C. J. Cherryh - Fortress 05 (49 page)

A guardsman rode near to say they had smelled smoke, and the waft of it came with the messenger, borne on the same wind. “The shelter, Your Majesty,” that man said, pointing ahead, and so it must be—one of the little three-sided stone waystops he had ordered built along the King’s Road south and north, where there were wells or nearby water: he ordered his foresters to provide each its small store of firewood.

That was their destination tonight, the last such shelter before they would cross the river—the bridge had gone down in the fall rains: old Lenúalim was notoriously hard to bridge, all along this shore: not that it ran deep here, but wide. It took down bridges with ice, or scouring, and most recently lightning, which was so strange a circumstance that no few had named it as a sign there ought not to be a bridge over the river at all. So they would ford it at the old place, by the last shelter before the monastery, which was said to be frozen over, and Cefwyn had no desire to risk doing it in the dark. They had pressed hard today, bypassing one shelter at midafternoon, determined to reach this one, and to make time so that they could cross by fair daylight tomorrow. He had thought he might have overreached, and doomed them all to the labor of making a roadside camp, and now the news that they were coming into a shelter occupied, and with a fire already going was cheerful news.

The smoke was more definite on the wind as they rode, so that all the company knew it. The pace picked up a little. Aewyn said not a thing, only clenched his cloak about him and stayed beside him, brave lad, at a faster clip.

Two guardsmen broke ahead of the party, to be sure who was there; and it was a little space before they came atop the rise and whistled a signal back to their comrades that all was well.

It was a rush, after that, weary horses encouraged to move, with the smell of smoke and shelter in their nostrils and the prospect of grain before them. It was, Cefwyn thought, a small merchant party they would meet, with a fire already built, possibly with useful wares or commodities to offer fellow travelers. Winter merchants, traveling to the villages and back, were usually the younger traders, and the hungrier, especially to be out on the road in a bad streak like this.

There was no such party camped around. Guardsmen dismounted, and Cefwyn did, neglecting to help his son down at the moment, his attention all for the single man at a small scrap of a fire, a huge pile of ash, but only a little fire; and a man wrapped in his cloak and a single blanket.

“Here’s your king,” a guardsman said. “Can you stand, fellow?”

“Leg’s broken,” the man said, and scanned the lot of them, looking for authority, as it seemed. Cefwyn came to stand in front of him, and, as the man flung back his cloak and the blanket, he saw the red and black Amefin colors and, indeed, a roughly splinted leg. “Lord Crissand’s courier,” the man said through cracked lips.

“Your Majesty.”

Cefwyn squatted at eye level and saw a man, indeed, in dire straits.

“A message,” the man said, and felt within his coat. He came out with a crushed and bloody letter, in a hand itself black with scabs and dirt. “My lord—my lord—said it was urgent. An’ me horse went down on the ice.”

“Care for this man,” Cefwyn said. “More wood.” It must have cost this man agony to get back and forth between the diminished woodpile and the fire pit. “Cut more, if you need.” Any cutting on the king’s right of way had to have royal permission. It had that, tonight.

“What is it?” came a young voice. Aewyn had gotten down from his horse, and finally found a question, squatting down beside him as he broke the seal and held the letter, fairly written, in good black ink, so that the fire lit it from behind.

Your son has returned safely
, Crissand had written, himself: he knew that strong, clear hand.
When your ward reached his house,
he indeed went west, and reports he has seen Lord Tristen, who he
says has informed him he should carry the name Elfwyn. He reports
that the lord of Ynefel will come as far as Henas’amef, how soon
and in what intent, unfortunately, I do not know. He says that
Ynefel gave him a message for me, but that he lost it on the way, in
bad weather. This alarms me, as I am sure it will trouble us all.

In the loss of Ynefel’s message, I have lent your ward the ring
which Ynefel gave me…

Lost it on the way, for the gods’ sake. That was uncommon bad luck, for one of Tristen’s messages.

Surely Tristen
knew
it was lost. Didn’t he? Had Crissand gotten another message from him by now, since the dispatch of the letter?

And Otter—Elfwyn—was safe. Safe, and going under his given name, by Tristen’s instruction.

And carrying Crissand’s ring, as potent as Cefwyn’s own amulet.

