Read Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03 Online
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birds, and the use to which he had put Althalen’s ruins.
Tasmôrden thought to claim back or kill those who had fled his
brutal seizure of their land; and by that banner Tasmôrden
thought to claim not merely the Regency but the High
Kingship, the office the Sihhë-lords had last held and which
Cefwyn himself did not aspire to hold.
And did he fly it defiantly above the devastation of Her Grace’s
capital and the murder of its citizens?
“Go to bed,” he said to Uwen. “Forgive me the commotion.”
“Forgive you, m’lord, when I persuade ye to sleep an’ the
whole night turns on its ear? If something’s amiss out there, it
certainly ain’t your doin’.”
“Nor mine. I know now I didn’t draw the lightning stroke on
the Quinalt roof. And Cefwyn had to send me here. I had to
come. The Quinalt father has gone where he has to go, and
Aeself and his company have all come where they have to be.
Lord of Althalen and Ynefel: that’s what I am.”
“Spooky to think of, m’lord, an’ odd as it is.”
“The truth,” he said, with the sudden conviction that all the
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
world would have bent itself to achieve that one thing. He could
not resist it any more than he could have resisted Mauryl’s
summoning.
Mauryl’s handiwork? he asked himself. Had it always been? Or
was it yet?
“Will ye go to bed?” Uwen asked meekly. “Or dare ye? If ye
wish’t, I’ll watch.”
It was a draw, his concern, Uwen’s. And after such debate, and
thinking on it, he found himself wearier than he had thought,
and after many late nights, at last very inclined to sleep, as if he
had waited for this event, and now it had happened, he could let
go.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I will.”
“Ye’re sure.”
“I am sure. Good night to you. A peaceful night.”
“An’ to you, m’lord.” Uwen remained dubious. He wished
Uwen a peaceful night, wished it with wizardly force, so that he
hoped Uwen would sleep soundly and take no chances with
such things as wandered the night.
He himself went back to bed—Orien’s bed, Heryn’s bed, he
could never forget it, and the dragons loomed above him with
claws outstretched and brazen wings spread.
Dreaming of Owl was better than some dreams, and better than
the lack of them, for he had no imagination of the time to come,
such as he understood Men had: it was his misfortune to see
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
only time present and the recollections of his brief year thus
far, but any notion of where he was going, any imagination of
the year after this still appeared to him in conjectures and
fragments, and he had no notion how much Men knew of their
life to come.
An unwritten slate, Mauryl had called him once; and in some
regards that was still so, and truths were still finding space in
the blank ground.
Perilous to write on, Mauryl had said that of him, too, but many
people had written their truths in his heart: Mauryl, Emuin,
Cefwyn… Uwen, even, and Tassand, and Lusin and the rest.
Crissand. Orien Aswydd, in her way. And Ninévrisë. It was why
he gathered up Aman and Nedras, the gate-guards, and young
Paisi, whose wizardry was a candleflame in a strong gale, and
apt to go out if he ventured away from safe walls, or flare up in
wizardous fire if he someday touched the right substance.
There was Cook, who had fed him, Haman, who had provided
him an example of honest work and good management… all
these men and women who had given their skills to him, now he
ruled, and managed, and attempted to manage wisely and
honestly.
He had stood on a hill in Guelessar not so long ago wondering
what it would be to remember far back in years he did not have;
and what it would be like to imagine forward from the moment
of his standing on that hill.
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
He could not have imagined this, or ever foreseen that he
would return here.
He still could not imagine with complete confidence that he
would see the spring, or that the Zeide and Henas’amef would
not swallow him down in its long memories.
Had not Emuin said that the Midwinter was the hinge of the
year, when all things done turned again and the year began to
fold back on itself? Then, if ever, did not magic have its
moment, when all things swung into a new path and all things
were possible?
And in mid-spring, his year of life would be complete. And
would he have another? Despite Emuin’s assurances, it was
never promised him. Mauryl had called him into the world in
spring and by summer he had done all that Mauryl purposed…
had he not?
Had he not? Or was it still shaping itself, and moving through
the world?
The gray space roiled gently with Emuin’s contemplation of
that question, and of him.
But Emuin said not a word to him of why all the wards of the
town had flared at once.
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Interlude
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
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Stitch and stitch, pearls and more mounds of blue and white…
since Murandys’ colors, blue, the Quinalt sigil on a white field,
bend or, were very like those of Ninévrisë’s own house of
Syrillas. None of the stitchers, inching their way pearl by pearl
across plains and hills of satin, could miss the irony in that
coincidence.
