Drumman had sheltered Crissand’s mother. But at the last Drumman had come to the stable-court to support the king’s forces, leaving only Crissand to stand by his father once the rumor of Mauryl’s heir had run the streets. Lord Sihhë! the people had shouted—and had the whole town foreknown and awaited his coming, while Edwyll attempted to bar him from the citadel?

Tristen listened, and asked himself had Edwyll possibly done what he had done knowingly? Had Edwyll opposed him, or had Edwyll intended to hand over the citadel if the rumors of his appointment were true? Crissand had commanded that the defense in the South Court go on, having had no such instruction, quite clearly; and held and held while he waited for his father to send word down from the apartment where he had gone… had continued the defense while even Drumman had joined the other side and while they had shouted through the gate, clearly naming who offered a cessation of hostilities and a way out without more deaths.

But no word came from the earl his father. So Crissand held, and held, not knowing Edwyll was dead, a tragic waste of lives almost equal to what the viceroy had done.

Tristen turned a somber look toward Uwen. “If there was an ill-working,” he said to Uwen, “it did its worst that night.”

But the thought that Edwyll might have fought against him knowingly, when the son professed loyalty more strongly, more extravagantly than Cuthan, whom he strongly suspected. Had Crissand, the brave, the loyal man—had Crissand lied to him so deeply, so callously?

There was one ground where truth shone through— and in pain he reached out on the instant, seeking truth, caring nothing for caution, and had an impression exactly where Crissand was. More, he suddenly had Crissand’s attention. A cup had shattered, there, not here. Crissand had leapt up, caught his balance.

—Have you lied to me? he asked Crissand directly, while the gray space roiled with cloud as bitter cold as what spat sleet at the windows. Have you lied?

—My lord!the thought came back, and Crissand reached wildly for substance and direction, lost, and afraid, not accustomed to this place, and snatched into it without warning. My lord, wherein should you say I lied? Where have I sinned against you?

He found not guile, no guilt. He saw Crissand, a shadowy form in the mist and the roiling cloud. He willed himself closer and was there, and saw Crissand’s distress face-to-face.

—Your father told you nothing of his dealings. He sent your mother to Drumman and prepared to stand me off… did he not? Did he not, sir? And how many others stood with him?

Fear washed back at him, a tide through the gray space. Crissand attempted flight, but had no skill at all… had never ventured here, clearly so. To have found otherwise would have raised other questions, of wizardry, and theft and knowledge. And he meant to know the answers.

—Mauryl’s letters are gone from the archive and the master archivist is dead, the other fled. Do you know aught of that, sir, or did your father?

“M’lord?” Uwen asked.

—Do you know, sir?

Fear crashed around him, palpable as the winds. — My lord, Crissand said, and tried to leave his presence, but he did not let Crissand go.

—Why did your father act? Why did he move when he did? Dare you call it chance?

—To join Elwynor, Crissand said, to join us with Elwynor was all his aim. Nothing of the archive, nothing of the archivist or of murder, or of rebellion against you, my lord, as I live!

—For all of a day you held the citadel, dispatched guards to the gate and knew the content of the king’s message. Did you then not know?

—I had no orders else!Crissand protested. I was to hold the courtyard, I was to hold, and nothing more, my lord. My father had a message…

“M’lord?”

Tears shattered the firelight insofar as he was aware of his own body. He would not look at Uwen.

—Whence a message?

—Out of Elwynor. I think it was out of Elwynor, my lord.

—Run, he said to Crissand, and the clouds of the gray space were leaden as storm. Run, Meiden, if you are guilty. Run where you choose and as far from me as you can.

Crissand was gone on the instant, fled away of his own volition, but not in fear, now.

Was it anger? Was it a sense of betrayal matching his own?

Captain Anwyll had leaned forward in his chair. Uwen had cautioned him with a hand.

“I think,” Tristen said, catching a large breath, and trying to pretend that nothing untoward had just passed, “I think that Cuthan is a wise man where it comes to his own safety. But if he saw that message, I think Edwyll had no word of it at all until he read the king’s message and knew what Cuthan had done to him.” Anger was growing and growing in him, that a man had sat at his table and been so pleasant, and so false. “Ness and his friend, down at the gate, had noforewarning. And Edwyll posted them. The town knew nothing. Cuthanknew and warned the rest of the earls, if he warned them at all, only afterEdwyll had committed treason. I said, did I not… if Cuthan doesn’t lead, someone does. But Cuthan did not lead. And he made the others afraid.”

“’At’s possible,” Uwen said. “’At’s well possible. Cuthan never come to the stable yard. Bein’ an old man makes it hard for ’im, but it is to ask why there was only Edwyll sittin’ up here wi’ armed men. If Edwyll was expectin’ Elwynim to his relief, they’re late.”

“Tasmôrden is laying siege to the capital of Elwynor. It was Cefwyn’s attention he wanted southerly at this moment, and long after. But it took more than Edwyll. And Amefel has long dealt with both sides. Tell Syllan take two men of the Dragons, go after Drumman and Azant. Bring them back.” He had a clear notion, now, where Crissand was… coatless, in the street, in the snow, striding straight for the stable-court gate. “Lusin.”

“M’lord.”

“Go yourself, with Tawwys. Hold the lord of Meiden at the stable-court gate. And bring him a warm cloak.”

CHAPTER 7

Have great care,” Cefwyn said to Cevulirn.

“Have great care yourself, Your Majesty.” It was night. The lord of the Ivanim had his guards outside the royal apartment and his horse and weapons were in the hands of loyal men. “Your Majesty’s welfare is my concern.”

“I am wary.” He offered an embrace, and unaccustomed as it was, Cevulirn accepted it, a body stiff with mail and leather and years in the saddle. “I shall miss you. I shall miss you this winter. Thankyou for my lady’s sake. We will remember this. And we will see you in the spring.”

“My lord king.” Cevulirn took his cloak from the man who had brought it from his rooms, that and no more. Royal guards stood at Cevulirn’s door, upstairs, protecting it against any other intrusion. Efanor had been closeted with the Holy Father for hours, seeking to secure his support.

“Fare well,” Cefwyn said, and stood watching as Cevulirn gathered up his guard and walked out the door, leaving a vacancy in the court, a bitterly regretted one.

Ninévrisë might have wished to come downstairs to this parting. He had set guards there, too, and advised her against it, at a time when news was rushing through late gatherings and convoking councils and speeding by quiet messengers wherever the king’s enemies and friends might gather. Artisane’s whereabouts was a question, with her brother lying dead, but he had ascertained it was not near Ninévrisë, and that was sufficient.

Now he parted with another friend, and went back to his desk to write a longer missive to his bride, and a request to attend in court tomorrow. There would be questions, quieter ones, he trusted.