Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03 (26 page)

Every eye turned to Ninévrisë, quick as a lightning stroke, and
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

they were all trapped, looking at one another, exposed and
naked, on a point of common dismay.

Then Ninévrisë calmly snipped a thread. “What a nice notion,”

she said blithely, feigning ignorance. “She’s been so unhappy.

Murandys is a rocky place, is it not? And Panys is full of forests.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Brusanne said, blushing deep red.

“I look forward to her joining us here,” Ninévrisë said. “She’s
very well read, so I hear.”

“I think she’s sleeping late,” said the shameless widow of
Bonden-on-Wyk, and there was a general stir.

“Madiden!” said the Lady Curalle, thoroughly Guelen, and
staunchly virtuous.

“Well, so she may be,” said the widow. “She’ll be wed, never a
doubt. That one’s set at marriage and escaping her uncle’s hand,
and would not I? Would not you? Small wonder.”

“Well, I’d dance with Murandys himself!” said Byssalys with a
wicked look. “Jewels can excuse every fault else, oh, and that
man has treasury.”

“His last wife had a lovely funeral,” said the irrepressible widow
Madiden.

Perhaps another lady of highest rank might have stilled the
unseemly gossip, but Ninévrisë listened, and gathered
knowledge, of Murandys, of Panys. It was a court far more
tolerable, and more informative, with Lady Artisane in retreat. It
informed her, as she listened, that Murandys was indispensable
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

to Cefwyn’s plans, and yet was not a man worth leaning on or
relying on. Here was a man whose treatment of three wives was
in question, whose management of his tenants was notorious, and
she was distressed that Cefwyn tolerated this man… habit, and
his father’s policies, all that aside: if she were king of Ylesuin,
she would not tolerate him.

But events had not made her a reigning monarch, nor even a
reigning queen, and she could not claim that Elwynim nobility
was in any regard better. A third of the lords of Elwynor had
rejected her claim as a daughter to succeed her sonless father,
Caswyddian and Aseyneddin had tried to marry her by force of
arms, and if not all of the lords of Elwynor had rebelled, and if a
brave handful had died in her defense and a brave handful more
still held Ilefínian against Tasmôrden, still she could not say that
Murandys or even Ryssand was a worse lord. She would have to
take the Regent’s throne by blood and iron, with Guelen troops.

It would not come to her on a waft of love and tossed roses.

Her needle pricked her finger and a spot of blood welled up. She
evaded the bleached linen, but it stained the thread, and she
sucked the finger clean and snipped the spoiled thread, tasting
copper of blood in her mouth as she looked up to an arrival in
the doorway.

Luriel had indeed come to her small court, and made a deep and
formal curtsy.

“Your Grace,” said Luriel.

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

“Lady.” She impulsively extended the wounded hand with the
damp finger, and Luriel came to take it and to bow again in a
rustle of fashionable petticoats, a cushioning flower of velvet and
wool blossoming about her. Ninévrisë smiled on purpose when
Luriel lifted her gaze to meet hers; and, reminiscent of the night
of the fox-hued gown, she saw a strong-chinned countenance
with brows like soaring wings, eyes full of cautious wit and
defense and hope.

“Welcome,” she said, not altogether a matter of duty to Cefwyn:
in some part, in a dearth of sharp wits in her small gathering, she
indeed held hope of this woman Cefwyn had once thought of
marrying. “Have you brought your stitching? Make room, make
room for the lady, all of you.”

It was in immaculate consideration of precedence, who moved
aside and who did not, and Luriel found a stool between Bonden-on-Wyk and Brusanne of Panys, who cast her curious,
shortsighted looks, and above Dame Margolis, a knight’s lady,
common as the earth and as generous.

“And how was the journey?” Bonden-on-Wyk wanted to know,
and Luriel, delving into a fashionable little sewing basket, gave
the widow a bland, curious look.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Luriel said. “As any return must be. I
have no dissatisfactions… not a one.”

Did she not? Brusanne was not quick as some, but counting the
rumors of last night, she blushed rosy pink.

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

Oh, indeed, Luriel was no dullard, no starched Quinalt virgin.

This was the girl who would very gladly have been queen, and
who was far from blind to the substance and the claim in her
remarks.

“How fine that a thaw preceded your arrival,” Ninévrisë
returned the shot. “And how fortunate.”

Their glances crossed like rapiers, and her husband’s former
mistress engaged with a look sober as a salute.

“I found it so.”

“Confusion and bad weather to my enemies one and all, and kind
winds to my friends that come to this court: is that linen you
have? What a lovely shade! Let me see it.”

Luriel brought the frame close to her, and for a moment they
were very close. “Your Grace is very kind.”

“To my friends. I value loyalty very greatly.”

The others had fallen silent, listening to the passage between
them, and Bonden-on-Wyk said, “A winter wedding, will it be?”

“Madiden!” said Olwydesse.

“Well, will it?” Bonden-on-Wyk asked, and Luriel gave a small,
fierce smile.

“Ah, gossip never waits an hour in this room, does it?”

“Well?”

“He’s handsome,” Luriel said, gathering her frame and setting it
toward the light, “and has very fine prospects.”

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

She did not say, in this room, what those prospects were.

Ninévrisë saw the glances and the lips nipped shut just in time,
the widow Madiden’s head tilted like a wise carrion crow’s
above a likely morsel.

Oh, Cefwyn, Ninévrisë thought, feeling still the prick of the fine
steel. Lucky escaped, lucky this one’s not with child.

Jealous? No, not of such a narrow escape: he knows, he well
knows this lady. Cold steel for a bed-mate, this one: not one ever
to trust.

