Read Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03 Online
Authors: Fortress of Owls
I bear you no ill will, Ninévrisë had said to Luriel, early in their
meeting, in their one conversation on the matter of old loves.
“Your Grace is generous,” Luriel had said, “beyond all
women.” And then Luriel had added, in that deadly honesty
that partook a little of contempt, “I could not be, were I in your
place.”
It warned her, then and from the start, that neither generosity
nor love had made it possible for them to sit side by side. It was
that they both were set on separate campaigns, both desperate,
both under the weight of censure, both willing to endure any
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
other affront to secure what they wished… and their wishes
were not mutually exclusive. On that slender point, peace rested.
She had not retorted, Because you cannot be generous, you are
not in my place… although that was what she thought. Luriel
had stinted Cefwyn of her love, her troth, her loyalty, and
Cefwyn, not being a fool, had never given her his. Cefwyn
could not love this woman, and the closer he had grown to
Luriel the more he had known it.
Ninévrisë had thought that, too, on that occasion, and had not
said it.
But she had taken that conversation for her one moment to tell
some truth to Luriel of Murandys. “What I do,” she had said,
“I do for my husband’s sake. Never mistake my tolerance for
folly.” And having said that, she never placed her trust in
Luriel.
Stitch and stitch. In the patterns one could lose oneself. In the
making of stitches, small and precise, there was no tomorrow
and no yesterday, only the need to count threads and
remember. The prattle of schemes and suppositions was only
idle noise. Outside, the weather spat, and drizzled, then burned
bright blue and icy cold. Cravings for raspberries turned to
dishes of custard, which she had had as a child, and could not
well describe to the cook, though her tongue remembered the
taste exquisitely. Custard after custard failed her expectation.
“Did you hear?” Odrinian came in saying, one morning.
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
“Someone painted the Quinalt sigil on the street outside Father
Benwyn’s door last night.”
“Did they?” asked Bonden-on-Wyk.
“Benwyn will lay a curse on them,” Odrinian said.
“If he sobers enough,” said Brusanne.
Ninévrisë had said nothing in this exchange. Glances drifted
toward her like moths to the forbidden fire, and hers to them.
Needles stilled. There was the least hint of fear.
“He’s not a wizard,” Ninévrisë found herself saying. “No such
thing. That’s not right.”
The silence lasted a moment. They never asked her what it was
to be Bryaltine, and in fact she failed to practice the faith in
any nightly observances. Benwyn did, nightly visiting the
shrine, and having his wine flask with him… but most times
being sober, since Idrys had lectured Benwyn very sternly.
He made fine salves, did Benwyn of Amefel. Bonden-on-Wyk
used them. Her feet and hands pained her, and she swore
Benwyn had given her more relief than the Quinalt with their
charms and herbal baths. But Bonden-on-Wyk did not speak up
on Benwyn’s behalf now. Only Margolis said, “Well, painting
the sigil on streets is no great respect of the Quinalt, either, is
it?”
“No,” said Ninévrisë, gratefully, “it is not.”
Tristen had acted recklessly: Cefwyn’s letters advised him so;
and so did Idrys, which she hoped Tristen would heed, but one
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
was never sure with him. News of the schism in the Quinalt
frightened her. So much was fragile. Elwynor itself had become
fragile, poised on the edge of starvation and dissolution. The
prophecy of the King To Come might well be fulfilled in
Tristen… she saw the signs, and for that she was also afraid…
a selfish fear, she had thought at first; but more and more she
knew that there was more than need of Guelessar that had
turned Cefwyn from crossing the river last summer’s end. That
he might fulfill the prophecy was something they shared, and
then she had been swept by doubts, one time desiring to be
queen and not a stranger in Guelessar, one time asking herself
dared she stand in the way of prophecy and was she so great a
fool?
But now when she heard the women talk of attacks on her
priest she knew another fear, for nowhere in the prophecy of
the King To Come did it promise miracles or even salvation for
Elwynor. The King To Come was the High King, the King at
Althalen… and Elwynor only a province in his hands, nothing
said of its safety or its fate when all was done.
She spoke for Elwynor itself. She secretly nursed a hope within
her, as yet untested.
Meanwhile Efanor courted Artisane, sending her letters and
gifts, and Ryssand remained unprecedentedly quiet, while she
knew the Holy Father of the Quinalt pursued debates with
priests Ryssand sponsored.
All these things, all these things, troubled her thoughts when
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
her hands fell idle.
Her heart and her hopes, had soared when she heard that
Elwynim, her Elwynim, had found safety with Tristen, but oh,
there were dangers still. Spring, spring would bring their
answers; and in the meanwhile events proved that in Tristen’s
hands the prophecy was a dangerous thing, much as she loved
him for his innocence and his devotion to Cefwyn.
