Fortress in the Eye of Time (68 page)

He went on feeling what he had felt with Orien, who had lied to him, who was not in the least like Ninévrisë; he went on thinking of Ninévrisë and thinking that marriage meant that Cefwyn and Ninévrisë would share a bed and share their lives, and love each other. Cefwyn gave him gifts and asked him to be his friend—and perhaps he would not lose Cefwyn. Perhaps he would have a chance to speak often with Ninévrisë as he wished, and things would work out.

There was a knot in his throat. It was a hurt, he thought, to which he told himself he had no right, since their being married was long since arranged.

Meanwhile they were going to war against the men that Hasufin brought against them—which, with the skill he had at arms, must be something Mauryl had intended, at least it seemed so now, in the evidence of things tumbling about him.

But Mauryl had been in a hurry, and had brought him for a purpose that mattered, and not thought much, he supposed, about anything else, such as things he might discover and things he might come to want for himself that had no place in Mauryl's purpose. He remembered in little things it had been that way: he might have been exploring the loft or discovering something he had never seen before—he might just have found the most wonderful thing in Ynefel; but if Mauryl wanted him, he had to leave it at once and answer when Mauryl called, that was what Mauryl had always insisted; and it mattered not that he was older and that both his distractions and his self-will were stronger—it was still true.

He would go where Mauryl had wished. He had gone to Althalen. He had come back again. He could see no one and nothing standing against Mauryl's purpose for him—not
standing against it successfully, or scathelessly: such were his deepest fears for what he loved—and he dared not let them try to oppose what Mauryl had intended.

It was not Mauryl's fault, of course: he was brought into the world because of Mauryl's need, and that he inclined in other directions was not Mauryl's fault. He wished he could speak with someone who understood Mauryl. But he could not reach into the gray space after Emuin tonight: he feared he could not touch the gray space without troubling Ninévrisë's dreams, and he would not do that. Most of all, he dared not risk that tonight, and with the strange things he was feeling toward her.

He lay watching the fire-shadows dance around the edges of the walls, and once he heard a thump and rattle, as if the latch of the window were disturbed.

If that was Hasufin, he said to himself, well that Hasufin did not trouble him tonight, because he was suddenly very angry—and wished he had somewhere to put that anger.

But no one else he remotely knew deserved it, except Orien. And he had been close enough to wizards he was afraid to stay as angry as he was. He was afraid to dream, or to skim close to that gray place so long as he was in a state of hurt, and anger.

So he got up and tried to read, sitting on the hearth, long into the night, until he fell asleep over his Book, and waked with his neck stiff and his legs cramped and the fire long since gone to glowing ashes.

He waked—with a sense of apprehension. Not the window, he thought. There had been no sound. There had been no breath of wind.

But something had changed while he slept, he thought. Something—perhaps in the gray space he dared not visit, what other men called dreams—had become much more dangerous and much more urgent tonight, and that change seemed to have a sharp edge to it, a point at which it suddenly became true. He did not know whether it was because of his mistake with Orien, or perhaps something Emuin had done in
his prayers, or something Ninévrisë herself might have done in the gray space, with him all unaware—

But he was increasingly afraid, and knew no one he dared tell. He thought of waking Emuin—and knew if he did, he might say and hear things that might make him more disturbed and more in danger of making a mistake than he was now. He sat there still in the dark with the embers aglow beside him and with the dry, blind parchment of Mauryl's Book in his hands, and he thought to himself with sudden realization: Orien wanted to harm Cefwyn.

It wasn't myself she wanted. It was Revenge.

I was very, very foolish to go there.

I
n the press of time, as regarded what the King himself willed, the King would gladly have drawn the barons aside for a few moments last evening before the ceremony, and held moderately sober council in the other chamber, considering the situation on the borders, and considering that moderate drinking might even assure a certain harmony in his diverse council—he had worked that ploy before.

But it would have intruded on the dignity of the betrothal, it would have slighted the Elwynim
and
the lady's feelings, for whom he was surprised to realize he did have a tender consideration in the matter.

So he was further along the rose-strewn path than he had thought he would ever come for a lady he would for state reasons be obliged to marry. He was amazed to realize that he had spent an unaccountable amount of time today already thinking about the Regent's daughter and far too little time committing to memory details of the riverside fortifications, which did the Regent's daughter no practical service, and far too little memorizing the other matters on which he
must
not make a slip of the tongue, and,
gods
help him, he kept thinking about her face, her voice, her eyes. Which were gray. Again, gods help him—the Quinalt would not like that, and the Quinalt thought it had a right to be spiritual guides to the queens of Ylesuin—which his affianced bride refused to be, and
that
news was going to cause a clatter the like of which his father's approval of Emuin as his tutor had never remotely touched.

But they would not daunt him, not for the principle of the thing (he had sought ways to diminish their influence) and not for his personal choices. He knew his foolish faults, that he was easily infatuated, that it lasted a time, and vanished
some unpredictable morning in total disillusion. He never wanted such affairs to end, but end they would, and yet, this morning after a commitment which should have been the most calculated and reasoned decision of his reign, he was appalled to find himself slipping closer and closer to that passionate mark with a woman who, first, was capable of launching war on his kingdom and who, second, had maddening and attractive personal qualities he had to admit his light-of-loves had never had.