Nor to envy… why should I ever envy Luriel? She had her
moment and lost it, and is wise enough to take charity from me,
while it profits. I would I could like her, but she is only wiser
than Artisane.

Give me my kingdom, give me land across the river from
Murandys, and we’ll see whose fisheries supply the court; give
me an army at my beck and call and see if Ryssand’s daughter
brings another lying accusation of me.

Needles in and needles out, gold flowers and green leaves on the
linen while winter frosts the glass and the heavens glow white
with fire. Winter weddings and springtime war.

Give me the soil of my land underfoot, and let my husband see
he’s married no fool. Meanwhile I smile on his mistress and let
the vixens in my hall wonder for a season: they see my husband’s
foreign wife, but not yet my father’s daughter.

My father, sealed in stone in Althalen’s ruined walls, my father,
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

who wards the seat of kings from strayed Amefin sheep and
attends shepherds in their wanderings… father who saved me
from marriages to cowards and to his dying hour helped me to
the husband I have. Wise father, brave father, see me sit and
stitch so patiently, making wishes with every thread. Luriel has
until spring to win my friendship: I will allow her that fair trial.

Father, who had the Sihhë blood and passed it down to me, bind
wishes in the threads that make meadow flowers in this cold
white day. Bespell me the bright blue of the Lines you keep, the
palace you ward, all Lines and light. I do not forget. How could I
forget?

Father, Uleman, Regent for all these years, I love him. I do love.

I forgive him all the past, all his grandfather’s works and all his
father’s: I love, and forgiving is natural for one who loves. I
make him these silly flowers, I stitch the meadows of the spring
when we will go to war, he and I, and when I pray the people
believe in me. I stitch the blue Lines for a border, your palace of
light, dear Father.

They give me this silly, sotted priest, Father, because the Quinalt
fears my skirts, have you heard this foolishness, where you lie?

Or has a rumor of it gotten to you? You said I had the Gift, in
small part. If I have it, in small part, however, small, I sew my
wishes into this linen cloth, smiling at my husband’s mistress,
and thinking we must be allies, we two, against the folly
abundant in this room.

I sew wishes for an early spring. And for your easy rest, and for
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

the rest of the dead at Ilefínian, for there will be many, many
dead. Give Tasmôrden no peace and the faithful dead at least the
hope of rescue.

I sew wishes that Tristen be well, my husband’s best ally, and the
one he dares not regard. He would cross the river and my
husband forbids it, all for Murandys, and Ryssand, who threaten
him: when I am Regent in Elwynor, I will remember all of this
against them.

The sun passed the edge of the glass, just, and light grew less
intense.

“I don’t like this green,” said Bonden-on-Wyk. “I think a
brighter shade.”

“Too bright,” said Panys’ daughter, who was a creature of pale
shades about her dress, always faded.

“Not too bright,” said Luriel. “Add a darker for contrast. That
other green. There’s a match. —What do you think, Your
Grace?”

The girl who had worn vixen colors to reconcile with the king
asked her opinion.

“Oh, I think you’re quite right,” Ninévrisë said, willing to be an
ally. Give her a run at the leash, and see where she went,
Ninévrisë thought, and consciously smiled. “I approve.”

“Well, well,” said Bonden-on-Wyk, peering at the combination of
greens. “Who’d have thought those two would go together? ”

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

BOOK TWO

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

Chapter 1

«
^
»

Two lords of Ylesuin rode out under a sky filled with scattered clouds, a heaven pasturing fat, misdirected sheep. It portended fair if fickle weather as they went out the gates of Henas’amef, two lords with a mingled guard of Ivanim and Guelenfolk… a mixed guard, and a startled flock of pigeons, winging out and out toward the still-sleepy west.

Hold court, Emuin had said, and that Tristen had done, if hastily.

Take account, Emuin had said, and that accounting, given Cevulirn’s brief but essential personal presence, had seemed the most pressing thing.

Other matters were already attended: the garrison flag flew atop the hill they had left, no longer under the same captain, but firmly in the hand of Uwen Lewen’s-son, who had some distress at being left behind this morning, but there he was.

“I ain’t troubled for you, m’lord,” Uwen had said last night, “as ye manages things right well when they come to ye, but ye do have this way o’ findin’ the trouble in a place. An’ pokin’ about the north, lad—are ye sure we’re ready for’t?”

Tristen had laughed, as Uwen could make him laugh even considering such a dire possibility. But he thought they were Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03

indeed ready. It was the river he proposed to visit, and Captain Anwyll, and his intention was not to provoke Tasmôrden.

“I fear worse if we leave Bryn to its own devices even another day,“ he had said to Uwen this morning, just at the top of the hill, when they were setting out, ”and you’ve Drumman, and Azant to advise you, so you should do very well even if the king’s officers come visiting. Never fear.”

“It’s the Elwynim come visitin’ concerns me,” Uwen said. And standing very near him, face-to-face before he set his foot in the stirrup: “Ye take care, lad. Ye take great care.”

“We will,” Tristen had assured him, and they had parted with an embrace… no man else would he have trusted so much, not with the chance that the flight of the officers to Guelessar might rouse some inquiry. The better men of the Guelen Guard had come into line once Uwen had walked in with fire in his eye and set the garrison barracks in order, and indeed, some rode with him now.

Uwen would shake the Guelen Guard until order fell out: he might have evaded command all this time, but he had waded into the matter with a clear notion of what he expected, as he said, from otherwise good soldiers, and he had the loyalty of the remaining sergeants: that was of great importance.

Accordingly Tristen had far less worry leaving the town than when the former captain had commanded all the armed might in his capital, and them a foreign, hated presence. He had no doubt his letter would reach Idrys, either, in the good sergeant’s hands… and the Lord Commander, once warned, was completely Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03