Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles (21 page)

Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles Clack, clack, clack of gossip, all done to death today as Tristen paid his penny like a good Quinalt man, wearing a medal of holy martyr’s blood—attested by the most incorruptible, tiresome priest alive, one so holy even His Holiness avoided his company,
Efanor’s
priest, Jormys, him in the rope belt and rough-spun yonder.

Now perhaps they were saying, over there in that knot of gossipers, the wonder of it! the holy Jormys had converted a Sihhë-lord…

when he knew damned well Jormys had been afraid to go into that room and only Efanor had gone.

He owed his brother a great favor for that act of courage.

“Cevulirn dances very well,” Ninévrisë said, plucking at his sleeve.

“Do you see? And with Murandys’ niece.”

He did see. He had just caught sight of the couple. The thought of the gray, grim lord of Ivanor in the midst of an intricate paselle was astonishing in itself, but the duke of Ivanor had unexpected graces, back-to-back and then face-to-face with the duke of Murandys’ fair-haired younger niece in the quick-moving courtly patterns on the floor.

Now
there
was a match. The lords did not favor one another.

The niece—Cleisynde was the name—was a stiffly Quinalt little piece. And looked far less graceful than did Cevulirn, as if she had never danced before. But her eyes, ah, her eyes worshiped. Cevulirn was a distinguished—and wifeless—lord.

“Cleisynde,” he said. “One of your ladies, is it not?”

“One of the more agreeable,” Ninévrisë said. Some were not. He knew, for instance, that Ryssand’s daughter Artisane was a Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles particular thorn in Ninévrisë’s side, a bearer of tales straight from Ninévrisë’s small circle to her father. And Artisane, also in view, cast a predictable frown at Cevulirn every time the dance turned her from her own partner, Isin’s son.

“Ryssand’s daughter has eaten sour fruit,” he remarked. “Do you see? Is it Cevulirn’s partner she disapproves so publicly?”

“Artisane’s brother is dancing with Odrinian,” Ninévrisë said.

Oho. Sour grapes and bitter leaves for supper. He saw the couple in question: a pretty pair: Odrinian of Murandys, a child, youngest sister to his discarded mistress Luriel—a far kinder and less wise heart, Odrinian; and a merry bit of hell’s best work there was in that young whelp, the heir of Ryssand. Brugan was his name, vain ox.

“Don’t frown so,” Ninévrisë said.

“My former mistress. That is her sister.”

“Ah.” Ninévrisë’s hand, fine and strong, was locked on his between their thrones. “And now you repent?”

“In ashes,” he said, and at that instant a peal of thunder racketed through the hall, making both of them jump.

“I have kept no secrets,” he said, looking not at her, but straight ahead, at Odrinian and Brugan. Then he did glance aside. “And have given up all of them, I swear. Hence Murandys is not pleased, any more than Ryssand. I shall bring Luriel, to court only by your leave.”

“I give it,” Ninévrisë said, and her chin tilted in that way she had, the pretty girl of the miniature, the entrancing woman who had his heart. “I trust if I needed fear comparisons my lord would
never
Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles have proposed she come.”

“Gracious lady. None. It would be a rescue for the lady. A kindness.”

“The lady is in distress?”

“Her father blames her, now. She languishes; in immodest, imprudent letters, protests she loved me, were not Amefel’s heretic ways so oppressive she could not stay with me there…”

“Oh?” A sidelong look. “And do you answer these letters?”

“I forgive them. They have accumulated to the number of three, in two months. I don’t think Lord Prichwarrin knows about the letters.

I know they come through Odrinian. Luriel is despondent. Hates her father. Misses the festivities. Has no hope. And so on.”

“She would not be—” Ninévrisë left a delicate silence, beneath the sparkling music.

“I do think she would plead it; or manage it, if she dared. She wishes a recall to court, over her father’s wishes, declares she will drink poison else…”

“Good gods.”

“She will make someone an unfaithful wife. I have in mind Ursamin’s nephew.”

“He is notorious!”

“A matched set, I assure you.”

Ninévrisë looked at him. “And how many such? Orien Aswydd.

Tarien, her sister…”

“Both safe in a Teranthine nunnery. And beyond that, women of Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles ambitions more easily satisfied. I have confessed them all, already, every one.”

