Crissand was in the lower hall, where the old mews made a rift in the wards. And suddenly the wards were threatened.
Tristen spun about on the precarious marble steps and ran down them, two steps at a time, starting servants who were changing the candles at the landing, while Uwen and Gweyl and the new guards hastened behind, a clatter of men and metal. He reached the lower hall, passed the broad double doors of the great hall, and there was Crissand, running headlong toward them—toward him, Tristen knew of a certainty, and the thoughts in Crissand now were fear: fear of what might be behind him, fear of what he might have brought into the Zeide, fear that he had breached his promise to come to Tristen before doing something rash.
Lusin and his old guards all arrived at once from out of the great hall, rallying to the commotion in the hall, if not to a danger none of them had perceived.
“Voices,” Crissand said, and his was low, for Tristen’s ears and Uwen’s, alone, as a late straggle of guests and servants gathered to overhear. “Voices came from the storeroom, noble voices, learned voices, and I heard the king’s name and Her Grace’s, and something about moving before the walls were finished. I feared treason, my lord. And—and when I looked into it, sensibly, so I thought, cautiously—suddenly there were men—there were men…”
“In the storeroom, Your Grace?” Uwen was attempting to make sense of the matter. Crissand, the man who had led the defense of the Zeide courtyard and faced death with never a tremor, was shaking as he spoke, and Tristen could sense his efforts to keep his wits and set aside the fear.
“It…it was no one I knew, my lord. And there was a room, a table…it wasn’t here, my lord. But the place where Owl came from. Where you disappeared.”
Tristen set his hand on Crissand’s shoulder to calm him, and though he knew the answer said, “Show me where.”
And they went to the spot of candlelight beside the great hall, the sconce that hung on the wall where the old mews had been, that stretch of stone wall, at the base of which the pavings were the aged cobbles and fill of the old courtyard instead of the even work of the new.
Crissand laid his hand on the stonework beneath the sconce. “Here,” he said.
Tristen had no doubt at all. A storeroom was near, one that served the great hall, but the voices had nothing to do with that.
“They named Modeyneth, my lord. And the wall—and the child.”
“Tarien’s child?”
“I think they meant hers. They argued times and seasons, and the birth of a child. One said—one said best strike while the child was yet to come, than to wait until after the birth and risk a stillborn. Another said the child only complicated the issue and they should do as they would do and let the child take his omens from them. I’m sure of the words, but they don’t mean as much to me as they might to you or Emuin, I’m sure, my lord.”
They might well make more sense to Emuin. Tristen only guessed it regarded wizard-work, and the Zeide.
But it could not be Ynefel, where the mews had led him.
“You didn’t recognize the room.”
“No, my lord.”
“Did they see you?” he asked in all seriousness.
“See me? I don’t think so.—Do you know where it was? Was it where you found Owl?”
Around them were only his guard, Uwen having waved all the curious servants away, and that Crissand could venture through that rift—or at least see what lay beyond—that he had not anticipated.
“I very much doubt it was Ynefel you saw. But this—” He set his hand to the stone next to Crissand’s, deceptively solid stone for the moment, as the gray was deceptively quiet. “This place must lead there, and something something drew another place close for a moment. It reaches different places. I don’t know yet how many or to where. Ynefel is one. Althalen is.” He could not but recall the dream he had dreamed within the old Regent’s wards. “The Quinaltine in Guelessar is another.”
It was that which he most feared, the plots of priests near Cefwyn, no friendlier to him than they had ever been. And in the flickering light from the sconce, Uwen frowned. Crissand’s troubled face, however, took on a different, puzzled look.
“It wasn’t ruins, and it wasn’t holy men,” Crissand said, and his eyes widened as if something only then came clear to him. “There was a banner, my lord.” And took on a look of outrage. “Your banner, my lord, the Tower, with a Crown!” And having said it, Crissand’s fist clenched as if he would rip that offending sight from his own memory. “The High King’s banner.”
