Fortress of Eagles

Tempting, though, the very thought of Murandys’ agonized hope… and consternation.

“I ca

“Then you must be the king,” Idrys said with brutal truth.

“That I must.”

“Then make them love you or make them fear you. If you are king, you ca

“Love!”

“Unlikely as it might be.”

“They lovetheir own advantage, master crow.”

“And love their wives and sons and daughters, love their comforts, their—”

“Their horses, their hounds and hawks and mistresses, but I can hardly be a horse or a hound, can I, master crow?”

“Nor hawk, nor mistress to Ryssand or these zealots. No more can His Holiness. To have these zealots in the ascendant would be as much a calamity for His Holiness as for you. But point it out to him and you may have his assistance with Corswyndam now that the ledge above his steps is less trafficked. You have accommodated him. Now charge him the fee.”

He laughed, not a pleasant laugh, but pained and boding ill for Ryssand. And thanked the gods Idrys still confronted him when he needed a contrary, disagreeable voice.

“Tristen having left,” Cefwyn said. “Who would have thought it would make such a silence in the town?”

“Why, no gossip, no rumors, no whisper,” Idrys said, hands tucked comfortably behind him as the gray sunlight fell coldly on them both. “The town is still amazed to silence, considering his departure.”

“Would it had been Murandys.”

“The old dog’s whelp hunts no better than the sire, my lord king, or I might suggest a horse might startle this very afternoon with fatal result.”

A fortunate accident. But young Brugan would then succeed Corswyndam to the duchy of Ryssand, and Brugan was a greedy fool.

Maybe, again, and on the other hand, a fool was better, to rule troublesome Ryssand.

He pondered all its advantages, and pondered, too, the folly of a weak king.

“I am not yet my grandfather,” he said with some resolve. And added, in brutal honesty. “And the son being worse than Corswyndam, a young and intemperate fool as well as ambitious, he saves my virtue. I wouldn’t stick at removing the father, if it weren’t for needing Corswyndam’s experience at the river next spring. Brugan would have his contingent slaughtered to a man in the first hour. Gods, gods! I fear fools!”

“So will you send for Luriel?”

Idrys’ jokes were frequently grim. And provoked him to short, brittle laughter. “Oh, aye. With trumpets.”

“My lord king has a vast population of fools to draw on. ”

“She is less a fool than her uncle. She was young, she was too confident, too ambitious by half. She will not be queen. But she will not lack for suitors, or for power. Yes, send for her. By royal command. I warnedMurandys, and now he has the result of it.”

“Shall I go down and ask him for the petition, saying I will send it to the clerks to read? That might take a number of days.”

“No! Say I am taken with headache and will retire. I have given no orders, nor permitted my chamberlain nor any officer to accept anything in my name.”

“That will serve for today. There is tomorrow. And I am curious about the content.”

“Tomorrow I see my tailor. I must see my tailor. I find the coat too snug. It’s a calamity. And the day after… I’ll think of it tomorrow. Damn them!” He found his spirits entirely fallen. He imagined all ma

But then the gossips would be taking omens by that, declaring the king was ill, joyfully arranging the succession.

It was one more round, one more attempt to delay the wedding, this time with priests and subclauses.

“Go bid Murandys and the young fool wait for the audience day. I have a headache and a meeting with my tailor. Can a bridegroom be expected to think of revenues? Suggest so, at least. —Suggest to Panys I may seek a match for his eligible son. A royal whim.”

“Your Majesty,” Idrys said, and left with satisfaction evident.

It was done. They were besieged, but the walls held firm. And with Sulriggan doubtless to arrive and with Idrys bound to send letters to Murandys’ niece, one might trust intervention might precede the snows… trifling snows, Cefwyn judged, looking out the window he avoided, not enough to prevent Sulriggan reaching the trough of money and power, not enough to prevent Lady Luriel from reaching court… oh, the quandary the lady would be in: an invitation, and last year’s wardrobe.

Was it only last year that he had danced with Luriel?

The wax had poured thickly onto the little scroll and it was bound about with enough ribbon for a state document. He took his dagger to it, and scattered the rim of the map table with shattered sealing wax and bits of ribbon. It was wrapped about with a vengeance, no simple slitting of strings, Ninévrisë’s intent to necessitate destruction no spy could repair.

I love you, it began, as all her messages began. Then:

“His Highness,” a page said, a high, childish voice. “And the duke of Ivanor.”

Efanor, with Cevulirn?

There was consternation in the hall. Even the prince did not burst through into the king’s map room uninvited, and Efanor and Cevulirn trailed an outcry of pages.

Cefwyn waved a hand, permitted the intrusion, and the pages stopped.

Efanor shut the door in their faces, faced him, with Cevulirn, grim-faced.

“They have a petition against Her Grace.”

“Quinalt rights in Elwynor. Idrys informed me so.”

Efanor paused for two breaths, and his shoulders fell. “But did Idrys say what’s notin the petition?”

“What is notin the petition?”

Efanor caught a breath and failed to say.

“Infidelity,” Cevulirn said quietly.

“Cleisynde,” Efanor said. “Cevulirn had a message from Prichwarrin’s niece. They have a witness, and they will make the charge public.”

Efanor might have said more. He failed to hear it for the moment, turned away and remembered the letter in his hands.

Artisane does not scruple to lie. Henceforth she is my enemy. I am beset and alone, and trust not even the page who brings you this message, except Dame Margolis says he is an honest boy. I fear what may reach you. Be assured of my love.

“Damn them all!” He thrust the message into his belt and strode for the door.

“Brother!” Efanor said, attempting to block the door, to no avail. He ripped it open.

“A

Pages ran.

“Your Majesty,” Cevulirn said, a low voice he regarded of past experience. “The proof rests with Ryssand’s daughter Artisane, who is prepared to swear. ”

Idrys failed to appear. A

“The page.”

“Her Grace’s page?”

“The very.”

“Has left, my lord king, frightened out of his wits, to look at him. Was there a reply to be sent, after all? Shall a boy carry it?”

“No! Is Murandys still in the lower hall?”

“I’ve no idea, Your Majesty, but I’ll inquire.”

“If he’s left, find him! If he’s not left, I’llfind him! This will notstand! Gods blast that fox-faced girl!”

“Cefwyn! ” Efanor said. “Temper will not serve, here! ”

“It served our grandfather, and it will serve me!” He was out the door, and they followed, both. He walked through a startled scatter of pages and servants, past the tall windows, gathered on his coat and swept up the full complement of guards as he left, his, Efanor’s, and Cevulirn’s two men.

No furtive, ill-reported visitation, this, but a thumping, rattling collection of men and weapons as the king went downstairs. Guards at the stairs came to attention. The hall showed vacant.