—To join Elwynor, Crissand said, to join us with Elwynor was all his aim. Nothing of the archive, nothing of the archivist or of murder, or of rebellion against you, my lord, as I live!
—For all of a day you held the citadel, dispatched guards to the gate and knew the content of the king’s message. Did you then not know?
—I had no orders else!Crissand protested. I was to hold the courtyard, I was to hold, and nothing more, my lord. My father had a message…
“M’lord?”
Tears shattered the firelight insofar as he was aware of his own body. He would not look at Uwen.
—Whence a message?
—Out of Elwynor. I think it was out of Elwynor, my lord.
—Run, he said to Crissand, and the clouds of the gray space were leaden as storm. Run, Meiden, if you are guilty. Run where you choose and as far from me as you can.
Crissand was gone on the instant, fled away of his own volition, but not in fear, now.
Was it anger? Was it a sense of betrayal matching his own?
Captain Anwyll had leaned forward in his chair. Uwen had cautioned him with a hand.
“I think,” Tristen said, catching a large breath, and trying to pretend that nothing untoward had just passed, “I think that Cuthan is a wise man where it comes to his own safety. But if he saw that message, I think Edwyll had no word of it at all until he read the king’s message and knew what Cuthan had done to him.” Anger was growing and growing in him, that a man had sat at his table and been so pleasant, and so false. “Ness and his friend, down at the gate, had noforewarning. And Edwyll posted them. The town knew nothing. Cuthanknew and warned the rest of the earls, if he warned them at all, only afterEdwyll had committed treason. I said, did I not… if Cuthan doesn’t lead, someone does. But Cuthan did not lead. And he made the others afraid.”
“’At’s possible,” Uwen said. “’At’s well possible. Cuthan never come to the stable yard. Bein’ an old man makes it hard for ’im, but it is to ask why there was only Edwyll sittin’ up here wi’ armed men. If Edwyll was expectin’ Elwynim to his relief, they’re late.”
“Tasmôrden is laying siege to the capital of Elwynor. It was Cefwyn’s attention he wanted southerly at this moment, and long after. But it took more than Edwyll. And Amefel has long dealt with both sides. Tell Syllan take two men of the Dragons, go after Drumman and Azant. Bring them back.” He had a clear notion, now, where Crissand was… coatless, in the street, in the snow, striding straight for the stable-court gate. “Lusin.”
“M’lord.”
“Go yourself, with Tawwys. Hold the lord of Meiden at the stable-court gate. And bring him a warm cloak.”
CHAPTER 7
Have great care,” Cefwyn said to Cevulirn.
“Have great care yourself, Your Majesty.” It was night. The lord of the Ivanim had his guards outside the royal apartment and his horse and weapons were in the hands of loyal men. “Your Majesty’s welfare is my concern.”
“I am wary.” He offered an embrace, and unaccustomed as it was, Cevulirn accepted it, a body stiff with mail and leather and years in the saddle. “I shall miss you. I shall miss you this winter. Thankyou for my lady’s sake. We will remember this. And we will see you in the spring.”
“My lord king.” Cevulirn took his cloak from the man who had brought it from his rooms, that and no more. Royal guards stood at Cevulirn’s door, upstairs, protecting it against any other intrusion. Efanor had been closeted with the Holy Father for hours, seeking to secure his support.
“Fare well,” Cefwyn said, and stood watching as Cevulirn gathered up his guard and walked out the door, leaving a vacancy in the court, a bitterly regretted one.
Ninévrisë might have wished to come downstairs to this parting. He had set guards there, too, and advised her against it, at a time when news was rushing through late gatherings and convoking councils and speeding by quiet messengers wherever the king’s enemies and friends might gather. Artisane’s whereabouts was a question, with her brother lying dead, but he had ascertained it was not near Ninévrisë, and that was sufficient.
Now he parted with another friend, and went back to his desk to write a longer missive to his bride, and a request to attend in court tomorrow. There would be questions, quieter ones, he trusted.
He heard horses come and go on the cobbles outside, heard sleet against the window. It was a hard night to be on the road, and he counted nothing safe until he knew Cevulirn and his well-armed veterans were outside the gates.
“My lord king.” Annas interrupted his message-writing. The pen had dried in mid-thought. Public acceptance, he had been about to write, before he forgot his phrase. But the ink failed and made only a sketchy line. “My lord king, Lord Corswyndam is on his way, and requests audience.”
He could deny the lord of Ryssand. He could always arrest Ryssand on no more than his displeasure. But he had to ask himself whether he would have a kingdom the following day, and how many of the northern lords he was prepared to arrest. He had executed Heryn Aswydd, deposed and banished his sister Orien, but as duchess of Amefel she had inherited from her brother a dearth of sworn men. Corswyndam, on the other hand, had an army and a bitter grievance, which for cold policy he would almost undoubtedly choose to direct at Ivanor.
But neither could the king of Ylesuin have two of his provinces at war with one another.
“I will see him in hall,” he said, and capped the ink. “Advise Idrys.”
Put on at least a better coat? The Marhanen red, embroidered with gold, perhaps.
No. He sent a page for the bezainted leather, and his sword, and had put both on by the time Annas reported Corswyndam downstairs, and Prichwarrin and several other of the lords, with more possible.
“Where is Idrys?” he asked Annas.
“We’ve not reached him. I beg Your Majesty wait.”
It was too delicate a balance. “Damn him,” he said, though he suspected Idrys’ absence meant Idrys was at work somewhere urgently and on his business. “This can’t wait.”
He gathered up his guards, a sufficient number of them. A page ran up, bearing the circlet crown in anxious hands… Annas’ orders, he was certain; and he put it on, then led on down the hall, thump and clatter of guards and weapons in halls used to bloody scenes, down a stairs reputed haunted by his grandfather’s deeds and under candle-sconces his grandfather had ordered filled day and night, to allow no dark for ghosts.
He went down to the throne room, where a gathering of pale-faced minor courtiers bowed like grass in a wind, and into a hall where murmuring knots of Ylesuin’s nobility cleared his unexpected path from the main doors down to the dais. There his guards clattered into order on either side of the steps and behind him, grounded their weapons with a thump, and settled the angry Majesty of Ylesuin to face his barons.
Corswyndam centered himself in front of the dais and stared up at him. “My son, my heir, is dead, my lord king, and the foreign—”
“Do not say it! Do not say it, Ryssand! You are ill informed, and your son was fatally ill-informed. If you think I will not have another lord of Ryssand, you are mistaken, and if you have thought me soft, you are mistaken! Pigs will bed on parchment, do you understand? Ribbons and seals and all, pigswill bed on it! Do not press me further.”
“Your Majesty!” Ryssand said, white-faced, tear-streaked. “My lord king, you are advised by traitors and practiced on by sorcery!”
“Dare you say!”