There was silence. A hand listless in his. His heart told him a conversation had skewed wide of its target, broached matters indelicate to have brought to light in this hall, before witnesses.

“If you wish to fling something,” he said quietly, “pray wait.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ninévrisë said, and fingers twitched to life and pressed his. “I only mark them down with the rest.”

Disturbing. “What ‘rest’?”

“Oh, the rest.” Ninévrisë’s eyes sparkled, just a little.

“The rest of
what
, pray? I have no faults!”

“So far their names are Luriel, Orien, Tarien…”

“Fisylle, Cressen, Trallynde, and Alwy.”

“Fisylle, Cressen, Trallynde, and Alwy. —Alwy? My maid?”

“I said that there were minor indiscretions.”

“Good gods.”

“And you said you would forgive me.”

“I had no notion they outnumbered the royal Guard. Should we march
them
across the river? Or dare we give them arms?”

“Nevris, sweet love…”

“Dare I say
I
had suitors in Elwynor?”

Now his heart beat faster. “Less numerous than mine, I hope.”

“Oh…” The silence went on, beneath the music. Then cheerfully:

“A list.”

Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles

“My lady Regent…”

“No more ‘sweet love’?”

They were in front of tenscore witnesses. He dared not leap up, stare at her from a slightly superior height, in his own hall. There was only that damnable, undignified block of stone, and only her hand within reach.

“To the last breath,” he swore. “Dance with me. You have me bothered. You have done it, fair.”

“The lady may come to court,” she adjudged quietly, and pressed his hand as he rose and drew her to her feet, careful of the damned step. The music and the dancers drifted to a stop.

“A country round,” he said to the musicians.

There was a murmur in the hall.

“I trust Your Grace can follow me,” he said, as the musicians wandered erratically into the sort of jouncing tune they played in the square. The thunder rumbled above the roof, and the drum rattled out a rhythm to the pipes. The lutenist confessed a peasant knowledge of the tune, “The Merry Lass from Eldermay. ”

No simple touching of hands, a linking of arms, a whirl, a sweep, a series of chaining steps, and he partnered a lightly moving wisp, a sprite, a whisper of satins and velvet, alone on the floor until Cevulirn partnered Cleisynde out. Then the young men persuaded young ladies, one after another, some quick to learn, some not, and some already knowing the measures. Old Lord Drusallyn brought his lady out, and then Mordam of Osenan and his portly wife dared the measure.

Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles There were sour faces on some, laughter among the rest, most of whom watched in safety. “This is far more like Elwynor,” Ninévrisë said, on two breaths, back-to-back for a moment, then facing him, palms touching. Her eyes were gray, not violet: the miniature-painter of a year ago had tricked the eye with violets in her hair.

They were gray as the rumored sea, gray as a cloudy day…

Gray as Tristen’s. Her dark hair and gray eyes were alike conspicuous in a land where the rule was fair hair and blue as his own. Her blue-and-white gown, the colors of Elwynor, swirled across the red and gold of his own kingdom, heraldry bright as battle flags. All eyes might watch as the old blood of Elwynor and the new of Ylesuin trod an autumn dance that might be old, itself.

The Quinalt countenanced it, but deplored its license, slowed the music, discouraged the torch race around the bonfire and did not at all approve the offering of straw men; so the countryfolk threw in mere straw bundles, but it meant the same. Everyone knew.

Round and round they went, one dance and another, until the music ran down, quite, until the dancers were out of breath, and he and his bride were in the center of the floor, all eyes toward them.

He had stolen an acorn from an oak bough, in the festoons and boughs about the columns as they passed. He gave it to his bride, with a bow, the finish of the dance, a Guelen peasant’s gift to his lass in autumn, a wish for prosperity and children. The onlookers, those that could see, hung upon the gesture; and Ninévrisë, knowing or not (though he thought she knew) tucked it in her bosom to the applause of those around.

