“A great deal less than Aséyneddin’s ally!” Ninévrisë cried. “Who was a sorcerer!”
“Yet this man struggles against the remnants of Aséyneddin’s forces and Caswyddian’s, your enemies, Your Grace, which have kept the land in turmoil. He struggles against a rise of the old powers—against the far greater threat from across the Lenúalim, where contrary to Your Majesty’s law, the old Sihhëwalls are rising and a claimant exists to the High Kingship…”
Corswyndam of Ryssand was dangerous and quick. They already knew that. He delivered a telling shot and Cefwyn lost no time in returning fire, with a slam of the royal fist on the arm of the Dragon Throne.
“You are deceived, Ryssand. Dangerously deceived. Good gods, I had thought a man of your years would see it!”
“I am not so deceived, Your Majesty!”
“What, and bring me a murderer and a thief to swear to Tasmôrden’s character? It seems apt, but hardly persuasive! And you take his word, above your own king’s? What are we come to? And wherein do foreign powers write you letters and send you my messages as if you were—what, a king?”
“If Your Majesty please, only listen to an agreement which may save the realm from great, from incalculable danger! The war Her Grace urges can only cast more and more power into the south, where the dukes of Ivanor, Lanfarnesse, Imor, and Amefel have raised an army, and authorized fortifications your grandfather ordered demolished. This new lord in Amefel, this wizard’s fetch, this Sihhë-lord as they openly hail him in the streets of Henas’ amef…”
“…is not the enemy of this realm!” Cefwyn shot back, strike and parry, and now with full knowledge how much this rebel duke was willing to risk in public. “This Sihhë-lord, as you are at such great pains to call him, is the true friend of this court and the fortifications he restores at my order are all that stand between our land and that purchased army of brigands Tasmôrden has raised against us, no less than Aséyneddin, with no cleaner claim, no less allied with sorcery—silence, sir! I’ve heard enough of this brigand’s letter!”
There was an uneasy stir in the court, all the same, and he had let it through his guard. Tristen’s doings in the south were rumored, but not the wall, and not the current adoration of the populace, or its connection with the High Kingship, and now there was a dangerous murmur throughout the hall as all of it came into the open. Cefwyn rose to his feet and let loose the notorious Marhanen temper, letting any waverers in the court know what the stakes were and what he was prepared to do.
“As for you, sir, do you count Tasmôrden your friend? This man, the heir of Aséyneddin? This man who raised war against his lawful lord? A man who insulted Her Grace, murdered her friends and relations? A man whose purchased army rapes and murders and robs the very people he would claim to lead? Is that our preferred friend, sir? And you swear to his honesty?”
Ryssand had the sense to bow, and bow deeply, and lower his voice. “I swear to nothing, Your Majesty. I only bear the message.”
“Receiving the messenger from an enemy of the realm—gods, sir! as if you were king?”
That shot had scored the last time. This time it raised a stir, a charge revisited, clearly a threat.
And Ryssand looked afraid. “I received a traveler, Your Majesty, who turned out to have such a message, and who had alarming reports out of Amefel…reports of which I had no knowledge Your Majesty already knew.”
Dangerous man, subtle as a snake, but there was no escaping the inappropriate nature of his actions and Cuthan’s, and on such subtle issues did the support of those listening sway.
“We knew. We knew from the source, and we knew the truth of the conditions in the lands to the south and the reasons for the building of those fortifications. We based our judgment of those reasons on our personal knowledge of that source. Have you personal knowledge of Tasmôrden’s character? Of Tasmôrden’s actions this past year? Or how long have you received his messages?”
And so, without accusing, he planted his own seeds in the minds of those wine-touched individuals hanging on their every word.
