said, leaning on the stick. “I have not entirely changed what I plan. We will still deal with the whole riverside. But if Tristen is certain enough to insist—I believe him.
He knows things.” It sounded foolish. He did not know how to explain.
“I think he does know,” Ninévrisë said, and added, in a quiet, diffident voice: “And he is truly your friend. I see that. I have no doubt of you, now.”
Upon which saying, she was up the stairs in a quick patter of steps, with her guards hurrying to catch up.
He was staring. He knew that his own guards were waiting, Idrys among them witnessing his drift of thought, and he bit his lip and limped off the stairs and on toward his own door.
And toward his ill-assorted guard, the disposition of whom had entered his mind this morning, but he had not wanted to give warning of his intentions.
Now he stopped and looked at the two in question, the Ivanim Erion Netha and the Olmern lad, Denyn Kei’s-son. “You were given to my service,” he said in a low voice. “You’ve paid for your trespass. I’ve given your lords orders to prepare for war.
Ivanor is bound for a brief sojourn at home and Olmern has its boats to see to. If you will rejoin your lords, go and do so. Or remain in my service and take the field with the Dragon Guard or the Prince’s Guard, at your will. I give pardon. It is without condition. Commission I also grant.”
And he passed into his apartment, walked to his own fire
side…not alone, never quite alone; he heard Idrys behind him.
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I have loosed everything, he thought. I have let go all the power I gathered. Gods hope they think of no excuses and I get them back, or I am no King, and this kingdom will fall.
He looked around into Idrys’ disapproving frown.
“What, Idrys? Speechless? Have I finally amazed you?”
“Leaving yourself only a few Guelen, the Olmernmen and the Amefin to guard you? I find nothing left against which to warn my lord King. You have done it all.”
That angered him, so that for a moment he did not speak.
Then reason came back to him and he nodded. “As you say. But occasionally I do as pleases me, Idrys.”
“I am well aware.”
“It is good, is it not—for a king to be generous…while he has a good man to watch the recipients of his generosity?”
“You have given me many causes to watch, my lord King, and in too many places for your safety or the realm’s.”
“I shall mend my ways hereafter. Will you leave me? You may, without prejudice. I could well use your talents in the capital.”
“My lord.” Idrys shook his head, with contrition in his dark eyes. “Leave you in this—I will not. Did I not swear?”
“I need you. Gods help me, you are my other nature, Idrys.
What would you advise me, granted I am committed to war and have done what I have done—for very good reasons?”
“That you be very thorough in your dealing with your enemies, lord, domestic and foreign. That if you pursue this war, you leave no half-measures to haunt you, however prettily your bride asks. That you beware of your brother’s priest and beware most of Orien Aswydd and her sister.”
“And Sovrag?”
“Cannot safely negotiate Marna now. He will take orders.”
“Pelumer?”
“Has never committed himself to a quarrel; smiles on all; fights for none; in the wars against the Sihhë his father sat snug in Lanfarnesse and fought by withholding forces from a Sihhë ally.
Pelumer has a poor memory, m’lord.”
“I did mark that.”
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“Otherwise, take it that Lanfarnesse is loyal as a rock is solid,—and, like a rock, will prefer to sit. Lanfarnesse rangers are another matter. They are not for battle in the field: Pelumer objects very wisely there, and did you ask him to lend you those men even to venture Marna, you might obtain a fair number of them. But Pelumer says this time he will commit archers in a pitched battle. I have found no reason to doubt his given word, m’lord King, and they will be well drilled.”
“You confess there is one honest man in council? You confess that Tristen is telling the truth?”
“As he knows it,” Idrys said, as if the irony of that were wasted on him. Likely it was not. Cefwyn waved a dismissal, sank wearily into a chair.
He had left himself nothing but war, from the time he had accepted the lady Regent’s hand.
The Elwynim lords and their men were saddling up in the stableyard, the afternoon of Cefwyn’s charge to them, and there were horses waiting for Cevulirn at the west door. Sovrag was off to the river, he said, to see to his boats; he had left at noon with two ox-carts loaded with cordage and pitch and another with seasoned wood. The lords of the south were all breaking camp and leaving with the same suddenness with which they had arrived, and Uwen said if one didn’t want to wait forever while master Peygan the armorer took care of the other business that His Majesty had set underway, it was a very good idea to get master Peygan started as soon as possible, the proper outfitting of a young lord for war taking a fair long time.
Uwen had known Peygan for years: Peygan had come from the capital with Cefwyn and had taken over an armory in disarray—so Uwen said on their walk across the yard. “The place was full of rats what ate the leathers, and the old armorer was drunk by day and night, with accounts all in a muddle, gods, ye’d be amazed.”
“What happened to him?” Tristen said.
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“Oh, he took out the day we arrived and nobody’s seen ’im since. The old fellow wouldn’t complain, that’s what I guess.
That rascal Heryn was making of them books what he liked, and the old armorer knew he should have taken the business to the King, but he drank, instead, being afraid to report the state things was in. The armorers, ye may know, m’lord, is all Crown men, master and ’prentices, alike, so’s ye ain’t dealin’ with anyone of Heryn’s lot, here.”
