Fortress of Owls

“Cuthan, my lord king.” Idrys reluctantly settled his black-armored body onto a frail, brocaded chair. “The priest is a straightforward matter. Lord Cuthan, I fear, is not.”

“Cuthan.”

“Your Majesty may remember him… the one Tristen exiled, that vain old scoundrel…”

“Out on it! I know who Cuthan is and where he was and where his cursed ancestors slept, intheir own beds and out! I know Tristen exiled him, and I know he’s in Elwynor.”

“He is not in Elwynor, my lord king.”

“Where, then? DareI guess?”

“Ryssand?”

“Damn.”

“Ryssand is honest in one thing,” Idrys said, “that he bears a father’s grief for a son and heir. That, marriage with His Highness or no, he will never relinquish… not greed, not ambition, not the promise that his line might weave itself into the Marhanens can ever erase the matter of his son.”

“His one virtue and more inconvenient than his sins. Now he has Cuthan. And Parsynan. What a merry court!”

“I’ve not told His Highness yet. What I wonder is how he passed through all of Elwynor and its weather and all the way to Ryssand.”

“A rowboat. We’re not speaking of a regiment.”

“Yet my lord king knows the man is old, in no robust health. How did he bear the snow, the ice, the pillaging army, if nothing else? A very hardy man, or a very lucky, if he did that alone.”

“Damn. Twice damn. Tasmôrden!”

“Exactly so. I fear Cuthan may be very close to Tasmôrden. He may bear a message, or gather one.”

All of a sudden the depth of Idrys’ knowledge suggested a fearsomely deep involvement in Ryssand, volatile as it was, dangerous as the spying was—and fruitful as it proved.

“How did you learn this?”

“Efanor’s messenger.”

“ Efanor’smessenger. Crow, it’s my brother’s name, his reputation… his safety, for that matter—”

Idrys, rarely abashed, looked at him with a half-veiled effrontery, defense in every line. “Your Majesty, you once asked whom I served, your father, or you. And where there was a choice of loyalties, your father is in his tomb, and I have only onelord, as does His Highness.”

“So you insinuated a spy into Ryssand, a spy wearing my brother’s colors.”

“Briefly.”

“Do you know the furor if he were found? Efanor is honorable to a fault!”

“Very much to a fault. My lord king, but some risks are worth taking, and spies within Ryssand are hard come by.”

“Wearing my brother’s crest, good loving gods… I’d like to know where else you have them.— No! Don’t tell me! I’ve become worse at lying than Tristen is.”

“I fear you were never good at it. It’s Tristenwho’s become adept in the art.”

He was not certain for a moment it was no jest. But Idrys’ expression advised him the matter was serious.

“You don’t fault him,” Cefwyn said. There seemed a fist still clenched about his heart. “You don’t tell me he’s deceived me. This is my friend, damn you! You’ve spoken against him before, and you’ve been wrong.”

Idrys gave a rare and rueful laugh. “Lord Tristen is extremely ca

“And what do your spies learn, beyond his sins at Althalen and his wall-building?”

“His fortification of the province? His permissions to the witches to flourish? His countenancing of Sihhë emblems, spells and charms openly displayed in the market?” Idrys held up fingers and ticked off the points, one by one. “His banishment of Guelen Guard, his appropriation of Your Majesty’s carts and drivers, his holding of Parsynan’s goods in consequence—” Idrys began the tally on the left hand. “His alienation of the Amefin patriarch, his banishment of an Amefin earl old as the hills in his title…”

“All these things he confesses. Justify your spies, master crow. I defy you to report to me one thingTristen hasn’t freely owned.”

“He’s holding winterfeast and invited all the lords of the south to come and camp under arms, for, one suspects, some use besides a winter hunt. The preparation is for a host as many as took the field at Lewenbrook.”

He forgot to breathe.

It was, on the other hand, exactly the sort of feckless doing he could always expect of Tristen—and it was not aimed at him. There was nothing of Ryssand’s poison in what Tristen did. Rather it was Tristen’s doing what his king could not do… and so secretly it had taken Idrys this long to know it.

“He’s doing what I did this summer. He’s gathering his allies about him, people he well likes… men who like him. He’s reknitting the damned southern alliance, is what he’s doing… and gods save him for the effort! What I can’t, he does, and I wish him success. I wish him every success.”

“But it will provoke just a small bit of comment among the northern barons, will it not? He’s told Anwyll prepare a landing for boats bearing grain. An immense amount of grain, out of Casmyndan.”

“He’s importing grain? I had to show him the use of a pe

“Well, and made him lord of Amefel, my lord king, which I do recall counseling you was a—”

“You agreed it was a good idea.”

“I agreed he would be a most uncommon lord of Amefel, and perhaps it was a safe direction for him, considering the Elwynim prophecy.”

“Damn the Elwynim prophecy! If he wants to be king in Amefel, between the two of us—” He drew a deep breath, his heart still laboring from the realization of new complications in all his plans. “Between the two of us and the walls, master crow, if he would beHigh King at Althalen and rule the damn province between me and Nevris’ kingdom, I’d grant it. The Aswyddsstyled themselves aethelings.”

“So does he.”

“When?”

“That the first night, in the oath of Crissand of Meiden, my lord king, who is also Aswydd, may I say? And who swore to him as aetheling. And may I say that that small rumor is starting to make the rounds of the taverns? The word came out of Amefel, I daresay.”

“Like Cuthan.”

“Never forgetting that now troublesome man. And now Ryssand’s priest knows.”

“Damn this zealot priest—what ishis name?”

“Udryn, my lord king. Chief of them, at least. And while Your Majesty has a very sensible desire to have the Lady Luriel’s wedding without incident—very many rumors may begin to make the same rounds, from the same lips, from the same source. Do you still bid me refrain from this priest?”

“I want none of his crowd creating a commotion at the wedding. No. No blood. Just keep that priest out of the way. That’s all I ask. If the Holy Father can’t rein him in… see to him. Frighten him. That’s the best course. And don’t let him know who’s done it.”

Idrys accepted that thrown stone without a ripple. “Will Your Majesty still wish, then, to see His Holiness today? Or Sulriggan?”

“No. I don’t need indigestion. But I’ll do something, perhaps, to uphold His Holiness.”

“A wedding largesse… that might serve.”

“And on the dayof the wedding, for the hour after. Make preparations, noisy preparations, all for the Wintertide, and a wedding feast in the square. Gods give us good weather. That will sweeten the mood in the town. Hard to make converts against a feast and free ale. Particularly if that zealot priest is too scared to show his face.”

“Dancing in the square, all the merry townsfolk.” No more unlikely proponent of festivities ever arranged a ball. “I’ll have the Guard drawn up, martial display. They willbe there, and the weapons will not be the parade issue. A royal decree to make merry and a proclamation from His Holiness to sanctify the wedding. Then a royal gift.”

“A pe