Murandys came to stand beside Ryssand. So did Nelefreíssan.
“Here is the north, lord king! Here is the north of Ylesuin. And what says Your Majesty now?”
One of the great doors cracked and closed. Efanor had come in, but no one saw. Idrys followed. Therewere the wandered and the strayed. And Idrys came around the periphery of the room, silently, as his wont. Efanor, who just came from the Quinaltine, gave him a confident nod, a triumph over doubt, and Cefwyn drew a whole breath.
“I say you are perilously close to treason, and a member of your house has drawn weapons in my presence.”
“How could my son prevail against Your Majesty? Your presence disarmed him! Ivanor no less than murderedmy son, and the petition for the Holy Quinalt is cast to the pigs, Your Majesty? Your Majesty has listened to the malign influences, to influences that despise the gods, that practice black sorcery, until loyal men are butchered in the halls in the royal presence and sorceryinsinuates itself into the highest councils in the land!”
Idrys had reached his side, and proffered a small message-scroll, a remark from Idrys or his brother the Prince, he was sure, until he opened it and read it.
And looked out on Corswyndam’s angry presence with perfect equanimity.
He held up the scroll, which bore Corswyndam’s seal, a small document. The gesture and his smile brought the shouting to an end. The whole court was still.
“Come forward, Ryssand. Come.”
There was a long, long moment Ryssand trembled on the verge of defiance; but prudence and a long acquaintance with the Marhanen surely warred with righteous outrage. Ryssand came closer, came up the steps, Idrys and all the guards quite, quite wary, Cefwyn was sure, and the bezaint shirt was for once a comfort.
“Do you know this document?” Cefwyn waggled it, rolled, in two fingers. “Would you wish it read?”
“May I see it, sire?”
Cefwyn ceded it, watched Ryssand unfurl it, and Ryssand’s face go pale.
“From the duke of Amefel,” Idrys said smoothly. “His messenger, who said the duke found it on Lord Parsynan’s horse, and found it curious that a lord of Ylesuin should send a message ahead of a royal courier.”
“Very curious,” Cerwyn said, and held out his hand for the message, a steady, demanding hand, as Corswyndam’s, ceding it back to him, was neither steady nor demanding. “My deep sorrow for your loss, sir. Go mourn it in private. It would be untimely to read this to the court, considering your grief.”
“My lord king,” Corswyndam said in a small, choked voice, and, quite pale, he backed away, bowed, retreated, not just to the bottom of the steps, but beyond, and in a rising mutter of the crowd, out the door.
“Lord Corswyndam is overwhelmed,” Cefwyn said without mercy, “and needs retreat to Ryssand for a space of appropriate mourning. Good evening, sirs, gods rest you. Gods send him comfort, and all of you good grace.”
He rose, looked at his brother, smiled at the court, turned on Idrys a questioning look, to which Idrys only looked pleased.
The recall, this time to the lesser hall, brought two pale and bewildered earls to the foot of the dais, in a chill, less-lit chamber, but it echoed less, and was familiar ground. Tristen preferred it. He took his seat, his guards at every door, and looked out at Drumman and Azant, who were, after Edwyll, chiefest of the rebels, he was quite sure.
There were bows, courtesy due him. He was little interested in those.
“I have one question,” he said to them. “Did Lord Cuthan show you a letter? Or tell you of it?”
“A letter, my lord?” This from Azant. But Drumman failed to speak.
“Did you know of a letter? It’s the same question. Or tell me this, and tell me the truth: why did Edwyll occupy the citadel alone, and where are the Elwynim forces, and what have you done you wished to conceal from me? I wish you to tell me the truth, by your oaths given in this room, on these steps, sirs. I wishit, and you will tell me, will you not, sirs?”
“My lord,” said Drumman, and fell to his knees on the second step. “My lord.”
“The truth, sir. I will have an answer before you cause me to harm an innocent man.”
“Earl Tasmôrden sent messages to Edwyll, my lord, and we all knew. The king’s census drew us all to talking, the king’s wedding would give his claims on Elwynor a legitimacy they have never had…”
It was an assumption the treaty with Her Grace was valueless, but he let that pass in silence while Drumman poured out the rest.
“Tasmôrden would signal the time; and we would overthrow the viceroy. And when it came, the hour it came… that word… Cuthan said he had seen a letter, in the viceroy’s possession, that replaced the viceroy and sent troops.”
“And did Cuthan say that I was coming, sir?”
“No, my lord. I swear he did not.” Drumman shook his head, and so did Azant.
“And did he advise Edwyll?”
“No one knows what he advised Edwyll. The hour was on us. And Cuthan warned us. But Edwyll had already seized the king’s messenger the hour he rode into town. And we were all in fear then.”
Tasmôrden had moved his forces on Ilefínian, sent a message across the river to create as much confusion as possible… it needed no wizardry to effect a message, none to poison a party of men by accident. But wizards thrived on chance and accident, and worked best through vengeful men. The deeds of kind ones were more self-determined.
“So Cuthan is not your friend,” Tristen said.
“Nor yours, Your Grace,” Drumman said.
“Nor anyone’s,” Azant said.
“Whose man is he, do you suppose? And why did he hate Edwyll so?”
“Heryn Aswydd,” Drumman said. “He is Lord Heryn’s man.”
Tristen drew in a breath. “Edwyll was Aswydd.”
“And notLord Heryn’s man, nor ever was. Hence His Majesty never exiled him. He never supported Lord Heryn’s policies, Your Grace, but opposed them in council, opposed them to the edge of loyalty to the Marhanen, which Edwyll would not grant.”
“Cuthan was offered the duchy.”
Azant shook his head. “Cuthan would never swear to the Marhanen. He cultivated Lord Parsynan because it served his needs. And Parsynan warned himof all of us, thinking him a loyal man, the hour the rebellion broke.” Azant likewise fell to his knees. “My lord, we have been desperate men. We held back, we joined you, my lord, intending to save Lord Edwyll, and we had done it, until Parsynan took it in his hands to settle grudges… we were never rebels against you, my lord.”
“And do you speak for Cuthan?”
“He is still,” Drumman murmured, “still Lord Heryn’s man.”
Tristen considered the two lords, kneeling, as Amefin did not customarily kneel… turned his hand, where it rested on the throne, and signaled them both to rise.
“Go home,” he said quietly, “in peace.”
“Lord Sihhë,” Drumman whispered, and bowed, and with Azant, went away.
The room was still after. His guards did not move from their places. Nor did Uwen.
“Lord Cuthan may come to me as these lords came, tonight,” Tristen said in a moment more, “or he may have a horse and all his household, tonight, and cross the river by whatever means he can find. There are boats, I think, at Maldy village. Because he is an old man, he wants help getting there.”
“M’lord,” Uwen said.
“I am notOwl,” he said, doubtless to Uwen’s bewilderment. He had gazed at the far end of the room, where he saw not the vision that troubled his dreams these last nights, that of the old mews with light shining through broken planks, a place astir with wings and dusty years. “I will see Earl Crissand, now, if you will, Uwen. I have questions for him, but none so strict as those I have for Lord Cuthan.”
CHAPTER 8