But they were neither of them utter fools.
“Then expect an encounter tomorrow or the next day,” Cefwyn said shortly, “depending on Tasmôrden’s speed on his own roads. Have your men in order. No drunkenness in the ranks tonight, and early to break camp tomorrow. Here’s the redemption of our differences, sir. Make me your friend. I can be courted.”
“Your Majesty.” Three heads bowed. Three lords backed as if they were in the throne room, despite the informality of a martial camp, and withdrew to their own counsel.
He remained with Lord Maudyn and with his bodyguards and Panys’, and told himself he had been laudably calm throughout the encounter, remarkably cold-blooded. Now he found tremors of anger running through his limbs and asked himself whether he should order Ryssand’s arrest and execution tonight.
It might bring Nelefreissan and Murandys into line. It might be the prudent thing. He might survive the action, and Ylesuin might.
Or might not. Dared he do that, and then lead the army into battle with questions unanswered and regional angers broken wide open? He could not answer what Murandys and Nelefreissan might do… and that might rest on how much evidence they feared might come to light if he came home again. He had no idea, that was the difficulty.
March home again to settle matters, his war unfought and Tas-morden glorying in a temporary victory… that was a mouthful he could not swallow. Ylesuin had not wanted his war, but Ylesuin would come asunder in regional and religious bickering. Ryssand had his supporters among the clergy even yet, and as yet he could prove nothing of his charges against the man but his illicit traffic with Parsynan and the fact he had lodged Cuthan and taken messages from Tasmôrden. Both offended the king’s law, but the fact that Cuthan had betrayed his brother lords in Amefel was nothing at all to Guelenfolk, who detested the Amefin.
But if Ryssand died, he had, gods help him, Artisane, and whatever man besides his brother he found to sacrifice to that marriage: if Ryssand was a brigand, Artisane was a lying baggage who with a duchess’ title would lie louder and with more credible virulence.
Two heads at the Guelesfort gate might bring a wholesome silence, vacate the duchy, and take the consequences of unrest and claimants to vacant lands.
And for a moment Ryssand’s life trembled on the knife’s edge of his temper. But it was wise to consider who would stand with him: Osanan, who had joined them, had been Ryssand’s man in most questions: the lord of Osanan had always inclined himself that way in matters of regional import, the questions of fishing rights and the doctrinist Quinaltines. Where would Osanan stand if he killed Ryssand?
Or would Osanan and many another simply lack enthusiasm to advance in the battle, and retreat at the first reverse on the field? Every man for himself it would be if that sentiment took hold in various units.
Sulriggan? The lord of Llymaryn was no hero. If the army began to break, Sulriggan would trample the foremost riding to the head of the pack, and take his men with him.
Maudyn would stand. Panys. And the Guard.
No. He had laid his plans during this long day’s ride, he had settled what he would do with Ryssand, even how he would shape the battle so that units like Osanan could make their choice and units like Panys and the Dragons and Guelens would have their honor.
Let Ryssand fold or hold, as he planned matters: the outcome would be the same. And they would still push Tasmôrden back to Ilefínian, with Tristen, he fondly hoped, coming from the other leg of the triangle, to catch Tasmôrden from the other side—the last of the pretenders to the Regency, with an army large only because it was the scourings and the survivors of the long struggle. Honest men had taken to the hills. Bandits took Tasmôrden’s hire. And if they pressed Tasmôrden back and if the Elwynim saw Ninévrisë’s standard, Tasmôrden would find no support among the commons. It was Ninévrisë’s hope and it was his, that one defeat would shatter the pretender’s army and honest Elwynim would rise out of the thickets and the hills.
Trust Tristen, that if wizardry could arrange it, Tristen would be there, where he needed him, no blame, no recrimination: Tristen was coming, with Cevulirn and Pelumer and all the south, where he should have placed his trust from the beginning.
And of all unexpected things, a flight of birds soared above the wood’s edge and turned.
Pigeons, for the gods’ good sake! Pigeons. He stared after them amazed.
When did pigeons become forest-dwellers? They were not. They never had been, not these birds.
Tristen was there, he was surely there, just the other side of this cursed ridge.
Captain Gwywyn, of the Prince’s Guard, and in Idrys’ absence over the Dragons and the Guelens as well, approached him from the side, bringing a practical and immediate question. “The west for the latest to camp, Your Majesty?”
“The west and north,” he said, for there was room in the meadow on that side, and while the petty notion occurred to him to move the horse pickets on the east and let Ryssand and his allies pitch on that soiled ground, the same as they had marched on it all day, the peasant levies did not deserve it, and he did not indulge the whim. “I’ll cool my anger. Bid them join us at supper.”
“As Your Majesty wishes.”
“Advise all the lords to join us at supper. We’ll settle our marching order. Hereafter we have the enemy to quarrel with, not each other.”
Gwywyn went aside on his mission. Lord Maudyn, who had walked with him, gave him a questioning look and a blunt question: “Will Your Majesty inform Ryssand of all the plans?”
“We have to stand on the same battlefield and face the same enemy,” Cefwyn said with a sigh. “We’ll leave no lord out of our councils. I’ve no wish to expose the men afoot to risk of their lives: gods know they’re not at fault, and I’ll not face the widows.” He walked a few steps farther in the lord of Panys’ company. “But you and I have somewhat to say together. Perhaps we won’t tell Ryssand everything.”
“I would be easier in my sleep,” Maudyn said, “if Ryssand knew less.”
“I’m very sure,” he said. “To tell you the very truth, I have more doubt of Prichwarrin’s courage to defy me than I have of Ryssand’s, and that alone frets me: I don’t know what the man may do. Ryssand, on the other hand, has courage; but he doesn’t give a damn for his servants, his staff, his men, or his horses, not when he sees what he wants. His sworn men and his peasants have no worth, save as they serve him: I pity them. He doesn’t, and no few will die.”
“Then I pray Your Majesty arrest him. Others stand with the Crown. No honorable man could misunderstand.”
It was exceedingly comforting to hear Maudyn say so, and he wished he knew it was true. It was almost like hearing Idrys’ voice saying: kill Ryssand.
And when he recalled how often and why he had denied Idrys that satisfaction, he became quite clear in his own thoughts.
“No,” he said. “No, my dear friend. Much as I wish it… much as I regard your advice and your wisdom… no. Let him at least do what we accuse him of. Let it be clear beyond even Murandys’
ability to find excuses. They think him simply clever at going to the brink. I know how far he’ll go, but they don’t believe it yet.”
“Stand by and let him bring a sword against my king’s back?”
“That’s not what I expect of him.”
“What, then?”
“Oh, he’ll run—and not he, no, never say Ryssand bolted. Some unnamed man of his will turn and start a panic, and the officers will turn and the company will run, leaving the peasants to face Tasmôrden’s heavy horse and leaving the rest of us to the slaughter. And if it’s found out later, blame will fall on some poor wretch of a lieutenant, but mark me! Ryssand deals with Tasmôrden, makes a treaty, and marches home with clean hands. Therefore I set him in the center. Remember I said so beforehand, and report it in the court later, but say not a word of this even to your sons. I fear I can’t help Ryssand’s peasants. But the rest I can deal with.”