“Tasmôrden,” he said, in quiet conviction now where Crissand had been, and where the old mews led besides. “There’s clearly another place it goes. Wherever in Ilefínian Tasmôrden sits tonight, this place leads.”
He wished—almost—to open the rift again, to venture into the room and the council Crissand had seen…and seen, but not been. The fact that Crissand had the gift had let him see into the place, but Crissand had not gone further, perhaps had no power to go, alone, for which Tristen was very grateful. The thought of Crissand caught and trapped on that other side, in Tasmôrden’s hands, turned his blood cold.
Yet on the thought, the stone beneath his fingers warmed, and he saw the room then, exactly as Crissand had described:
The table, seven men, the banner Tasmôrden had usurped.
And one man was on his feet facing him, shouting at the others: Don’t tell me what I saw, damn you! He was there! Eyes widened. Oh, gods!
So at least one of them had seen Crissand in return, and one presence in the gray space leapt to awareness—one, who had sat with his back to him, leapt up and turned in astonishment.
Two, now, had seen. And that crowned man who had leapt up was Tasmôrden.
A hound bayed, somewhere in the distance, echoing in unseen halls.
And, sword in hand, Tasmôrden approached the wall, willing to face him, intent on discovering the nature of the rift, and would have no hesitation in breaching it from his own side, to the peril of all the places it led.
Unless someone gave him pause, unless someone gave him reason to fear that which he might find on the far side.
“My lord!” Crissand’s voice, and Uwen’s: “If you can go wi’ him lad, go! Protect his back for us all!”
And Crissand was beside him, in that rift between rooms, with a sword to thrust into his hand, and Owl was before him, so he knew he was meant to go.
“You should have seen their faces,” Crissand’s lively rendition of the scene far exceeded anything Tristen would have thought to say. “One fell to the floor, praying forgiveness of the gods, another fainted dead away, I swear to you. Another—it must have been Tasmôrden—” Crissand glanced at Tristen and Tristen nodded, fascinated by the account as well as the rest. “Tasmôrden dared raise a hand to my lord, his guard all about him—until my lord raised the sword and wished him back!”
Crissand’s account, together with the banner that lay folded and somber on the table before them—Crissand’s gift to him on their return from that room in Ilefínian—lent substance to the tale—and Uwen and Emuin and all those gathered about him in the ducal apartments had it for evidence.
Emuin, however, was less pleased.
“Well done, on the whole,” Emuin said. “To have called me was better.” And to Paisi, who had been standing next to Emuin when he and Crissand returned and so was of necessity included in this meeting: “You see here the way not to satisfy curiosity, boy. Consider the consequences of the lord of Amefel in the midst of Tasmôrden’s guards, unarmed and alone.”
It was true, at least as he had gone.
“Yet now we can overhear his councils,” Crissand said.
“I doubt it. He’ll set guards there and take counsel elsewhere.”
The excitement faded from Crissand’s face. “So if he hadn’t seen me, we might have learned much more.”
“Possibly,” Emuin said, and added, on another thought: “Or they might have discovered it on the other side, and come
through, to our peril. There is that.”
“Something breached the mews,” Tristen pointed out. “It was Tasmôrden in that room.” He had seen Tasmôrden in his dreams and knew by that means, not the most solid of evidence to bring forward, and he hesitated to say so. “But he didn’t know they were overheard, so someone did it by accident, on his side, on ours…someone made a mistake.”
Emuin turned a glance toward Crissand, and Crissand shook his head. “I’ve no such gift,” Crissand said.
“On the other hand, perhaps you do,” Emuin said, “and should have a care, young lord! On that evidence, have a care what you wish! Were you even thinking of Ilefínian?”
“I was wishing I might serve my lord,” Crissand confessed. “But I was outside the great hall when I heard the whispers to my right.”
“Not enough,” Emuin judged. “I doubt it was enough. Someone is stronger. If he let fly that casual a wish, it was an unlatched gate, was all. A means by which.”
“Tasmôrden himself isn’t that strong,” Tristen judged.
“I take your word,” Emuin said with sobering directness, “and judge you do know, young lord.”