He perceived himself in real danger, waking with Ninévrisë in his mind, and being entirely unable to recall the number of wagons he had already dispatched to the river—or to remember the third point he had to make in argument as, dressed in his regal best (except the crown) he walked with his guard and his household around him (except Idrys and Emuin) to meet Ninévrisë and her small household, with her sworn men, on
her
way down the stairs.

“My lady,” he said to her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. There were bows. There was pleasantness. Lord Tasien was glum as they continued down the stairs.

Gods, it was three months until the wedding—three months of hand-holding and chaste kisses on the cheek, such as he had had last night.

And he could not be thinking about a wedding. He had a ceremony to get through, a ceremony he had had to throw together, the next thing to a battlefield coronation on the day he was sending men to hold the Lenúalim against invaders—but he had seen increasingly even with Idrys that he could not continue as he was, not knowing clearly where the most loyal of his barons' loyalties were. As importantly, he had to swear
them
assurances of
his
behavior, in the shifting of all familiar points of reference, his father gone, the Elwynim marriage—and Tristen arriving.

What he had to do and say this morning, he was certain was going to provoke controversy. Men still in some points enemies to each other had politely reserved opinions behind
their teeth last night, knowing they were drunk. Today, politics would out, most coldly sober, equally as dangerous, and Lord Tasien had come here with strong reservations about any alliance. He was a relative on Ninévrisë's mother's side, married himself, and sonless, so he had had no designs on Ninévrisë—Lord Tasien was decidedly to win.

So was his own brother. And Sulriggan of Llymaryn. There
was
Sulriggan. And that damned priest of Efanor's.

But given that Umanon and Sovrag might have severe headache, and so might Lord Ysdan, by the quantities he had seen them imbibe, this morning council at least would render them more docile and less inclined to loud argument and debate. There were no more alarms to report to them: the daily messengers from the riverside had come in with no change and no sighting of the enemy—no better news, either, meaning no hope that lightning had struck Aséyneddin in his bed.

The council of barons and the ceremony he had determined necessary—he had arranged it with Annas and Emuin in indecent haste. The situation on the border afforded little time for true deliberation: such as they could do that involved the lords—they had done the night of his father's assassination; and to open the matter again to debate only gave the dissenters, this time with Sulriggan instead of the lord of Murandys, a chance to delay preparation he dared not delay. Granted rumors were cavorting behind every door in the Zeide—precisely because of that, matters had to be settled, today.

Ninévrisë and her entourage entered the great hall by the main doors. He heard the herald announce them. He did not intend to give the Elwynim lords time to stand and converse in that uneasy company. Idrys clearly had the same notion, joined him from inside, by the small side entry, and prompted him with, “When Your Majesty wishes,” while he was measuring the time that would carry Ninévrisë and her lords in decent order to their place at the fore of the great hall.

If he was lucky, he said to himself, he could deliver what he
had to say while the barons were still numb, have the swearing done, and have them packed off to their own tasks before they had quite waked up to the fact they were being told that war with Elwynor was imminent and inevitable.

“Her Grace of Amefel is
not
here,” Idrys said, as the doors were opening a second time.

Cefwyn drew a deep breath and walked in and down the aisle with Idrys at his back and his guard around him, in the echoing proclamation of His Majesty of Ylesuin. He walked to the first step, turned and acknowledged a head of state, not his bride, with a direct look, a hand outheld in invitation, and, “Your Most Honorable Grace.”

Ninévrisë was there in her own right, as she insisted—composed, not a hair out of place, clear-headed and gracious. It
was
infatuation, Cefwyn feared, bestowing a kiss on her hand which, with the knowledge he could not place it elsewhere, served only to distract him. He led her from her escort to the last step of the dais where only his guard and Idrys joined him besides.

“Brother,” he said, to Efanor, in the first row of standing nobles, and invited him to the same place, which his father had not done with his own brother, but he did.

Then, taking that one step higher, he turned and looked over the assembled barons and household.

Orien was, indeed, not there. One assumed that Lady Orien still claimed her lordship over Amefel, but as she had not answered the general summons, they need not have the protests when he barred her at the doors, as, damn it, he would do. She might have attended in good grace last night and possibly, by a gracious show, won a step toward a royal pardon. She might have done many things besides what Idrys had reported to him she had done, and his tolerance of Orien Aswydd and all her kin was balanced on a knife's edge this morning. He was very close to ordering her arrest before they left this hall.

Idrys had brought down the requisite, unmarked, maps. The servants had provided tables at the side of the hall,
adequate to spread them out for general view. Everything was in its place. Everything was in order.

“My lords,” he said, receiving the bleary-eyed silence and courteous attention of the company. “Lords of the Elwynim, your plan to fortify a camp at Emwy Bridge has our agreement, and as some of you are aware, I have already set men and wagons moving with supplies, counting that you can quickly overtake them on horseback, today, as I believe is my lady's wish.”

