Fortress in the Eye of Time (61 page)

“To
fortify
a camp,” he echoed. His view of blowing skirts and white, mud-spattered linen was competing with the consideration of Elwynim in view of his very vulnerable town. “I give you my sincere condolences, and ask why fortified, Your Most Honorable Grace.”

“I understand that Elwynim crossed the river against your father the King up in Emwy district.”

“Yes,” he said, not seeing how this answered his question. “They did. In collusion with the Aswyddim. We recovered shields from that field, and wounded now dead, three of them of Lower Saissonnd.”

“Caswyddian,” she declared without hesitation. “Lord Caswyddian of Saissonnd. A rebel against my father—a rival of Aséyneddin.”

He had heard rumors, he knew that name and had marked it down as a man who would pay in Heryn's fashion, did he turn out to have been on that field at Emwy, or to have known of it—and did he ever fall into his hands; but he did not wish to tell her what he had heard or how much he knew. “So you bring Elwynor's troubles onto Amefin soil, and want to fortify a camp, making us, I suppose, your allies of a sort, certainly as Aséyneddin will see it. That could cause us trouble. And, forgive my suspicion, Your Grace, but of how many men do you propose to make this camp?”

“These men—” There was the least tremor in the lady's chin, the first thorough fracture in her composure. “—these fifteen men, sir. Thirty-three were camped with my father. A band we think was Caswyddian's attacked us last night and half my men stayed to guard our retreat, so that I might
remain alive to make this request—in which regard, I would ask you, if you would, if you would be so gracious, should they chance into your hands—place them under the same safe conduct.”

That last seemed both sincere and from a lady not used to asking abject favors of strangers.

“I shall,” he said, “most gladly, and I shall advise my searchers to be careful. I must, however, advise you, Your Grace, that fifteen men hardly constitute a fortified camp, certainly none to strike fear into your enemies.”

“Fifteen men is what I have, Your Majesty. But if we could make that camp as a secure point, and send into Elwynor—”

“You can gain more men for your camp?”

“I am confident, sir.”

Confident, he believed not in the least. But it was a sensible plan, and a far better one than he had expected of a young woman in such a desperate situation. Whether or not it was her idea, she presented it with authority, used the right words—and did know why the camp should be fortified. It was the Sihhë entrenchment, plain and simple: dig deep and hold on, then spread out.

More, she had not once appealed him in terms of the marriage proposal lying just uphill in his bedchamber, not so much as acknowledged it existed, nor asked for troops, nor requested alliance with Ylesuin. The mischief the artist had put into the eyes was all iron and fire today—gray, was the answer to what the artist had made ambiguous.

They were still ambiguous. Gray as morning mist. Gray as new iron. The mouth had dimples at the corners, but they were part of the set of a determined jaw, which he would like to see in that other expression—gods, he knew this face. He had lived with this face. He was fascinated out of his good sense—so fascinated he had imagined beyond her proposed camp and her proposed recruitment of an unspecified number of Elwynim onto his side of the river to launch a war from his territory against her enemies—and not asking the number of men this Caswyddian and gods-knew-who-else might have
across the river up there, and where his post rider might have disappeared to.

He needed to ask Tristen what he had seen. He needed to talk to the Ivanim captain about how what he had seen agreed with what the lady now Regent was saying. His leg was hurting and he was distracted by Synanna's restlessness.

But it was toward late afternoon, the lady herself was the potential source of a great deal he wanted to know about the intentions of Elwynor, and he could hardly ask the Regent of Elwynor to camp in the orchard next the lord of Lanfarnesse, in the mud and the midst of apple-harvest, with—he could see—no tents and a couple of horses with very scant baggage.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I shall consider your proposition. May I ask an indelicate question? Are you aware of a proposal and a medallion that your father sent to me?”

Her cold-stung cheeks were already blushed. The pink reached the rest of her face, and the frown stayed. “Since our messengers did not return to us, Your Majesty, and since you mention it, I can only surmise it did reach you, and that your silence spoke for you.”

“The messenger did not return to you.”

“No, sir. As others did not. Do you say this was not to your knowledge? That there
are
no Elwynim heads above your gates?”

