He heard horses come and go on the cobbles outside, heard sleet against the window. It was a hard night to be on the road, and he counted nothing safe until he knew Cevulirn and his well-armed veterans were outside the gates.
“My lord king.” Annas interrupted his message-writing. The pen had dried in mid-thought. Public acceptance, he had been about to write, before he forgot his phrase. But the ink failed and made only a sketchy line. “My lord king, Lord Corswyndam is on his way, and requests audience.”
He could deny the lord of Ryssand. He could always arrest Ryssand on no more than his displeasure. But he had to ask himself whether he would have a kingdom the following day, and how many of the northern lords he was prepared to arrest. He had executed Heryn Aswydd, deposed and banished his sister Orien, but as duchess of Amefel she had inherited from her brother a dearth of sworn men. Corswyndam, on the other hand, had an army and a bitter grievance, which for cold policy he would almost undoubtedly choose to direct at Ivanor.
But neither could the king of Ylesuin have two of his provinces at war with one another.
“I will see him in hall,” he said, and capped the ink. “Advise Idrys.”
Put on at least a better coat? The Marhanen red, embroidered with gold, perhaps.
No. He sent a page for the bezainted leather, and his sword, and had put both on by the time Annas reported Corswyndam downstairs, and Prichwarrin and several other of the lords, with more possible.
“Where is Idrys?” he asked Annas.
“We’ve not reached him. I beg Your Majesty wait.”
It was too delicate a balance. “Damn him,” he said, though he suspected Idrys’ absence meant Idrys was at work somewhere urgently and on his business. “This can’t wait.”
He gathered up his guards, a sufficient number of them. A page ran up, bearing the circlet crown in anxious hands… Annas’ orders, he was certain; and he put it on, then led on down the hall, thump and clatter of guards and weapons in halls used to bloody scenes, down a stairs reputed haunted by his grandfather’s deeds and under candle-sconces his grandfather had ordered filled day and night, to allow no dark for ghosts.
He went down to the throne room, where a gathering of pale-faced minor courtiers bowed like grass in a wind, and into a hall where murmuring knots of Ylesuin’s nobility cleared his unexpected path from the main doors down to the dais. There his guards clattered into order on either side of the steps and behind him, grounded their weapons with a thump, and settled the angry Majesty of Ylesuin to face his barons.
Corswyndam centered himself in front of the dais and stared up at him. “My son, my heir, is dead, my lord king, and the foreign—”
“Do not say it! Do not say it, Ryssand! You are ill informed, and your son was fatally ill-informed. If you think I will not have another lord of Ryssand, you are mistaken, and if you have thought me soft, you are mistaken! Pigs will bed on parchment, do you understand? Ribbons and seals and all, pigswill bed on it! Do not press me further.”
“Your Majesty!” Ryssand said, white-faced, tear-streaked. “My lord king, you are advised by traitors and practiced on by sorcery!”
“Dare you say!”
Murandys came to stand beside Ryssand. So did Nelefreíssan.
“Here is the north, lord king! Here is the north of Ylesuin. And what says Your Majesty now?”
One of the great doors cracked and closed. Efanor had come in, but no one saw. Idrys followed. Therewere the wandered and the strayed. And Idrys came around the periphery of the room, silently, as his wont. Efanor, who just came from the Quinaltine, gave him a confident nod, a triumph over doubt, and Cefwyn drew a whole breath.
“I say you are perilously close to treason, and a member of your house has drawn weapons in my presence.”
“How could my son prevail against Your Majesty? Your presence disarmed him! Ivanor no less than murderedmy son, and the petition for the Holy Quinalt is cast to the pigs, Your Majesty? Your Majesty has listened to the malign influences, to influences that despise the gods, that practice black sorcery, until loyal men are butchered in the halls in the royal presence and sorceryinsinuates itself into the highest councils in the land!”
Idrys had reached his side, and proffered a small message-scroll, a remark from Idrys or his brother the Prince, he was sure, until he opened it and read it.
And looked out on Corswyndam’s angry presence with perfect equanimity.
He held up the scroll, which bore Corswyndam’s seal, a small document. The gesture and his smile brought the shouting to an end. The whole court was still.
“Come forward, Ryssand. Come.”
There was a long, long moment Ryssand trembled on the verge of defiance; but prudence and a long acquaintance with the Marhanen surely warred with righteous outrage. Ryssand came closer, came up the steps, Idrys and all the guards quite, quite wary, Cefwyn was sure, and the bezaint shirt was for once a comfort.
“Do you know this document?” Cefwyn waggled it, rolled, in two fingers. “Would you wish it read?”
“May I see it, sire?”
Cefwyn ceded it, watched Ryssand unfurl it, and Ryssand’s face go pale.
“From the duke of Amefel,” Idrys said smoothly. “His messenger, who said the duke found it on Lord Parsynan’s horse, and found it curious that a lord of Ylesuin should send a message ahead of a royal courier.”
“Very curious,” Cerwyn said, and held out his hand for the message, a steady, demanding hand, as Corswyndam’s, ceding it back to him, was neither steady nor demanding. “My deep sorrow for your loss, sir. Go mourn it in private. It would be untimely to read this to the court, considering your grief.”
“My lord king,” Corswyndam said in a small, choked voice, and, quite pale, he backed away, bowed, retreated, not just to the bottom of the steps, but beyond, and in a rising mutter of the crowd, out the door.
“Lord Corswyndam is overwhelmed,” Cefwyn said without mercy, “and needs retreat to Ryssand for a space of appropriate mourning. Good evening, sirs, gods rest you. Gods send him comfort, and all of you good grace.”
He rose, looked at his brother, smiled at the court, turned on Idrys a questioning look, to which Idrys only looked pleased.
The recall, this time to the lesser hall, brought two pale and bewildered earls to the foot of the dais, in a chill, less-lit chamber, but it echoed less, and was familiar ground. Tristen preferred it. He took his seat, his guards at every door, and looked out at Drumman and Azant, who were, after Edwyll, chiefest of the rebels, he was quite sure.
There were bows, courtesy due him. He was little interested in those.
“I have one question,” he said to them. “Did Lord Cuthan show you a letter? Or tell you of it?”
“A letter, my lord?” This from Azant. But Drumman failed to speak.
“Did you know of a letter? It’s the same question. Or tell me this, and tell me the truth: why did Edwyll occupy the citadel alone, and where are the Elwynim forces, and what have you done you wished to conceal from me? I wish you to tell me the truth, by your oaths given in this room, on these steps, sirs. I wishit, and you will tell me, will you not, sirs?”
“My lord,” said Drumman, and fell to his knees on the second step. “My lord.”
“The truth, sir. I will have an answer before you cause me to harm an innocent man.”
“Earl Tasmôrden sent messages to Edwyll, my lord, and we all knew. The king’s census drew us all to talking, the king’s wedding would give his claims on Elwynor a legitimacy they have never had…”
It was an assumption the treaty with Her Grace was valueless, but he let that pass in silence while Drumman poured out the rest.
“Tasmôrden would signal the time; and we would overthrow the viceroy. And when it came, the hour it came… that word… Cuthan said he had seen a letter, in the viceroy’s possession, that replaced the viceroy and sent troops.”