Fortress of Eagles

He endured his own wedding fittings in a hall similarly devoted to the groom’s garments, a hall piled with red and gold… Marhanen colors, more modest heaps, however, although he was the king. He was astounded by this volume of fabric, grown by half again, he swore, since his visit two days ago. Could so much cloth possibly be involved in a few gowns for one slender woman? He had thought he was expert in ladies’ accoutrements… but find his bride on their wedding night, in such an array?

Even finding his bride in this room proved no straightforward task, amid heaps and bales of velvet, destined for, one hoped, various other ladies of the court as well as his bride.

Amid all the ladies and maids and their stitching frames set in the advantageous light from the windows, one maid, with a deep curtsy, retrieved the damaged pearl, and another, with a deeper curtsy, snatched an imperiled length of satin fabric from his path. In what became a rapid sweep of curtsies among the women discovering his presence, he passed like a gale through a flower garden… and by sheerest chance the diminishing of ladies standing upright directed his eye to the group under the farthest of the three tall windows.

His bride, the Lady Regent of Elwynor, stood on a bench, curiously draped in lengths of blue cloth, with a knot of ladies about her.

Intriguing, he thought as he approached in that breaking wave of ladies rising and curtsying. It proved difficult to hold folds in unsewn velvet and curtsy at once, and the ladies’ efforts all went for naught as Lady Ninévrisë shed the velvet and descended into the sea of ladies’ wide, fashionable skirts.

Among so many witnesses she kissed him chastely on the side of the mouth.

“I murdered a pearl,” he said between two formal kisses. “Surrogate for my Lord Chancellor.” This last in a low voice as he led her off by the blue velvet mountains next the windows. “This man.” The precise cause of his anger, the inane and constant repetition of the phrase your late father found it good policy… followed by what had been done for the last twelve years, a recitation undaunted by the firm statement of his own will to change that policy… all of that was impossible to articulate in this listening hall of daughters and sisters of great lords—northern lords at that, all of whom were involved in this contest of wills between the king and his late father’s court. “This man.” He was not yet up to coherent exposition.

“What has he done?” Ninévrise asked.

“I asked for the tally of village levies. It was not my father’s policyto deal with such matters himself. Lord Brysaulin accordingly sent the tally to the lord of Murandys and notto my Master of Accounts, as I instructed. But my lord fatheralways had it go to Murandys. Accordingly the lords, now possessed of the information I had wished to present, are delaying me, fearing all this presages a new tax, and are already resolved, Murandys to the fore, to oppose any such collection. This is beyond incompetency. It verges on treason!”

“I should hardly think that there was any ill intent.”

“Oh, I have no doubt the river simply flowed as it was accustomed to flow, in all its old cha

He was not speaking to some child… but to the Lady Regent of Elwynor across the river, a sovereign in her own right. And against a wall of obstinate, self-interested Guelen opposition to his will, the Lady Regent of Elwynor was a calm, sweet, sure, and unassailable voice on his side. “He will simply have to obtain the names and weapons and the rest of it, my lord, and that will correct the impression he might have given.”

“The snow will fall and we’ll be holding muster in blizzards! Pray, is that a man, sir, or a snowdrift?”

“There is still time, adequate at least to amend the list.”

“And with a list I wanted done with noextraordinary fuss! Secrecy was my aim. Quiet proceedings. —Come with me. We’ll flee to Marisal, break a bowl together and set ourselves up as simple farmers.”

The Lady Regent must not, by treaty, attempt to advise him in the monarchy of Ylesuin: the marriage contract had stipulated likewise that he would not intervene in Elwynor.

It was a noble notion of dual reigns over two allied realms, give or take the inconvenient fact that her capital across the river was threatened by rebels. But besides all other reasons, they loved each other… at least… they were hoping to love one another: at this early date they were merely, hopelessly, smitten.

To all of this the maids and ladies-in-waiting demurely listened, so solemn, so seemingly occupied with their stitching; and if their being within earshot served him and her at all well, the ladies would gossip back to their brothers and fathers that the king had nointention of a tax, that Lord Brysaulin had bungled the accounts, that it was indeed wagons and village musters at issue.

And if they were uncommonly efficient at their talebearing, why, the king and his intended might even enjoy their harvesttide ale without conspiracy, or at least with the buzzing of some entirely new false and utterly inane rumor, of a muster and general war by snowfall, for instance.

Meanwhile the gray eyes that looked back at him danced with complete comprehension, thank the gods, a support that propped up his sanity and stayed the true Marhanen temper—not the best trait he had from his sire and grandsire. The mouth he longed to kiss was touched with astringent humor she would by no means launch here, either, in the hearing of the selfsame barons’ daughters: oh, they were both on their best behavior. And let the barons’ daughters report the Regent had been discreet and seemly. Let them report Her Grace had but meekly counseled the king to be reasonable with his barons and watch her grow in their esteem—a proper, seemly woman seeking no authority over Guelen women and their secret hierarchies, oh, aye, let them all, each and individually think so. But believe, too, in their bitter jealousy. He caught the look of Ryssand’s daughter Artisane above her stitching frame, and saw the fox-faced chit color and duck her chin.