Heryn, he thought, and damned him to very hell. “Lady, on those terms your courage in dealing with me is amazing. Will you marry me?”

The color fled. The lips parted—and clamped tight. “Sir.”

“Will you marry me?”

“You are mocking me.”

“On my most solemn oath, Lady Regent. I by no means mock you. Your state cannot be more desperate. On the other hand, the bloody Marhanen does have troops at his disposal and wishes to assure peace on this frontier. What terms would you wish?”

The lips had relaxed, as if she were about to speak one word, and then another, and finally, on a deep breath: “I
would agree to nothing, Your Majesty, without the advice of my own lords. They have given up their safety and risked their families to come here.”

“Their advice, but not their consent?”

“Majesty, I am in my own right Regent of Elwynor. And if you ask my terms, sir, they are that I
be
Regent of Elwynor, in my own right, and not subject to any authority of yours.”

“You have the most extravagant eyes.”

The eyes in question widened and sparked fire. “I am not to be mocked, sir.”

“I am a King more absolute, and can agree without my advisers, who will damn me to hell if I take such terms from you.”

“I shall take my safe conduct and ride to the border!”

“I said I agreed.”

The remarkable eyes blinked. Twice.

Cefwyn asked: “Did you talk to the lord of Ynefel? Do you find him pleasant, agreeable—somewhat mad?”

“You
are
mocking me, now.”

“I mock myself, dear lady; I see war inevitable if your rebels have their way, and wizardry is already with us. Things will not be for us what they were for our fathers. Mauryl Gestaurien is dead, my friend yonder is beyond all doubt Sihhë, and possibly your King—some do think so—who may be bent on having his kingdom, if he does not tomorrow take a fancy to some other pursuit.”

She took a large breath. “Sir! I—”

“But should you find yourself in that event without a realm to rule, I shall be glad to reconsider our pact of separate rule.”

“You are the most outrageous man I ever met!”

“Since you've met Tristen, I take that for a sweeping statement.—Do you accept?”

“You are mad, sir!”

“And?” He had almost seen the dimples. The look was in her eyes.

“I—shall consider it,
with
my advisers.”

“Your name
is
Ninévrisë. Am I right?”

She stared, in deep offense. Then she laughed. “You know that!”

“One should always be sure.—In the meantime, while you're considering—” He left all banter, and turned completely serious. “Will you and your advisers be my honored guests? I swear to your safety.”

Her anxious glance traveled to the heights and back again. “I put you on your honor, sir.” She gathered up the reins, began to turn her horse. And looked back. “—Cefwyn. Is
that
your name?”

With which she rode briskly back to her men.

He shut his mouth, and rode back to his—to Idrys, in the main, but Umanon and Cevulirn were moving in.

“I'm going to marry her,” he said.

“My lord is not serious,” Idrys said.

“Tristen's upstairs room for the lady—Tristen's belongings are all downstairs, are they not? The adjacent quarters for the lords, the men disposed with them or elsewhere at their wish. Send ahead of us and set reliable servants to work on the details. The betrothal within a day or two, I swear to you.”

“My lord King,” Idrys began, and, in the presence of witnesses, fell prudently quiet.

“Oh, I've thought about it, Idrys. I have most seriously thought about it. The woman demands sole title to the Regency of Elwynor.
I
have more imminent concerns.” He cast a look at Umanon's frowning face—and Cevulirn's, but Cevulirn showed no more expression than usual. “I am not mad, sirs. This lady is an ally who has importunate suitors raiding our territory to have the better of each other. That will stop. I had far rather, if I must go to war, go to war to settle a permanent peace on this border, and if a marriage is the price of that peace, I shall.”

“They are Elwynim!” Umanon said.

“Patently. That is their
use
, Your Grace. A pious Quinalt lady will not get me a peaceful border. This lady will.”

Cevulirn had never batted an eye. As for Umanon, he knew
how to reason with him: make it a plot, a scheme, a stratagem. Then Umanon understood.

