Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03 (50 page)

birds, and the use to which he had put Althalen’s ruins.

Tasmôrden thought to claim back or kill those who had fled his

brutal seizure of their land; and by that banner Tasmôrden

thought to claim not merely the Regency but the High

Kingship, the office the Sihhë-lords had last held and which

Cefwyn himself did not aspire to hold.

And did he fly it defiantly above the devastation of Her Grace’s

capital and the murder of its citizens?

“Go to bed,” he said to Uwen. “Forgive me the commotion.”

“Forgive you, m’lord, when I persuade ye to sleep an’ the

whole night turns on its ear? If something’s amiss out there, it

certainly ain’t your doin’.”

“Nor mine. I know now I didn’t draw the lightning stroke on

the Quinalt roof. And Cefwyn had to send me here. I had to

come. The Quinalt father has gone where he has to go, and

Aeself and his company have all come where they have to be.

Lord of Althalen and Ynefel: that’s what I am.”

“Spooky to think of, m’lord, an’ odd as it is.”

“The truth,” he said, with the sudden conviction that all the

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

world would have bent itself to achieve that one thing. He could

not resist it any more than he could have resisted Mauryl’s

summoning.

Mauryl’s handiwork? he asked himself. Had it always been? Or

was it yet?

“Will ye go to bed?” Uwen asked meekly. “Or dare ye? If ye

wish’t, I’ll watch.”

It was a draw, his concern, Uwen’s. And after such debate, and

thinking on it, he found himself wearier than he had thought,

and after many late nights, at last very inclined to sleep, as if he

had waited for this event, and now it had happened, he could let

go.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I will.”

“Ye’re sure.”

“I am sure. Good night to you. A peaceful night.”

“An’ to you, m’lord.” Uwen remained dubious. He wished

Uwen a peaceful night, wished it with wizardly force, so that he

hoped Uwen would sleep soundly and take no chances with

such things as wandered the night.

He himself went back to bed—Orien’s bed, Heryn’s bed, he

could never forget it, and the dragons loomed above him with

claws outstretched and brazen wings spread.

Dreaming of Owl was better than some dreams, and better than

the lack of them, for he had no imagination of the time to come,

such as he understood Men had: it was his misfortune to see

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

only time present and the recollections of his brief year thus

far, but any notion of where he was going, any imagination of

the year after this still appeared to him in conjectures and

fragments, and he had no notion how much Men knew of their

life to come.

An unwritten slate, Mauryl had called him once; and in some

regards that was still so, and truths were still finding space in

the blank ground.

Perilous to write on, Mauryl had said that of him, too, but many

people had written their truths in his heart: Mauryl, Emuin,

Cefwyn… Uwen, even, and Tassand, and Lusin and the rest.

Crissand. Orien Aswydd, in her way. And Ninévrisë. It was why

he gathered up Aman and Nedras, the gate-guards, and young

Paisi, whose wizardry was a candleflame in a strong gale, and

apt to go out if he ventured away from safe walls, or flare up in

wizardous fire if he someday touched the right substance.

There was Cook, who had fed him, Haman, who had provided

him an example of honest work and good management… all

these men and women who had given their skills to him, now he

ruled, and managed, and attempted to manage wisely and

honestly.

He had stood on a hill in Guelessar not so long ago wondering

what it would be to remember far back in years he did not have;

and what it would be like to imagine forward from the moment

of his standing on that hill.

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

He could not have imagined this, or ever foreseen that he

would return here.

He still could not imagine with complete confidence that he

would see the spring, or that the Zeide and Henas’amef would

not swallow him down in its long memories.

Had not Emuin said that the Midwinter was the hinge of the

year, when all things done turned again and the year began to

fold back on itself? Then, if ever, did not magic have its

moment, when all things swung into a new path and all things

were possible?

And in mid-spring, his year of life would be complete. And

would he have another? Despite Emuin’s assurances, it was

never promised him. Mauryl had called him into the world in

spring and by summer he had done all that Mauryl purposed…

had he not?

Had he not? Or was it still shaping itself, and moving through

the world?

The gray space roiled gently with Emuin’s contemplation of

that question, and of him.

But Emuin said not a word to him of why all the wards of the

town had flared at once.

—«
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Interlude

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

—«
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Stitch and stitch, pearls and more mounds of blue and white…

since Murandys’ colors, blue, the Quinalt sigil on a white field,

bend or, were very like those of Ninévrisë’s own house of

Syrillas. None of the stitchers, inching their way pearl by pearl

across plains and hills of satin, could miss the irony in that

coincidence.