That was welcome news, but it indicated Crissand was very worried, and wanted to be sure where the boy was.

Tristen, gods be praised, was coming to Amefel.

“What does it say?” his son asked, trying to see.

“That your brother has made it back safely.”

“Then I shall see him!” Aewyn cried.

Should he see him? Cefwyn wondered. Tristen was involved. The boy had come back under some instruction from him, and there the matter of Ynefel’s ring, and Otter—Elfwyn—electing to visit his mother, of all damned things.
He is convinced her ill will may have
caused certain misfortunes, and he seems to believe that Ynefel’s
arrival may deal with her. I am uneasy in his intention
…

Not the half of it, Cefwyn thought. Crissand wrote:
my
forbidding him might have consequences I cannot foresee
, and
I
hope that I have done wisely in granting this request, and I shall
continue vigilant
…

Bloody hell
, he thought.
Small wonder Crissand had granted
Otter the ring, in that case
. Tristen was involved. Crissand hadn’t felt he had the authority to stop Otter, but he hadn’t liked that request to visit the woman, which might not have come from Tristen.

He wanted to be back on the road, never mind the hour. He wanted a fresh horse and a clear road, and he wanted to send Aewyn back home, to be safe in Guelemara under Efanor’s not inconsiderable protection.

But—but if magic was in question, separating off his son and sending him back alone was not a safe course, either. Aewyn, with a little of the old blood from his Syrillas mother, had only the disadvantage of that magical heritage at his age, none of the protection it might give him if it ever flowered.
He
himself was blind to magic, but Tristen said things magical outright glowed in the daylight to certain eyes. And if his son glowed like that to certain eyes, then he was a damned sight safer with Tristen in the neighborhood than he would be going off into the dark with a covey of equally blind Dragon Guard.

“What else?” Aewyn wanted to know, tugging ever so slightly at his sleeve.

“That your brother is no longer Otter. He’s now saying his name is Elfwyn. And he seems to have visited Lord Tristen, who told him that was his name. Here, you can read it. What questions you find in it, I fear I can’t answer. Just keep the letter safe.” He stood up and gained the attention of the Guard captain. “Make a litter. Two men to take Lord Crissand’s messenger to the monks at Aelford at a gentle pace, his care at Crown expense: his message is delivered and his duty discharged. He may go where he pleases when he is able to ride, and the monks are to provide him a good horse. The rest of you will go on with me. No canvas spread. Better the clean wind than seal us in with the smoke.” The sound of an axe resounded through the shelter, a tree going down. It would be green wood and, indeed, a great deal of smoke when it burned. It would be well, too, to leave more wood curing for the next occupant of the shelter, who might come in likewise in dire need. The messenger had lain here, burning what he must to keep himself from freezing, and had had the bad luck to have no merchants come along for days.

“Did his mother cause all his trouble?” Aewyn wanted to know, regarding Otter, now Elfwyn, while the Guard started breaking out their supper supplies. “Could she?”

“It’s a good question,” he said. It was not a matter he wanted to discuss in front of the guardsmen. “I don’t know what she can do nowadays. I don’t know the answers, I warned you that. And let’s not discuss it here.”

“Is it a magical ring?”

He touched his own amulet beneath his coat where it rested, against his bare skin. It often lent a warmth to him, if only the comfort of friendship. “I suppose in a sense it’s magical. But a prince of Ylesuin doesn’t talk about magic. It’s not something we bruit about recklessly in front of honest Guelenfolk, even if our good friends use it.”

“But I’ll see Lord Tristen?”

“I very much hope you will,” he said. The flow of questions had started again, unanswerable, but it was the surest sign of happiness in his son. He reached out, knocking back Aewyn’s hood, and tousled his hair, which Aewyn hated. “Questions, questions, questions. Will the sun rise tomorrow? Generally, but I can’t promise it. I’m not in charge of the sun.”

“You’re the king.”

“I’m not in charge of the sun, however. And I’m certainly not in charge of Tristen. He’s not our subject, you know: he’s the High King, and it could be argued we’re his. He’s our friend, is all.”

“He was duke of Amefel, once.”

“He became free of that. I let go the oath. You can’t keep a creature like him bound, you know. You never should, or you have to take what comes of it.”