Ninévrisë inclined her head. “Just so, my lords.”

“Also,” Cefwyn said, “I am requesting those forces of the Dragon Guard which came to this town in my late father's company stay with me, as well as the Prince's Guard; I require that official messages now return to the heart of Ylesuin with orders for the movement of supply and the disposition of forces all along our northern border with Elwynor, as a precaution against an incursion taking an unexpected route. Also, far from least of my concerns, I am issuing orders for the arrangement of civil matters in the capital. The news of my royal father's assassination has undoubtedly reached the city by now, and I do not wish the court convening here at this time, for reasons I shall make clear. I have had documents drawn up which provide for the transfer of authority in the capital, and I am maintaining all my father's appointed councillors and officers pending a review of records.”

No one looked away from the King while he was speaking except the King's guard. He saw Efanor's face relatively complacent: a very lengthy missive had arrived at Efanor's door this morning—he had trod all around the edges of Efanor's religious sensibilities and superstitious fears, and wished him to stay at Henas'amef at least for two more months, until they could establish a sustained effort against Aséyneddin and secure the border. Leaving the capital without a head was one sort of risk. Leaving it to Efanor, with Efanor's weakness toward religious appeals, was another. Idrys had urged that such was the case, and while the realm would carry on very well and stably in the care of old Lord
Brysaulin, who though elderly and feeble was an iron-willed administrator, the realm would be in danger in the to-do surrounding a younger and obsessively religious prince unexpectedly turned up as caretaker of the realm, overturning Brysaulin's sensible decrees—which had never favored the Quinalt.

Disturb nothing that his father had set in place until it was time to take hold of it and shake it mightily, that was what he had determined: the roads to the capital were good enough—the winter would not greatly discommode them from travel to the capital once the wedding was a fact the Quinalt would have to live with, and by then—

By then he would have the border matter at least at a state he dared leave to Idrys and Cevulirn.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “the greatest change in my plans—precludes my waiting for the oath-taking of the northern barons before I pursue matters against this incursion on our frontiers. I had wished to have the winter to prepare. We are not to have that grace, I much fear, and while I had asked you, sirs, to remain here at disadvantage to your domestic affairs, I must now prepare differently. I took the crown on the field without ceremony. I have entered into agreements with the Regent of Elwynor. I have done many things—” For a moment he lost his thoughts and his breath at once. But the next breath brought the next line back. “—many things unanticipated. As King holding power from the gods I swear to them due observance and reverence, and am prepared to swear so. So I shall swear to you. So I ask you to give oaths of homage, first of all the provinces, and of fealty for yourselves as I am prepared to swear, without ceremony such as the capital could provide, so that when you part from this company of brothers and friends you will have the assurance of me, as I require of you.”

There were looks, shaking of heads in amazement, a little muttering from Sovrag's lieutenants, who, with war pressing on the border, and—which they did not necessarily know—with Ynefel increasingly perilous, could not get their boats
safely home. He could not permit the attempt. He had other use for those boats.

Emuin came, in his immaculate gray: his personal—Teranthine—priest, well-known to the court, now counselor to the King, bearing the battle-crown, and presenting it.

Then he could let go his careful grip on the things he had to say: then it was for Emuin to remember, and Emuin to deal with while he answered yes and I swear, and had the crown in his hand and in Emuin's.

The hall was very quiet. No one so much as coughed, the lords surely wondering by now why they had not been advised and where the trap might lie. There were the solemn bows and the oaths the Teranthine rite required. There was the setting of the crown on his head, the religiously valid coronation, which would hold valid against all claims until his death, and which settled any remote challenge to his kingship.

He called his brother first; Efanor knelt and swore the simple oath as he swore his to Efanor, confirming him as heir, in terms he had advised Efanor, against the getting of an heir of his own body. Then the officers of his household, the Marhanen custom; and third the barons, in the order their houses had sworn to his grandfather, first Pelumer, and then Cevulirn, in their true sequence. Third of ducal houses present was Umanon's, then Sulriggan's, and, far down the ordinary precedence of history, Sovrag, who, after swearing to defend the King and to be his friend, to preserve the life, the person and the honor of his sovereign, and receiving the customary vow of his sovereign to defend his life, his person, and his honor, asked if he could add the decks of his boats to his domains.

He could all but see Duke Umanon, with a port Sovrag used, gathering wind for a storm of protest: he knew the dispute on which the old pirate based his request, and the King did
not
grant it. “No,” he said pleasantly, and gave Sovrag his hand to kiss.

“Don't hurt to try,” Sovrag said.

“I need a brave man, riverlord. I hold you are that.”

“Then we talk?” Sovrag asked.

“Swear and give me your hands, riverlord. I'll repair your boats. Or build you new ones. And hold you dear as a friend.”

Sovrag gave him a look as sober as any he had had of Sovrag. He might have touched the man. “Aye,” Sovrag said in a husky voice, “aye, Majesty.” And kissed his hand with a grip fit to break it.