Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03 (51 page)

I bear you no ill will, Ninévrisë had said to Luriel, early in their

meeting, in their one conversation on the matter of old loves.

“Your Grace is generous,” Luriel had said, “beyond all

women.” And then Luriel had added, in that deadly honesty

that partook a little of contempt, “I could not be, were I in your

place.”

It warned her, then and from the start, that neither generosity

nor love had made it possible for them to sit side by side. It was

that they both were set on separate campaigns, both desperate,

both under the weight of censure, both willing to endure any

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

other affront to secure what they wished… and their wishes

were not mutually exclusive. On that slender point, peace rested.

She had not retorted, Because you cannot be generous, you are

not in my place… although that was what she thought. Luriel

had stinted Cefwyn of her love, her troth, her loyalty, and

Cefwyn, not being a fool, had never given her his. Cefwyn

could not love this woman, and the closer he had grown to

Luriel the more he had known it.

Ninévrisë had thought that, too, on that occasion, and had not

said it.

But she had taken that conversation for her one moment to tell

some truth to Luriel of Murandys. “What I do,” she had said,

“I do for my husband’s sake. Never mistake my tolerance for

folly.” And having said that, she never placed her trust in

Luriel.

Stitch and stitch. In the patterns one could lose oneself. In the

making of stitches, small and precise, there was no tomorrow

and no yesterday, only the need to count threads and

remember. The prattle of schemes and suppositions was only

idle noise. Outside, the weather spat, and drizzled, then burned

bright blue and icy cold. Cravings for raspberries turned to

dishes of custard, which she had had as a child, and could not

well describe to the cook, though her tongue remembered the

taste exquisitely. Custard after custard failed her expectation.

“Did you hear?” Odrinian came in saying, one morning.

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

“Someone painted the Quinalt sigil on the street outside Father

Benwyn’s door last night.”

“Did they?” asked Bonden-on-Wyk.

“Benwyn will lay a curse on them,” Odrinian said.

“If he sobers enough,” said Brusanne.

Ninévrisë had said nothing in this exchange. Glances drifted

toward her like moths to the forbidden fire, and hers to them.

Needles stilled. There was the least hint of fear.

“He’s not a wizard,” Ninévrisë found herself saying. “No such

thing. That’s not right.”

The silence lasted a moment. They never asked her what it was

to be Bryaltine, and in fact she failed to practice the faith in

any nightly observances. Benwyn did, nightly visiting the

shrine, and having his wine flask with him… but most times

being sober, since Idrys had lectured Benwyn very sternly.

He made fine salves, did Benwyn of Amefel. Bonden-on-Wyk

used them. Her feet and hands pained her, and she swore

Benwyn had given her more relief than the Quinalt with their

charms and herbal baths. But Bonden-on-Wyk did not speak up

on Benwyn’s behalf now. Only Margolis said, “Well, painting

the sigil on streets is no great respect of the Quinalt, either, is

it?”

“No,” said Ninévrisë, gratefully, “it is not.”

Tristen had acted recklessly: Cefwyn’s letters advised him so;

and so did Idrys, which she hoped Tristen would heed, but one

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

was never sure with him. News of the schism in the Quinalt

frightened her. So much was fragile. Elwynor itself had become

fragile, poised on the edge of starvation and dissolution. The

prophecy of the King To Come might well be fulfilled in

Tristen… she saw the signs, and for that she was also afraid…

a selfish fear, she had thought at first; but more and more she

knew that there was more than need of Guelessar that had

turned Cefwyn from crossing the river last summer’s end. That

he might fulfill the prophecy was something they shared, and

then she had been swept by doubts, one time desiring to be

queen and not a stranger in Guelessar, one time asking herself

dared she stand in the way of prophecy and was she so great a

fool?

But now when she heard the women talk of attacks on her

priest she knew another fear, for nowhere in the prophecy of

the King To Come did it promise miracles or even salvation for

Elwynor. The King To Come was the High King, the King at

Althalen… and Elwynor only a province in his hands, nothing

said of its safety or its fate when all was done.

She spoke for Elwynor itself. She secretly nursed a hope within

her, as yet untested.

Meanwhile Efanor courted Artisane, sending her letters and

gifts, and Ryssand remained unprecedentedly quiet, while she

knew the Holy Father of the Quinalt pursued debates with

priests Ryssand sponsored.

All these things, all these things, troubled her thoughts when

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

her hands fell idle.

Her heart and her hopes, had soared when she heard that

Elwynim, her Elwynim, had found safety with Tristen, but oh,

there were dangers still. Spring, spring would bring their

answers; and in the meanwhile events proved that in Tristen’s

hands the prophecy was a dangerous thing, much as she loved

him for his innocence and his devotion to Cefwyn.

