Master Emuin, in great discomfort, and at long last, was making an urgent effort to reach Henas’amef and wished him to know it.
CHAPTER 5
Wisps of white flew on the wind, past windows gone cold and lifeless—two days of spitting snow and bitter wind had done no more than frost the edges of the slates, and the few remaining pigeons walked, disconsolate, on the adjacent roof.
Amazing how a presence never frequent could be so missed in a man’s life or how eerie the lack of pigeons could seem. Perhaps the loss and the omen felt more grievous since the weather had set in cold and gray as it had. But with nothing but that loss outside, Cefwyn avoided looking out the windows, while his restless pacing delivered him to their vicinity every time he set himself on his feet.
He will be at Assurnbrook, Cefwyn had thought on one morning, and on this one, he should be arriving in Henas’amef today, bag and baggage and master Emuin. He’ll be safe now and so will Emuin. Gods save us all.
“Your Majesty.” Idrys, black shadow that he was, had been absent with some business at the door—servants came and went—or had gone out for a time; Cefwyn had no idea which. Now the Lord Commander intruded, grim and businesslike. “His Grace of Murandys with a petition.”
“Outside?” He almost welcomed distraction.
“In the hall downstairs, whence he hopes to be summoned to your presence, he, with Ryssand’s son, bearing a petition.“
He had rather most men in the kingdom than Murandys, and Murandys before Brugan, Ryssand’s arrant ox of a son. But today even that distraction tempted him. “Regarding?”
Idrys’ eyes darted to a stray page who had ventured into this, the gold room, which had the map tables, and in which the pages were never permitted.
“Out!” Cefwyn said, and the page darted for the door, turned, bowed.
“But Her Grace sent a message,”’ the page blurted out, and bowed again, and ducked about, ready to flee.
“Stay! Give it me!”
“Your Majesty!” the page said, white-faced, and offered the rolled, sealed paper to his hand. Relieved of it, the boy fled, and sped left and right around a priceless orrery.
“Damned boys,” Cefwyn said then. “ Thatis a new one. From Panys. They rattle about in this great place and bounce off the walls and furnishings.”
“The consequences of majesty,” Idrys muttered. “Likewise this petition in the downstairs hall.”
“Regarding?” It occurred to him they had just been at that point, before Ninévrisë’s messenger had come to him (a messenger, because neither the consort-to-be nor the lord of Murandys could approach the king uninvited, but a towheaded child could.) He felt constrained, trapped, surrounded. “Sulriggan can’t be here yet. So, pray, what have we? Murandys and his damned salt fish? A petition from young Brugan to be first across the bridges come spring?”
“Murandys on behalf of others, and would it were so pleasant as that.” Idrys’ face was glum. “I have not gotten a copy of this document, which was composed in close secret, I suspect, in the Quinaltine, by elements aside from the Holy Father, notably Ryssand’s priest, and Romynd of Murandys. I pray you, my lord king, not to sign that document nor invite Murandys himself today. Ask only for the document. What little I do know suggests traps in it. Numerous ones. And priests are behind it.”
When Idrys said so in that tone of voice, it was time to break out the battle gear. “Aiming at what?”
“Ultimately? Your Majesty’s endorsement of the Quinalt over all religious orders.”
“They dare.”
“Not yet, but will dare. One clause, if you please, regards revenues. The regularisationof the Crown’s annual gift to a set sum.”
“Two pence if they press me!”
“More. They wish a Quinalt presence assured in Her Grace’sprovinces.”
“Kingdom!”
“This is the wording, as best I know. It has a clause…” Idrys hesitated. And that meant it was very objectionable. “… accepting Her Grace as a prince within the Quinalt domain.”
“Sovereign ruler.” They had battled out that phrase in treaty. And now did this petition deny it? “Damn them!”
“The Holy Father, lately trembling in disfavor, has stayed behind in the Quinaltine and let only a cat’s-paw bring this infamous document. I’m sure His Holiness would wish Your Majesty at least to notice his brave act of loyalty.”
“Oh, aye! Whose lunacy is this?”
“The blunt fact is, His Holiness cannot rein in his priests and I think if he dared write Your Majesty a plea for help, he would. His acceptance of Your Majesty’s terms has weakened his voice where it regards certain elements. That is serious for peace within the Quinaltine.”
“Six days,” Cefwyn said. “Six days, and I am wed and then heads will be in jeopardy, gods blast Murandys and Ryssand!”
“I fear the Holy Father has the orthodoxy sniffing round his money chests, his private library, and his closets. The danger to him is real, Your Majesty. Ryssand has suborned his private priests, and joined those who do not favor the Patriarch. This petition has perched at your door with an importune, pious lord, aching for his sins, concerned for the realm’s descent into wizardous influences, suspicious of the victory at Lewenbrook, and above all Her Grace’s Bryalt priest, if Your Highness wishes to know what’s set the fox into the henyard in the Quinalt. The orthodoxy inside the Quinalt is counting the days, knows your disposition toward them, and they will grasp at any straw. I have not been able to secure a copy of this document; all I have is rumor. But it may even be a petition for a Convocation of the Council. I believe a threat is mounting against the Holy Father, aided by Ryssand and Murandys. In this, gods attend, Sulrigganmay be Your Majesty’s ally, if weather doesn’t preclude his getting here; he may be a defense to the Patriarch. In the meanwhile I wish to have a look at this petition before Your Majesty contemplates an audience for its bearers and certainly before Your Majesty formally receives it.”
In former days, in his dissolute princehood, he would call for wine and women of the enemy’s ambitious kinship… or their hire. He would sink himself in an unavailability trembling toward an absolute incapacity to do what his besiegers wished, while abed with their precious, perfumed influences… leading them on with such hope, and never performance.
“Sober modesty has many disadvantages,” he remarked to Idrys, who alone of all men but Annas would know precisely what he meant. “So does negotiating with celibate priests.”
“Call Luriel to court. That news will discommode her uncle, and distract him. Her presence, even more so. And her acceptance by Your Majesty would certainly distract him.”
Imply a liaison or feign one, on the very eve of his wedding? Torment Murandys between the hope of influence and the fear of disgrace? Redeem the slight to Luriel, restore her value to her uncle?
He drew a long breath and asked himself whether Ninévrisë would possibly, remotely condone it.
But no, his bride was wise and she was tolerant and she was even canny enough she might agree in complete understanding and for the welfare of her kingdom; but he could not subject her to Guelen scorn, he could not have her pride assaulted by whispers and he could not enter Elwynor in the spring with her people resenting the slight thus done their Lady Regent. Every hint of scandal would come back in bloodshed, Guelen and Elwynim alike. Luriel’s ability to place her uncle in untenable positions had been her delight and his in times past; he was very sure Murandys had not brought that hellion to halter, disgraced as she had made herself. But she and he had had their falling-out, and he could not use her in the old way.