Applause spread, and whispers. The gesture was unexpected, it was Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles common, daring, and native to their land. The dreaded Elwynim cherished the seed of a Guelen oak, the hope of children, and the old wives and the lords of Marisyn and Marisal and Isin nodded together, smiling, whatever glum thoughts Murandys and Ryssand might hold. The talk among certain lords of the middle provinces would denounce the act, and their ladies would say, Oh, but did you see how they love one another…

Then the lords would be more glum. Nor could he convince himself that he would bend the like of Nelefreíssan, Ryssand, Murandys.

The ladies of those provinces might laugh and applaud with their sisters of the middle provinces, but they were Guelen, and more skilled than their menfolk at dissembling.

They would have to say to themselves, with barbed jealousy, How beautiful she is!

But later they would say among themselves—his eye caught the unanticipated presence—Did you mark the Patriarch’s stare?

Gods, when had the
Patriarch
decided to attend? And for that exhibition…

Did you see the look on the Patriarch’s face
? The word would run the whole town by morning, along with:
The king’s brother was not
smiling
.

Efanor was worried, that was certain.

And when Cefwyn drew Ninévrisë back up the two steps to sit and take a sip of wine, he stared at his younger, his pious Quinalt brother in glaring disapproval of the stiff-backed Quinalt priest who dogged him everywhere; at the Patriarch he dared not glare.

Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles Efanor stared back, but not so fiercely; worried indeed, and seeking to signal him with that glance.

Something was wrong. Cefwyn gave a lift of the chin, a look.

Efanor came up the step and bent close. “The Patriarch is here,”

Efanor said in a quiet voice. “The Quinaltine. A lightning bolt has struck the roof. And a
Sihhë
coin has turned up in the offering.”

His wits were still reeling from the dance, from the touch of Ninévrisë’s hand, still resting in his, his so-ready distrust of his brother, his repentance of that failing. The significance of the lightning strike was appalling… expensive. A donative for roof repair indeed, at a time approaching winter.

A Sihhë coin. Omen, on penny day. The other words had reached him late.

“What damage to the roof?”

“The roof? The sheeting is burned clean through. But the
coin
…”

“It was not Tristen’s. However it came there, it was not Tristen’s!”

“However it came there, the lightning struck, brother, and the penny offering is
tainted
. His Holiness has come here…”

“Someone has done this against
me
and against
him
.” Temper had not served their father well. Efanor visibly flinched back, the hapless servants stood appalled; voices stayed scarcely in whispers, as the musicians played a stately madannel.

“They could not manage the lightning!” Efanor said.

“They had already done the other! This is treason. This is
treason
, and His Holiness damned well knows the likely hands that put that coin there.”

Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles

“Brother,” Efanor said, urgently, pleadingly… like looking into a mirror, Efanor’s close presence, the two of them bearded, blond, blue-eyed and royal; but there was only a princely circlet on Efanor’s brow, not the weighty, galling crown, which at this instant was pressing on a throbbing vein. Efanor’s face was going red. So, likely, was his. “In nowise could a cheat manage the
lightning
! That is somewhat beyond a mortal man, you must admit it. And do not say
damned
with His Holiness!”

“Tristen did not do this,” Cefwyn said through gritted teeth. “If it is wizardry, would he damn
himself
and leave a coin to prove his guilt?”

“I admit I would not think it.”

“No sane man would think it!”

“But what enemy of his in Guelessar would
touch
such a thing? The Quinalt?
And there is the lightning
. They had turned out the offering. And the lightning struck, just then.”

“Not every enemy of the Marhanen is a Quinalt painted
saint
, brother, and I would not exclude Sulriggan from this act.”

“He would not!
And there is the lightning
!”

“Sulriggan would sell his mother’s bones as relics, never mistake it.” He saw, behind Efanor’s shoulder, His Holiness, Sulriggan’s cousin, ready to approach him, in public. “What have we? A damned
procession
? Fly the banners, shall we?” The musicians still played, but the conference on the dais had drawn all attention, and conversation and dancing flagged throughout the hall. The king’s dancing was over if he attended this importunate storm of priestly Cherryh, C J - Fortress 02- Fortress of Eagles anguish now.

And if he withdrew prematurely to face some controversy over ill omens and sorcerous miracles, he knew exactly the kind of flutter ready to break forth, the gossip of servants and minor priests who were always in the fringes with ears aprick, and who had stood just near enough, in the way of things. Even his Guard, his faithful Guard, was not immune.