“Meaning what, sir?” Crissand asked.
“Meaning wizards were involved,” Emuin said sharply, “and a damned strong one, somewhere about, and thanks to you, the barn door was open, young sir, with people going in and out it.—Wish elsewhere, henceforth, but not in the lower hall, which is as haunted a place as one can find this side of Althalen!”
“I shall, sir,” Crissand said meekly enough, and meant it with all his heart, Tristen was sure, as much as a young man untaught in wizardry could keep from wishing.
“Still, there’s the substance of what we heard,” Tristen said. “They know about Tarien.”
“Cuthan clearly brought more than stolen parchments across the river,” Emuin said.
“If Cuthan hasn’t used the mews himself,” Tristen said. “And if Lady Orien hasn’t.”
Emuin cast him a glance. “Past my wards, she didn’t. Of that I’m certain.”
“So would I be,” Tristen said, for he had had no sense of Lady Orien’s involvement: across in the other wing of the fortress, she knew something had disturbed the wards, yes. That fact had gone through the very air, like the reverberations of a beaten bronze, since they had come out of the mews, and it still disturbed the gray space. But the rift opening on Tasmôrden’s schemes was not Lady Orien’s doing, nor Tarien’s.
“So, well,” Emuin said, with finality. “Someone’s attempt at our unlatched door—and I don’t mean the portal—didn’t go as well as he wished. It all came back on him, twofold.”
“An’ Tasmôrden ain’t that pleased,” Uwen said. “But, m’lord, ye shouldn’t ha’ gone. Two men wi’ swords ain’t much of a match to men in their own quarters.”
“But you haven’t heard all,” Crissand said, and his voice was low now, and filled with passion. “I said my lord raised his sword, but it wasn’t the sword that stopped them, but the light. He glowed, so blindingly bright, I’d have fallen in fear myself if I were in front of him. Tasmôrden’s guard fell back, Tasmôrden himself ran behind the table—and my lord’s voice, his warning against any pursuit whatsoever—still echoes within those walls…gods, I hear it to this hour!”
What Crissand modestly failed to mention was his own part. The guards had fallen, and in the frozen confusion, Crissand had swept past Tasmôrden, contempt in every line, had taken the banner, ripped it from its fastenings.
And to Tasmôrden’s face as he passed again, Crissand had waved the banner, saying, in a shout of his own, that only his lord had the right to those arms. Woe to any pretender who dares fly this banner! It belongs to my lord!
Tristen wondered, in the way things about the gray space faded in the light of the world, whether Crissand even recalled saying so, or making that claim for him.
So it was in his dream.
And the banner itself being the substance of the matter, and being such a gift as it was, the substance of his dreams, from the man whom Auld Syes had hailed as the aetheling—could he—dared he—refuse it?
BOOK TWO
INTERLUDE
The drifts were melting, under a clear blue sky and a blazing bright sun, the wondrous change in the weather that had come the very day Cefwyn left his prayers. Some more hopeful and pious folk called it a miracle.
The soldiers at the rear of the column, less reverent, cursed the mud.
And in the matter of miracles, particularly those of his own invocation, Cefwyn was dubious, but he gladly took the good fortune he had, praised the gods in solemn thanksgiving before the whole court, as the people praised their lately pious king.
For himself, he wondered whether Emuin and Tristen had had a hand in the weather, and whether the change indeed presaged a turn in his luck from a completely different source.
Whatever the source and whatever the meaning some might find in it, sunshine was certainly better than gray skies for an omen of setting-forth: the road, which progressively turned from white to brown under the feet of men and horses, still was frozen hard enough to prevent the cart wheels from bogging down. That was miracle enough to encourage any soldier’s hope of success in the enterprise.
Cefwyn rode his warhorse, Kanwy, whose big feet made his own way, no matter the weather, and Ninévrisë rode a gray mare likewise of the heavy horse breed, whose sure back and steady disposition made her safer for a lady in her delicate condition, in Cefwyn’s estimation.