Opinion of those outside these walls, however, had less to do with protocol than with rumor. And Ryssand’s resources in that sense went far beyond Cuthan and Parsynan, beyond anything even a king could muster. Rumor spread on the wings of religious fear: they had rid themselves of Udryn, but now they had the Quinalt Patriarch of Amefel newly arrived in the town, complaining in the inner councils of the Quinalt that the old ways were gaining far too firm a foothold in Tristen’s lands. Here was a man who had fled his post and a tolerably comfortable living rather than endure Tristen’s rule over him—or so the Quinalt would see it. Guelen soldiers, too, Parsynan’s men, whom Tristen’s soft-handed mercy had let leave his land alive…they had talked in the taverns and all the low places, so the rumors were fairly sped.
Oh, there were a dozen ways men of Ryssand’s stamp could take any mercy and turn it back as a weapon.
He had known Ryssand would do this, had seen no real way to prevent it, but he had prevented the worst of the damage, and made his case in front of witnesses half-gone with wine, minds on which subtleties and details would be lost.
And so he waited for Efanor to move in, as he at last did, and interposed quiet, personal words to Ryssand. The intervention became a small, urgent conference, the drift of which came to him, anger on Ryssand’s part, fear, and Efanor’s solicitous promises. Ryssand was not unscathed in the view of the hall, either: his countenance had gone from ruddiness to pallor and back to congested redness that suggested ill health. The man had lost a son to his quest for power, a recent loss, and no sham; but Cefwyn had no pity.
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” Ryssand said at last, bringing a reluctant silence to the murmur of speculation among the courtiers.
“I urge Your Majesty grant it,” Efanor said…playing his part.
“I will not hear this,” Cefwyn said, playing his, while Idrys loomed over all.
“Your Majesty,” Efanor repeated. “I ask it.”
It was what they agreed. When the storm had grown too great and become dangerous to the realm, Efanor would ask pardon, and intercede for Ryssand. Efanor would thus widen his own small court, hitherto mostly scholars and priests, include among his debtors a potential father-in-law, and thereby set himself as confessor to receive all the things that an unreasonable king would not hear.
Cefwyn settled back against the throne in his most forbidding manner. “I shall hear you, brother. In the meantime, do not consider we entertain this traitorous Amefin earl or any of his connections, Elwynim or otherwise.—Play!” he shouted at the musicians, who had not stirred in this utter stillness of the hall. After brief hesitation they took up the paselle they had been playing, from its beginning.
It was a light, a graceful music, little appropriate to a royal tantrum, but the whole court drew a collective breath. No one moved to dance except two very young folk who hesitated toward that notion, and desisted, frozen in place.
Slowly, very slowly, Ryssand backed and bowed his way to safety, ignoring Murandys in his retreat.
Slowly the court began to murmur and to move, half a hundred statues come to life. The musicians struggled on, and Cefwyn waved a hand at a cluster of the young people and smiled, waving them to the floor. They moved with uncertainty, and the talk broke out among their elders, almost fit to drown the music.
Cefwyn drew a breath and a second, willing to be soothed as Ninévrisë sought his hand across the gap between their seats.
“Well done,” Cefwyn said to his small company of conspirators. “Well done.”
“Detestable man,” Ninévrisë said.
“Is he not?” Cefwyn said acidly. “Is he not, indeed? But he didn’t have all he wanted.”
“The court knows the royal disposition,” Idrys said, “to the good, say I.”
They had married Luriel to Panys, and regained Ryssand and his vixenish daughter… well, to no great profit, that latter transaction, but inevitab
le, once Ryssand dared return.
And it was probably best. Ryssand in the country was apt to breed secret ills, rumor and supposition let loose unchecked by fact. Now Ryssand had to mind what he said. He knew he was watched.
And for good or ill, the rumors were abroad tonight, and those who had not heard would hear. The leaven of the zealots was still fermenting, the discontent of the populace with what, in taverns and in higher places, they called Her Grace’s war… was no less in certain quarters.
So Tasmôrden magnanimously offered Her Grace sovereignty over a third of Elwynor, and Ylesuin a third, with not a blow struck, their mission accomplished, and no Guelen or Ryssandish lads to bury as a consequence. He had no doubt he had given Ryssand a few wounds in kind.