“What would come of it?”

“I’m not in charge of that, either, piglet. I don’t know what might happen, but getting in Tristen’s way isn’t a wise thing to do.”

“Why? What would he do?”

“He wouldn’t do a thing,” Cefwyn said, with his own memories of ice and fire, and far more inexplicable sights. “He wouldn’t do a thing. But when he needs something, all nature bends. Sometimes it even breaks its own rules, and, no, don’t ask me what those rules are. If I knew, I’d be a wizard, and I’m certainly not.”

“You learned from one.”

“I did. And I do wish I could provide the same for you, son of mine. But there’s not a one I can find.”

“Except Lord Tristen.”

“Who’s—” Cefwyn began to say.

“Not a wizard. I know. He’s Sihhë. Which is different. But I don’t understand how it’s different.”

“You have a bit of it, through your mother, you know. And, son, if you ever do see odd things or find things glowing when you look at them—you can tell her about it. Or tell me very secretly. And quickly. I’d never say it was a bad thing, but His Holiness would have an apoplexy.”

“What’s an—”

“Never mind. But I wouldn’t be sorry if you did have a small touch of your mother’s Sight.”

“And the Aswydds have it, too.”

“They do.”

“Lord Crissand is Aswydd like Otter, and the duke of Amefel.” A small recitation as Aewyn made sure of his facts, counting them on his gloved fingers. “Aswydd like Otter, and his father was Edwyll, who was murdered—”

“Who said such a thing?”

“Uncle.”

Efanor, was it? And what other sordid tales was his brother giving the lad. “He was.”

“And the duke of Amefel has a peculiar grant of power, because they were kings before us, and opened their gates to my great-grandfather. Amefin dukes are earls, except Crissand, who is a duke the way Guelenfolk think of it, and he’s His Grace to us, and aetheling to his own people, who have earls and thanes and other sorts of nobles. But my brother is more directly Aswydd than Crissand is.” A plaintive question. “Is it because he’s illegitimate that he’s not duke?”

“Yes, in plain words, yes.”

“But he would be the rightful duke, would he not?”

“Wishes don’t overcome his illegitimacy. He is not, nor ever can be. There are other Aswydds. But they rebelled against us and conspired to kill your grandfather; and I exiled the lot of them.” The rest of it wasn’t a pretty story. It was one, perhaps, that he should inform his son, considering they were going there; but the story still stuck in his throat, like the grief and anger of that night.

“How did you meet Otter’s mother?”

“She was the younger sister of the duke. And I lived a wild life before I met your mother. Well, truth to tell, I was a fool when I was younger. I know all the trouble a young man can get into, which is why I say you’re not to do that sort of thing. Sins come back to you.”

“Otter isn’t a sin!”

“No.” Cefwyn managed a little smile. “My sin, but not his. I find no fault in him. But so you should know—his mother hates me.”

“She’s a prisoner there.”

“She is.”

“Because she’s a sorceress.”

“Because she’s a sorceress, yes.”

“But you made love with her!”

Innocence looked back at him, a gulf of life and years..

“Hear what I said,” Cefwyn said, in Emuin’s best manner. “Think about it at your leisure, and deeply. I made love. I didn’t love her.

She didn’t love me. I’d not met your mother yet.”

“You love Mother.”

“Deeply.”

“You didn’t love Otter’s mother, ever, did you?”

“I didn’t. Never, never, my boy, link yourself to a woman who cares nothing for you, or that you care nothing for, either. It’s a bad mistake. Your brother was conceived the one night I spent with her. The very night I met Lord Tristen. Think of that, too. Sorcery was in it.”

“Because of Lord Tristen?” Aewyn asked.

“Tristen is—”

“Not a sorcerer. I know. There is a difference.”

“There was a sorceress in it, all the same, Tarien’s sister. She didn’t get
herself
with child, but Tarien did.”

“You slept with her sister, too?”

Both in the same bed, but he spared his son that particular news, and simply nodded. “Being a young fool, in one year, I got myself a son with a woman who was my mortal enemy, worse, the enemy of my own house, and my people—then became king. And that, my son, made life no easier for our young Otter—beginning with the fact that Tarien named him Elfwyn to spite us all.”

“To spite the Marhanens. You said so.”