Now the angers pressed in on her, angers she would have been
free to satisfy if they had crossed the river this summer and
engaged all of Elwynor without warning.
And at such moments she wondered if it had not been unwise
ever to have entangled herself with the Bryaltines instead of the
Teranthines, difficult as that had seemed. Benwyn, poor man,
had no understanding of the currents that swirled about him.
Angry Guelenfolk painted signs at his door. They gossiped
about him.
The rare times she had ever talked with the man, it was not
philosophy or religion, but herb lore out of Elwynor, and the
obscure history of the shrine in Amefel. The sad truth was
Benwyn well knew he was hated, and drank when he must face
roomfuls of good Quinaltines.
Consequently he drank often… not the wisest solution, but
then, if Benwyn had been wise, he would have confined his
ministry to Amefel and not been the only Bryalt priest in
Guelessar.
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
While she, if she were wise, would have bowed her head and
accepted the Teranthine compromise, and never accepted this
priest, near as he was to her father’s observances. She saw now
what a difficulty it was to force Ylesuin and Elwynor into
union, and she knew that if there could not be a peaceful
compromise of the Guelen clergy, Ylesuin itself might be rent
apart. As might she.
“It’s shameful,” Ninévrisë said now, regarding this latest
outrage. “It’s shameful to use the Quinalt that way, and it’s
shameful to treat poor Benwyn that way.”
For the Crown itself could not, dared not defend Benwyn too
zealously. She knew how delicate a balance that was.
“Oh, dear,” said Brusanne, and began that urgent search of
her skirts that told of a lost needle. Others began to search, too,
about her, through the mountains of fabric around her, for the
needles that sewed the pearls were fine and easily lost, and
tended to turn up in the folds of the work, to prick the wearer
when she next tried the garment on.
“Here it is,” said Margolis, and returned it to the daughter of
Panys, who thrust it through the sleeve above her wrist.
“There,” said Brusanne. “I’ll not stab my brother’s bride. I’m
sure it’s bad luck.”
“It’s bad luck to say bad luck,” said Bonden-on-Wyk.
“There,” said Luriel, vexed. “Will you not refrain from saying
it twice, then?”
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
BOOK THREE
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
Chapter 1
Sergeant Gedd was back from Guelessar, a fortnight past all
expectation and after they had all but given him up for lost.
“And glad to be here, m’lord,” Gedd said fervently, reporting to
Tristen in the privacy of his apartments. Gedd had surely come
straight up from the stables, stopping only to wash the dust
from face and hands, for the fair hair about his face was wet,
his beard, ordinarily carefully trimmed, had stubble about the
sides, and his clothes were spattered with two colors of mud
different than any in the stable yard.
In such guise, too, of dirt and disrepute, Gedd handed him a
precious and very belated letter. Stripped of coverings of dirty
cloth, it emerged cleanly, resplendent with red ribbon and the
royal seal. “Forgive me that I’m so late. Word directly from the
Lord Commander, too, m’lord, that I have in memory.”
“Tell it to me,” Tristen said. He laid the letter on the desk
before him, as Uwen stood near his chair, silent as the brazen
dragons. “What happened?”
“Respects first, m’lord, from the Lord Commander, and then
this, which is weeks late: that the guardsmen who left the
Amefin garrison by your leave have gone to the Quinalt for
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
protection and so has the patriarch of Amefel. The Lord
Commander says to tell Your Grace kindly give him no more
such gifts. His words, my lord, as he said them, forgive me.”
He could all but hear Idrys say it, and he was glad it was no
sharper barb. He knew he deserved one.
But weeks late. He had no more recent news and had feared to
send.
“And from His Majesty,” Gedd said, “who says to tell Your
Grace that the patriarch of Amefel put the Holy Father in a
difficult position, and that there’s trouble in the Quinaltine.
Those were His Majesty’s words. Trouble in the Quinaltine. He
said tell Your Grace that His Reverence has friends in
Ryssand.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes, my lord. He gave me the letter with his own hand, and I
was straight off and away.”
“But late.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why?” Uwen asked, from the side and behind, and Gedd cast
an anxious look in his direction.
“I had someone on my trail. I took up to the hills. But… Your
Grace might want to hear… talk started about the tavern…”
“Tell me everything,” Tristen said. “Don’t hurry.”
Gedd drew a breath. He was a strong man and a good soldier: it
Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
was from exhaustion, surely, that his hand shook as he raked
back the damp hair. “Priests are going about the town