“Ryssand and the zealots,” Cefwyn muttered so only his brother and Ninévrisë and Idrys could hear. “Backing Aséyneddin’s heir, and him the ally of the sorcerer who brought down Mauryl. What a contortion they made to get everyone into that alliance!—Do you know, Jormys should preach against it. A few good sermons would do great good.”
“I’ll speak to Jormys,” Efanor said. And a moment later: “I’ll go speak to Ryssand and his daughter, and smooth his feathers.”
“Mind your own,” Cefwyn said and, with great misgiving, watched his brother descend the steps.
Ryssand wanted that royal alliance, oh, indeed Ryssand wanted it. It must give him indigestion, considering the situation he was in now.
Clever men could become great fools when what they most wanted dangled in reach of their fingers. And Ryssand might well enter into conspiracy with Efanor, who posed himself to draw the lightning of all the discontents in the court.
“If that marriage goes forward,” Ninévrisë said faintly, beneath the music, “that man will wish Efanor to be king. Have you taken account of that?”
It was a thought. It was certainly a thought. But his trust in Efanor was oldest of all trust in the world. Efanor would countenance no move against him: that was solid as the rock under the throne.
“The army will move to the river on the first clear day,” he said, “and let Tasmôrden make you another offer when you’re standing in Ilefínian. When there’s no enemy across the river, and the worry of the war is past, then let Ryssand consider his position with me, and speak me fair again.”
“My lord king.” Idrys had moved close, after brief absence, and had that edge to his voice that meant urgency.
Cefwyn turned his head, saw the black eminence of his reign bearing a grim look indeed.
“What is it?” he asked in honest alarm, and Idrys came close, closer, to his very ear, and whispered a handful of words:
“A letter from Amefel: the Aswydds did reach Tristen. Lady Tarien’s with child and claims it’s yours.”
Cefwyn was not certain whether his heart beat the next moment. He did not let his face change: royal demeanor was schooled from far too early to betray him now. He was aware of all the room, all the reach of consequences, and of his lady sitting at his side.
It was possible, on all counts. He had been a fool, defying his father, disdaining his responsibilities. He had done things he now regretted.
“One of Tristen’s letters?” he asked, fey attempt at humor, for they all agreed Tristen wrote the worst letters any of them had ever read, letters utterly lacking in detail. If that was the case he truly despaired of learning more than Idrys had just said.
“Master grayfrock wrote, too,” Idrys said with uncommon gentleness. “I have the letters safe with me. I don’t know how long this will go unrumored. There are witnesses enough in Amefel, where I fear it won’t be secret by now.”
Cefwyn’s fingers were numb. He rubbed fingertips together, feeling very little, and looked at Ninévrisë, who had heard some of it, but not all.
They won the joust with Ryssand, damn the luck, and were hit from ambush—his own doing.
CHAPTER 9
I advise you so that you may decide the advantageous time to report the news to your court…
So Emuin had written.
There was no advantageous time to report such news to his bride of not many weeks. Cefwyn was painfully conscious of Ninévrisë beside him, in this intimate grouping in the Blue Hall, in privacy even from the pages. She listened as Idrys read the letter aloud. Her face grave and pale, her eyes no longer dancing, but set on her hands in her lap.
“Forgive me,” Cefwyn said, taking her hand in his. “Nevris—I did a great many things in those days, and always escaped the consequences. This one… this one… with Tarien Aswydd, of all people… gods save me… I can’t explain it to you.”
“She has the gift,” Ninévrisë said in low voice, and as if she could no longer contain herself, disengaged her hand, rose from her chair, and walked briskly away to a place remote from him, from Idrys, from Annas, whom they had gathered to share this calamity.
There was no real privacy for a reigning monarch. In very fact, there was nothing he did that failed to impinge on others’ lives and fortunes, and gods knew he had not done wisely in this.
“She has the gift,” Ninévrisë repeated, and turned to face him, fingers laced together before her. “As will our child.”
In the depths of self-accusation Cefwyn heard it, and heard it twice, and rose to his feet, asking almost silently: “Our child?”
“I don’t know,” Ninévrisë said. “I’ve wished. What more can one do with the gift? A great deal more, it seems.”