Least of all did Ninévrisë miss it. She dreamed at times of the
more pleasant hours of her own preparation, and the candlelit
glow of her wedding in the great, echoing Quinalt shrine.
Luriel of Murandys, applying cordings to a satin sleeve,
maintained her delicate posture between affront to her former
betrothed’s wife and praise of the lordly bargain she had in her
current betrothed… wise, since the gentleman’s sister,
Brusanne of Panys, was seated close by her, another and prior
member of their small society. Luriel professed herself utterly
charmed by Rusyn of Panys… had never, in fact, considered
him as a suitor, but now that he put himself forward, why, he
was fine and handsome and witty, he had become quite the
young man, and she thought she might be falling in love… an
extravagance of charity, perhaps, but a brave effort.
The peaceful meetings would have been intolerable if Luriel
were a fool, but she was not, thank the gods.
Nor did Ninévrisë intend to be one. If jealousy reared itself in
her heart it was not because Cefwyn had ever loved this lady—
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
in fact she was convinced that Cefwyn had never cared for
Luriel at all beyond the chivalry he had for all ladies who had
ever drawn his eye. The marriage he had almost made with
Luriel had been an affair of state, the same necessity Efanor
now faced—and if Ninévrisë was jealous, it was jealousy that
this bride of a minor noble, while she drew the inevitable darts
of Bonden-on-Wyk, seemed so in command of the court … her
court. That was a situation she had not foreseen, and one
which she meant to remedy, but had not yet discovered how.
Stitch and stitch, and tongues flew rapid as the silver needles,
la! the sins of Artisane, the ambitions of Artisane, the onetime
leader of the malice in the court, were now under intimate
examination. The ladies smiled to Luriel’s face, gossiped absent
Artisane to her least flaw of taste and wit, and the barbs sped.
And believe that Artisane was the only subject of their talk? No.
Ninévrisë was sure there were other topics… the only pillar of
sober sense in the women’s court being Dame Margolis, the
armorer’s lady, who would say the truth, and the honest truth,
and tolerate none of the more wicked gossip.
Of course, it meant when Margolis was in attendance one
learned less, too… and by now the rumor of a royal message to
Ryssand had broken in various houses, with a clamor that was
worth hearing… if not for Margolis’ presence. All the court
was sure this message meant negotiation and reconciliation
with the king.
And that meant all alliances, some newly formed and
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
unprecedented, were now to reconsider.
Might Ryssand return, and in some chastened new connection
to the throne? Might Ryssand have found a means to come
back intact, and, la! what might Artisane do, having thus
affronted the Royal Consort? Would there be redemption? A
nunnery, perhaps? There were shudders at that, for none of
these young women fancied the contemplative life, bereft of
festivals and dancing … Quinalt that they were, there was not a
one who could say what she thought by reason of her
philosophy, only by rote learning of what she must avoid.
Curious, Ninévrisë thought, making small, neat stitches on her
rival’s hem. Curious that the soul and sense of all these Quinalt
maidens’ morality was not to be seen to love. La! it might be
witchcraft that the king had given his bride an acorn as
countryfolk did, and witchcraft and wizardry were what the
Bryaltines did, oh, and did anyone mark how the Bryalt father
ran his fingers round the rim of his wine cup at the feast?
Her maid had told her that yesterday, since the ladies had not
remarked the maid’s presence before they began to talk. In
anyone else that gesture with the cup was insignificant: but in
Father Benwyn’s case, oh, certainly a strange Bryalt practice,
warding his cup from poisons, and, la! who would poison the
Bryalt father, who truly was an inoffensive sort… though a
heretic, of course. Or nearly so.
So her maid, Fiselle, a girl of good sense, had reported to her.
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
So the days drew on, pearl by pearl, stitch by stitch. She smiled
at Luriel every day, and saw troops and bridges to Elwynor.
Every night was love, unthought and measureless, a warmth of
candlelight and a lover’s passionate embrace. They were mad
things, she and Cefwyn. They burrowed beneath blankets and
invented their own kingdom to explore. Then everything was
wonderful.
But every sun came up on the world and measured it with a
cold, wintry eye. She had headaches, and craved raspberries,
which could not be had, and did not confess the desire, but
measured herself in her mirror and wondered, desperately, to
what wild chance of fate she had committed herself.
Every day her people died and still the needles flew, seeding
pearls and schemes in a world of virgins and matrons. Efanor
courted Artisane, Cefwyn redeemed Murandys, and rebuilt the
walls of his kingdom.