Behind them came the muster of the Guelens, and those of the Dragon Guard unit which had served the city. Part of the Prince’s Guard had come as well, men who had accompanied him to Amefel in the summer, and who were now lent by his brother Efanor, along with their commander, Gwywyn, lately commander of the Dragons under their father. The rest of Panys had marched, no doubt there. Young Rusyn brought the rest of their muster to join his father, Lord Maudyn, and his elder brother. Marisal was coming: Cefwyn had their lord’s word. And likewise Sulriggan’s province of Llymaryn would come, so he had Sulriggan’s early and extravagant promise.
It was less than the army he had envisioned, but not the calamity he had envisioned, either. Move they did, and now all the other lords, from Marisal to Isin, had to reconsider their positions: stand aside in avowed cowardice or in support of Ryssand, or take to the roads and go to the riverside. Tardiness would not serve. Llymaryn had used up that excuse in the last war.
Gods bless the mayor of Guelemara, too, who had sent his house guard, all five of them, but it was symbolic. Guelemara’s various lords had sent the rest, and so Efanor stood vindicated in fact and not only in name. Gods bless Panys, never slow to answer the call to arms, and gods bless Marisal, a man of honor, who had stood by his king at an hour when the list of loyal names had been far shorter than it had grown to be.
So the army was on the road, not, again, as Cefwyn had envisioned, as a tide of men marching down a green-sided road, but still with a warm sun beating down and heating armor despite the lingering chill from the snow around them, a sun melting snowbanks and filling the smallest depressions with foot-dampening snowmelt.
It had not been practical to delay to bring Marisal up to the capital before going on to the riverside. It was not practical for any of the rest to muster there and then march west, when the road directly from the provinces was shorter, and he refused to ask it merely for show. At a certain point pageantry was very well for confidence, but practicality said that they should save their wagon axles the added stress and save their marching strength for speed through enemy land.
So in this somewhat gradual gathering of force, let the other duchies ask themselves whether their neighbors might by now have joined the army, and ask themselves was the list of abstainers and the tardy growing shorter by the day, leaving them conspicuously exposed to blame?
He had waited for no debate in council, only declared what conclusion he had reached after his fasting and prayer: he would march at on
ce and asked for the lords to move as quickly to honor their oaths and come with him.
Rusyn had not hesitated a heartbeat. Hard behind him came Marisal and Llymaryn, and after that the timid and the traitorous had toed the ground and said, well, of course, and yes, they understood the gods’ leading, but it was difficult to muster on such short notice, and they were not at all glad of a war or sanguine of the outcome…
But dared they let the king go to certain death and the kingdom then go to ruin? Dared they be the laggards, when others were going?
Ryssand had not even gotten his chance to speak—had protested and tried to outshout his king, regarding dire news from the south, by no means his wisest course, for he had lost dignity by it, and moreover, the new Patriarch was on his king’s side. Jormys in his new robes of office had come to the dais to declare a holy mission against a sorcerous usurper, a defiler of his oaths of fealty and a despiser of the gods.
The accusations against Tasmôrden were all true, Cefwyn was sure. But the refusal of his king to hear his case sent Ryssand from the hall in blackest fury, and without consulting Efanor he snatched his daughter Artisane up and left the capital without informing his king whether he would march.
He left rumors behind him of sorcerous alliances, a royal bastard among the Aswydds under the malevolent influence of the lord of Amefel, who held court swathed in ill-omened black, kept a familiar about him in the shape of an owl, and had reestablished Althalen as his capital.
It was, perhaps, too much for the populace to hear at once. They were celebrating the rumor of Her Grace bringing forth an heir…a rumor that had had days to run before Ryssand blurted out wild charges of bastardy in the south. The Aswydds were no part of the people’s experience or recollection. The people had the evidence of a child within the bounds of marriage, a king who had fasted and prayed and emerged blessed by the Quinalt, with all pomp and pageantry and calling for holy war against a godless enemy. The people heard the blare of trumpets, saw the muster of troops and colors, and Ryssand’s departure went all but unremarked, except as one more movement of lord and guards in a town that saw many lords and many companies.