fortress of dragons.html (23 page)

"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 inevitable, 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.

fortress of dragons.html

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 fortress of dragons.html

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, fortress of dragons.html

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.

fortress of dragons.html

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."

fortress of dragons.html

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's 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
be
and
a son
. He fell into it unthinking, and then realized he had admitted it.

"And
with his mother
," Idrys said, "who is a sorceress. That's also something to consider, my lord king."

The Marhanen temper rose up on his next breath, silently railing on fate and wizardry. But his heart refused to lead him where Idrys advised him to go… and he knew whom he had made keeper of his heart, and his gentler nature. He knew what terrible, unanswerable force he would contend with if he attempted the babe's life— and knew that he would himself bring prophecy down on his head.

"Tristen wouldn't countenance it," he said with a sense of relief, and then knew his own bearings, as if he had found the daylight in this night. "And gods help me,
I
won't."

"Both Emuin and the Lord of Amefel are potent barriers to a boy,"

Idrys said, "but when this seed casts a shade, my lord king of Ylesuin, what shape will it have? And, pray,—" It was one of Idrys'

most detestable habits, that pause before his worst remarks: "—what heritage and inheritance will this boy claim?"

Cefwyn bit back an angry request for silence: Idrys' value was precisely that he would say what he thought, whether or not it pleased him; and do what had to be done, at times, whether or not his king had the will to act.

But was Idrys to rule Ylesuin, or was he? And were the decisions to fortress of dragons.html

be decisions not to decide, and to rein back Idrys?

And should Idrys say such things to him in Ninévrisë's hearing?

He found he was as shaken by that as by the facts themselves, and discovered in himself a sense that Tristen had found and Ninévrisë had tended, until he did not know who was master of his opinions, or where he had passed beyond Idrys' dark counsel, but he knew he had never made a decision he was surer of. He thought how Emuin, when he entertained notions of being rid of Tristen, had counseled him very simply, and in the face of all the danger Tristen posed him: Win his friendship.

And was that it now?

Win this unintended son? Acknowledge a bastard and create a claimant when the barons' damned haggling over the marriage treaty had left Ninévrisë's son no more heir to the throne of Ylesuin than Tarien's son?

He was mad.

He had gone quite mad, and went to his unresisting lady and took her hand, and looked at her eye to eye, no easy deed.

"I don't know what I can do," he said. "I don't know. I only know Tristen has the situation in his hands. And I know what he
won't
do, and won't countenance, and I know you're right."

"I don't," she said. "I don't know that I'm right. But I know what's not right."

"He'll have his mother," Cefwyn said. "And gods save him, his aunt.

But at Amefel now he has Tristen and Emuin, and the Aswydds won't have their way, will they?" He wished Idrys would leave. He longed to gather his bride against his heart and attempt to mend things—to talk about
their
son, and make the moment what it ought to be. But no such gesture would mend what now was.

He tried. He extended a hand. Ninévrisë stood with arms tightly folded, protecting her heart, gazing somewhere that was not this room.

"Go," he said to Idrys, trying to signal him that he wanted rapid, silent departure. "I think we know all we need to deal with."

"There is one other letter," Idrys said, ignoring his king, and drew a fortress of dragons.html

second folded, sealed missive from his coat.

And what other, more disastrous missive could have arrived, and from whom, and on what damnable misreading of him had Idrys held it back? The anger all but strangled him.