“They belong to the King?”
“Same as all the arms stored here, m’lord, in name, at least.
The lords is to manage it all, and the King’s armorers is to keep accounts. And accounts gets kept, now. They don’t put nothing over on master Peygan. If something’s broke it don’t go on the rolls.”
They walked up the steps, and into a place which had fascinated him and frightened him from the first day he had seen it, a place with Words echoing of War, and Iron, and Blood, a place with rows and rows of orderly weapons, displayed on the walls and in the racks, banners hanging in still array.
He wished to turn on the step now and rush out of the place, and not to take anything it offered. He disliked the mail shirt he was bidden wear, although it had saved his life. He had no desire to have any armor heavier or more extensive than he did—and most of all he dreaded the dark and metal feeling of this place.
But Uwen was to draw armor of a guard issue better than he had ever worn, which pleased Uwen mightily; Uwen was carrying a paper to that effect, which Idrys himself had given him, commissioning him into the Dragon Guard: and Uwen’s enthusiasm made him think differently from moment to moment, that it was not the armor that threatened to smother him, but the constraints of purpose it imposed—and that it was not the weapons that frightened him, but the skill in his own hands.
“Heavy armor,” Uwen said. “Plate and chain. If happen somebody bashes ye square down on the shoulder, m’lord, as do happen in a close tangle, or if ye catch a lance-point, a lot 623
better you should have plate. The King,” Uwen added, “wouldn’t be limping about now if he’d had a good Cuisse in that melee,
’stead of them damn light-horse breeches.”
It was a language of its own. The names of the pieces and of the weapons did come to him, and he knew that Uwen was right, for a man who did not look to ride hard or fast.
“But,” he said, while they waited for attendants in the dark-some and echoing hall, “are you happier with it, Uwen?”
Uwen laughed. “M’lord, I’m a Guelen man. We was always the center of the line, heavy horse and foot. It ain’t but since I turned gray they sent me to protect young lords who fly off in the dark wi’ naught but a mail shirt and a stolen horse.”
He did not think Uwen should joke about that. He knew he had been rash and he wished that Uwen would not follow him if another such moment came on him—that was the consideration Cefwyn had laid on him, by giving him Uwen.
Peygan came, welcomed them, looked at Uwen’s paper and gave it to a boy who gave it to a clerk who was setting up in the entry. Master Peygan looked him in particular up and down, muttered, “Tall, sir,” and with a well-used piece of cord took various rapid measurements of his limbs and across the back of his shoulders.
“I’ve little that will serve,” Peygan said, then. “At least—that I’d have confidence in. His Majesty gave strict orders, and I must say, it will not be gold or gilt, Lord Warden, nor pretty nor even matched. I cannot swear to that. But quality and a right fit I do swear to.”
“I’ve no objection, sir,” he said. “As best you can, sir—light.
I wish to see.” He rarely objected to others’ choices. But this frightened him, despite Uwen’s assurances.
“A challenge, Lord Ynefel.”
“Yes, sir. If you please. And whatever Uwen wants—I’d have him safe.”
Peygan rubbed his chin, scratched his unruly hair—it was liberally grayed, like Uwe
n’s; and Tristen stood watching while Peygan measured Uwen, too.
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“Hmm,” Peygan said, and walked off.
So he sat down to wait with Uwen for most of the next two hours, while the master armorer, clearly working on a number of requests at once, fussed and marked this and that strap his assistants would bring him, and a man Uwen said was Peygan’s son sat at a bench using an array of curious implements and mallets on the fittings Peygan had marked.
In time, Peygan came back bringing an armload of pieces, and cast them on a nearby bench.
“It’s old,” Peygan said, of a fine piece of brigandine. “Still solid, though they say—” Peygan seemed hesitant. “They say it’s Sihhë work, Lord Warden.”
His fingers did not tingle when he touched it. It was black, and showed wear, and was not like what the Guelenfolk wore.
But it felt right.
“M’lord,” Uwen said dubiously. “She’s pretty, but a lot’s come and changed. She ain’t modern.”
“Neither am I,” Tristen said. “Isn’t that what they say?” He liked weapons no better, but this was the only piece that made him feel safer.
“Mostly,” said master Peygan, “there’s no such silk these days.
They say it came from oversea. There’s some as is afraid of the piece, truth to tell.”
He did look, in that gray place, but it showed not at all.
“There is no harm in it,” he said. “Though such things seem to come and go.” It felt comfortable to the touch. He could not say the same of the mail shirt he wore. “I’d try it.”
Uwen was less pleased. But he said, “I am very sure, Uwen.”
Uwen gave a tilt and a shake of his head. “Might be, then, m’lord.”
The straps and laces of the silk-woven brigandine were worn, and wanted work. And Uwen was still to fit out. So they waited.
The armory was echoing with the comings and goings of Peygan’s boys, who were, by now, with the afternoon’s work in full clatter and bustle about them, counting out to Guelen and Amefin sergeants and attendants the