Least of all did Ninévrisë miss it. She dreamed at times of the

more pleasant hours of her own preparation, and the candlelit

glow of her wedding in the great, echoing Quinalt shrine.

Luriel of Murandys, applying cordings to a satin sleeve,

maintained her delicate posture between affront to her former

betrothed’s wife and praise of the lordly bargain she had in her

current betrothed… wise, since the gentleman’s sister,

Brusanne of Panys, was seated close by her, another and prior

member of their small society. Luriel professed herself utterly

charmed by Rusyn of Panys… had never, in fact, considered

him as a suitor, but now that he put himself forward, why, he

was fine and handsome and witty, he had become quite the

young man, and she thought she might be falling in love… an

extravagance of charity, perhaps, but a brave effort.

The peaceful meetings would have been intolerable if Luriel

were a fool, but she was not, thank the gods.

Nor did Ninévrisë intend to be one. If jealousy reared itself in

her heart it was not because Cefwyn had ever loved this lady—

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in fact she was convinced that Cefwyn had never cared for

Luriel at all beyond the chivalry he had for all ladies who had

ever drawn his eye. The marriage he had almost made with

Luriel had been an affair of state, the same necessity Efanor

now faced—and if Ninévrisë was jealous, it was jealousy that

this bride of a minor noble, while she drew the inevitable darts

of Bonden-on-Wyk, seemed so in command of the court … her

court. That was a situation she had not foreseen, and one

which she meant to remedy, but had not yet discovered how.

Stitch and stitch, and tongues flew rapid as the silver needles,

la! the sins of Artisane, the ambitions of Artisane, the onetime

leader of the malice in the court, were now under intimate

examination. The ladies smiled to Luriel’s face, gossiped absent

Artisane to her least flaw of taste and wit, and the barbs sped.

And believe that Artisane was the only subject of their talk? No.

Ninévrisë was sure there were other topics… the only pillar of

sober sense in the women’s court being Dame Margolis, the

armorer’s lady, who would say the truth, and the honest truth,

and tolerate none of the more wicked gossip.

Of course, it meant when Margolis was in attendance one

learned less, too… and by now the rumor of a royal message to

Ryssand had broken in various houses, with a clamor that was

worth hearing… if not for Margolis’ presence. All the court

was sure this message meant negotiation and reconciliation

with the king.

And that meant all alliances, some newly formed and

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unprecedented, were now to reconsider.

Might Ryssand return, and in some chastened new connection

to the throne? Might Ryssand have found a means to come

back intact, and, la! what might Artisane do, having thus

affronted the Royal Consort? Would there be redemption? A

nunnery, perhaps? There were shudders at that, for none of

these young women fancied the contemplative life, bereft of

festivals and dancing … Quinalt that they were, there was not a

one who could say what she thought by reason of her

philosophy, only by rote learning of what she must avoid.

Curious, Ninévrisë thought, making small, neat stitches on her

rival’s hem. Curious that the soul and sense of all these Quinalt

maidens’ morality was not to be seen to love. La! it might be

witchcraft that the king had given his bride an acorn as

countryfolk did, and witchcraft and wizardry were what the

Bryaltines did, oh, and did anyone mark how the Bryalt father

ran his fingers round the rim of his wine cup at the feast?

Her maid had told her that yesterday, since the ladies had not

remarked the maid’s presence before they began to talk. In

anyone else that gesture with the cup was insignificant: but in

Father Benwyn’s case, oh, certainly a strange Bryalt practice,

warding his cup from poisons, and, la! who would poison the

Bryalt father, who truly was an inoffensive sort… though a

heretic, of course. Or nearly so.

So her maid, Fiselle, a girl of good sense, had reported to her.

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

So the days drew on, pearl by pearl, stitch by stitch. She smiled

at Luriel every day, and saw troops and bridges to Elwynor.

Every night was love, unthought and measureless, a warmth of

candlelight and a lover’s passionate embrace. They were mad

things, she and Cefwyn. They burrowed beneath blankets and

invented their own kingdom to explore. Then everything was

wonderful.

But every sun came up on the world and measured it with a

cold, wintry eye. She had headaches, and craved raspberries,

which could not be had, and did not confess the desire, but

measured herself in her mirror and wondered, desperately, to

what wild chance of fate she had committed herself.

Every day her people died and still the needles flew, seeding

pearls and schemes in a world of virgins and matrons. Efanor

courted Artisane, Cefwyn redeemed Murandys, and rebuilt the

walls of his kingdom.