Now the angers pressed in on her, angers she would have been

free to satisfy if they had crossed the river this summer and

engaged all of Elwynor without warning.

And at such moments she wondered if it had not been unwise

ever to have entangled herself with the Bryaltines instead of the

Teranthines, difficult as that had seemed. Benwyn, poor man,

had no understanding of the currents that swirled about him.

Angry Guelenfolk painted signs at his door. They gossiped

about him.

The rare times she had ever talked with the man, it was not

philosophy or religion, but herb lore out of Elwynor, and the

obscure history of the shrine in Amefel. The sad truth was

Benwyn well knew he was hated, and drank when he must face

roomfuls of good Quinaltines.

Consequently he drank often… not the wisest solution, but

then, if Benwyn had been wise, he would have confined his

ministry to Amefel and not been the only Bryalt priest in

Guelessar.

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

While she, if she were wise, would have bowed her head and

accepted the Teranthine compromise, and never accepted this

priest, near as he was to her father’s observances. She saw now

what a difficulty it was to force Ylesuin and Elwynor into

union, and she knew that if there could not be a peaceful

compromise of the Guelen clergy, Ylesuin itself might be rent

apart. As might she.

“It’s shameful,” Ninévrisë said now, regarding this latest

outrage. “It’s shameful to use the Quinalt that way, and it’s

shameful to treat poor Benwyn that way.”

For the Crown itself could not, dared not defend Benwyn too

zealously. She knew how delicate a balance that was.

“Oh, dear,” said Brusanne, and began that urgent search of

her skirts that told of a lost needle. Others began to search, too,

about her, through the mountains of fabric around her, for the

needles that sewed the pearls were fine and easily lost, and

tended to turn up in the folds of the work, to prick the wearer

when she next tried the garment on.

“Here it is,” said Margolis, and returned it to the daughter of

Panys, who thrust it through the sleeve above her wrist.

“There,” said Brusanne. “I’ll not stab my brother’s bride. I’m

sure it’s bad luck.”

“It’s bad luck to say bad luck,” said Bonden-on-Wyk.

“There,” said Luriel, vexed. “Will you not refrain from saying

it twice, then?”

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

BOOK THREE

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

Chapter 1

«
^
»

Sergeant Gedd was back from Guelessar, a fortnight past all

expectation and after they had all but given him up for lost.

“And glad to be here, m’lord,” Gedd said fervently, reporting to

Tristen in the privacy of his apartments. Gedd had surely come

straight up from the stables, stopping only to wash the dust

from face and hands, for the fair hair about his face was wet,

his beard, ordinarily carefully trimmed, had stubble about the

sides, and his clothes were spattered with two colors of mud

different than any in the stable yard.

In such guise, too, of dirt and disrepute, Gedd handed him a

precious and very belated letter. Stripped of coverings of dirty

cloth, it emerged cleanly, resplendent with red ribbon and the

royal seal. “Forgive me that I’m so late. Word directly from the

Lord Commander, too, m’lord, that I have in memory.”

“Tell it to me,” Tristen said. He laid the letter on the desk

before him, as Uwen stood near his chair, silent as the brazen

dragons. “What happened?”

“Respects first, m’lord, from the Lord Commander, and then

this, which is weeks late: that the guardsmen who left the

Amefin garrison by your leave have gone to the Quinalt for

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protection and so has the patriarch of Amefel. The Lord

Commander says to tell Your Grace kindly give him no more

such gifts. His words, my lord, as he said them, forgive me.”

He could all but hear Idrys say it, and he was glad it was no

sharper barb. He knew he deserved one.

But weeks late. He had no more recent news and had feared to

send.

“And from His Majesty,” Gedd said, “who says to tell Your

Grace that the patriarch of Amefel put the Holy Father in a

difficult position, and that there’s trouble in the Quinaltine.

Those were His Majesty’s words. Trouble in the Quinaltine. He

said tell Your Grace that His Reverence has friends in

Ryssand.”

“Was that all?”

“Yes, my lord. He gave me the letter with his own hand, and I

was straight off and away.”

“But late.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Why?” Uwen asked, from the side and behind, and Gedd cast

an anxious look in his direction.

“I had someone on my trail. I took up to the hills. But… Your

Grace might want to hear… talk started about the tavern…”

“Tell me everything,” Tristen said. “Don’t hurry.”

Gedd drew a breath. He was a strong man and a good soldier: it

Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

was from exhaustion, surely, that his hand shook as he raked

back the damp hair. “Priests are going about the town