What more might Tarien Aswydd have done? What might you have expected of these women, fool? Those questions she kindly held unasked.
“At that hour, in those days,” he said quietly, not knowing how to interpret her wounded silence, “I had no good appreciation of what wizardry might do or not do. I was used to Emuin. He worked tricks. He refused to do magic. I didn’t know what I was dealing with.—And, no, damn it all, that’s not true, either. I knew. In my heart I knew. I didn’t believe it would come near me. Nothing else did. I was young and damnably foolish, a year ago.”
Her face was a regal mask. Did a guilty heart only imagine the sheen of tears in the candlelight?
It was after the festivities, late. All fires in the hearths should have burned down and the servants should be down to one candle, replacing the old ones upstairs and down.
But for this late conference, on his order, the servants had built up the fire in the little hearth and lit every sconce, so pretense and falsehood should have no place to hide, and so that afterward he could not hope he had dreamt this night. It was bright as day, and neither of them were likely to sleep afterward.
“I was a fool,” Cefwyn repeated heavily. “There’s no more to say for it.”
Ninévrisë gave a great sigh and looked elsewhere for a space, then lifted her chin and looked at him squarely.
“We’d not even met,” she said.
“You’re far too kind.”
“Can I be otherwise?” Ninévrisë said sharply. “And can I not pity the child? No one loves it. Its mother has no heart. How will it fare in the world?”
“I don’t know,” he said. Her question struck memories of his own severance from his father, who had never loved him, his mother, who, dying, had not had the chance.
He had not even thought of that burden, had not, in that sense, thought of the child at all, beyond an embarrassment and a disaster.
“And what will be his inheritance?” Ninévrisë pursued him relentlessly. “And who will be his father?”
“I don’t know,” he said again, left with no other answer. He found himself with no pity to spare for another boy with no father and no hint of a father’s love.
“Folly, to give his first years to Tarien Aswydd,” Ninévrisë said, counting the difficulties of a child’s existence before he was born. “And yet what shall we do? Bring him here? Let your gods-fearing Guelenfolk see a son of yours with wizard-gift…as Emuin and Tristen alike think he has? Tristen has no doubt at all it’s a son.” She folded her arms beneath her
breast, hugged tightly. “I have only a suspicion and a hope of a child, as yet, one I can’t even tell you is real, and now he’ll not be your firstborn.”
She had told him they were to have a child, and he had let that precious moment slide by in an argument over a royal bastard. It was an unforgivable, irrevocable lapse.
“Our child. To me—”
“Don’t disallow this child of the Aswydd woman! He exists!”
“It’s none I care to acknowledge!”
“Yet he exists.”
“If I could undo it…”
“There’s no undoing it. My father used to say that if and could and wish have no effect outside philosophy. But they do in wizardry, and I won’t wish this child harm. I will not!”
He was shaken to the core, confronted by an iron determination, news he was in no wise prepared to have twice in a night, and his lady’s unanticipated defense of her rival’s child. He had no notion which direction to face, and knew Idrys witnessed his discomfiture—no advice from that quarter, not a word.
“I ask your forgiveness,” Cefwyn said. “It’s all I can say. It’s my fault. And hers.”
“But none of the babe’s fault. And she will teach him to desire the throne and to hate me, and perhaps hate you.”
He could not deny her fears. They were his.
“There is a remedy,” Idrys said, intervening at last, grim master crow, reminding a king with a threatened kingdom what terrible, unspeakable deeds he might command, at the lightest word.
And did Idrys dare bring that darkness into Ninévrisë hearing? He found himself all but trembling.
“Don’t disallow him,” Ninévrisë repeated.
It was not hers to command the Lord Commander. It was his, and he drew a long, steadying breath.
“He’s all but born,” he said, “considering the time it was possible. The very limited time it could have happened.” It was not the privilege of a king to sink his head into his hands and shut the world out of his ears. “He’s with Tristen, and Emuin. That’s something.” Tristen’s letter said he and a son. He fell into it unthinking, and then realized he had admitted it.