He had thought, however, that shadow in the wind and sound of a horse moving quietly up beside him was Idrys' standard-bearer. It was a different horse. It was Tristen on him, Tristen unshaven, mud-flecked and shadow-eyed.

“Gods,” Cefwyn said. “You startled me.”

“You will marry her,” Tristen echoed, as if assuring himself of what he had heard. Tristen's eyes were unwontedly opaque to him. Guarded. Gray as the lady's: he had never thought it until that instant, and a chill went with that awareness.

“I shall indeed marry her.—Ride with me. Tell me later what happened.” Whatever Tristen had been up to, he did not think it a story for Umanon's sensitive ears and gossip-prone mouth. He wanted nothing of any of Tristen's doings or the lady's until he had Tristen in private. “Are our Elwynim going to ride with us, or not?”

There was apparent consternation among the Elwynim bunched together on the road. He could guess that at least one of the three lords was unconvinced of their safety and argued for a camp outside the walls.

“Lord Tasien is anxious about coming here,” Tristen said with his accustomed bluntness. “But she will do what she wishes to do.”

“And what is that?” he asked, before he remembered he wanted no news.

“To find men to fight the enemy, sir. Mauryl's enemy.”

There was consternation on Umanon's face. Even Cevulirn gave Tristen a troubled glance.

“A matter for council,” Cefwyn said quickly. Religious anxiety would be far more potent among the common soldiers than among their lords, but their lords' response forecast the commons'. A moment ago he had been half in love. Cefwyn, the lady had said, as if their meeting were chance and he were any would-be lover with not a thought in his head but that pretty face.

The fact was she need not have been pretty. She needed to
be the Regent of Elwynor. Better yet if she were at least publicly Quinalt.

Best for his peace of mind if he had not found those eyes suddenly so familiar, and so disturbing. He could not imagine why he had not realized in their ambiguity even in the portrait, that they might be gray—or recalled, when he had fallen under their spell and offered himself in marriage, that they were reputed, like that mass of black, black hair, as a Sihhë trait.

It was nothing he need fear, but, gods! how the whispers would run, even in Amefel, even by this evening.

The Elwynim joined them, and names were named, Lord Tasien of Cassissan; Lord Haurydd of Upper Saissonnd; Lord Ysdan of Ormadzaran…names hitherto belonging to aged parchment and crooked trails of ink.

“My lords,” Cefwyn said, and could not resist a bow, ironic mockery of their clear apprehensions. “The bloody Marhanen bids you all welcome and hopes for your good opinion. Bear the Regent's banner next to mine. Such are the terms the lady Regent requests, and Ylesuin will honor—whatever the lady requests. I cannot daunt her. I am resolved to please her.”

The Elwynim bowed. The lady, to his astonishment, blushed.

But he said to Idrys, as Synanna, on his casual mistouch of the reins, brushed Drugyn's shoulder: “The west gate, for the gods' sake, not the south. Bid someone remove the heads tonight.”

 

Cefwyn was completely occupied with the lords around him, and Tristen thought it a good time to keep silence. It was comfortable enough to ride with Uwen; and it was comfortable to be riding up a street he knew, among people who knew him.

But it was a long ride up that hill, with the townsfolk of Henas'amef turned out to stare and talk together, wide-eyed, at the display of Elwynim banners that he was sure they had never expected in their streets.

Then someone cried out, “Lord Sihhë!” and others took it up, crying “Lord Sihhë!”

They did not cry out that way for the other lords. He had had his fill of being conspicuous, last night. He was tired, he was aching and, as certain as he had been not so long ago that he could not possibly bear the confines of his rooms and the mundane chatter of Uwen and his servants, he thought now that nothing could be more dear or more welcome to him.

The rain had come down on them most of the night and again during the morning. Petelly was switching his ears and clearly had honeyed oats in mind, and Uwen's borrowed Ivanim mount had protested strenuously at the gate, knowing that he belonged down in the Ivanim camp, as all but a few of their Ivanim escort went aside to their well-earned rest. The Ivanim had come with provisions, as the Elwynim had, so they had not gone hungry; and they had rested on the journey—at least three times; but only once, toward dawn, had they stopped for enough time for men and horses alike to catch a little sleep.