And was that not the Amefin patriarch… but suspect the man of murder, and him shut in his quarters, a sick man?

He doubted it. He much doubted it.

And yet they urgently needed a suspect, a place to point the blame, something, anythingto distract the commons from Benwyn… Benwyn’s connection with Ninévrisë. The mob that had risen had gone for Benwyn because he was Amefin… one of their own, but not Guelen. And because he was the foreign consort’s priest.

“The soldiers that came back with the Amefin father,” he said. “They’re familiar enough with Amefin charms, and the Bryalt.” He held her close, his thoughts scurrying through the underbrush of lordly ambitions and guilty secrets like so many frightened hares. “But would they dare, on their own? And why? Emuin would say… Emuin would say if a thing is common, you don’t see it. And what’s common under the Quinaltine roof?”

“Another priest?” Ninévrisë asked. “That zealot priest?”

“Udryn. Udryn, the name is. Idrys removed him somewhere—at least—he’s beenremoved somewhere, dropped in the country somewhere remote. Scare him, the notion was. But a priest could reach the robing room without notice. A priest could gain entry. We thought this Udryn was the primary danger. But who would dare attack the Holy Father?”

“Ryssand?”

“Not directly. Not directly. But a zealot could do this, he well could. Jormys himself is in danger. He’s in a mail shirt at the moment… Efanor gave it to him and told him wear it constantly. But Father Jormys will eat and sleep in the Quinaltine, where our guards can’t go. And meanwhile we can’t point the finger at the zealots or Ryssand without better proof than one of them being in the Quinaltine where they have every right to be. We can put one of them out. We can drop Udryn and whoever else we catch down a well. But how many are there? Who are they? We know the ones that have argued in public, but how do we find what a man thinks?”

“The priests might know.”

“We have no authority except to appoint. We can’t arrest, we can’t charge, we can’t investigate. The priests have to do it.”

“They aren’t all murderers, and they know each other. Make the murderer ashamed to face them. Make him guilty.”

He had taken it as his part, man and king, to console her fears, even to lie to her, to see her have rest. He drew back a little, remembering that the warm, sweet presence was the Regent of Elwynor, Uleman’s daughter, priestly and canny as ever her father was… and it was clear good sense she was offering him.

“They’ve passed out cloths with the Holy Father’s blood—anything that touched him. The people stand for hours to see him. He’s half a damn saint—forgive me.” He had been with soldiers all night, and under attack.

“The people need one. Don’t they?”

“But who killed him, but another priest, Ryssand’spriest, and if I had Ryssand’s signed confession with his seal on it I couldn’t use it. I needRyssand, until I can marry Efanor to his daughter, gods save me. There’s still a murderer in the Quinaltine, and Benwyn’s still dead, and there’s still the Amefin charms, real or not. For your sake and for Tristen’s we can’t have that.”

“What can we do?”

“Accuse a murderer… accuse Tasmôrden, who’s the likeliest the people know.”

“An Elwynim. And will thatmake me safe?”

“It’s a better direction than any other. It’s all we can do. Say it was sorcery and Tasmôrden suborned it. If you can’t damn a man for what you know he’s done, damn him anyway. It was a spy. An assassin slipping in from outside, concealed by sorcery, moved by sorcery.”

“And my people, innocent people, are taking refuge in Amefel, inside Ylesuin, where they have such charms. Where will thatgo?”

“We can’t let it turn to Amefel. We can’t let people ever take the notion. It was sorcery, and it was Tasmôrden, from straight across the river. Gods know we’ve bodies to spare: sixteen dead and one burned beyond recognition. We’ll say first we caught the assassin. We have him in chains. We dole out the news day by day and keep the people in expectation. Then we display the remains. Sorcery killed him in his cell.” He felt no pride in what he was saying, or planning. He liked far less making her party to it… but it was her advice that had prompted him. “Where will the people’s anger light then, but where we need it to nest?”

“The murderer will know,” Ninévrisë whispered. “And what will he think?”

“He’ll tell Ryssand and Ryssand will know. And Ryssand will share our secret, only Ryssand and the murderer… and one day Idrys will see justice is done. It may not be tomorrow. But it will happen. Efanor’s Jormys is in office now—the Quinalt council has to confirm, but the Holy Father had enough votes to rule there, and they hate the zealots. We’ll banish sorcery. We’ll make saints of Benwyn andthe Holy Father.”

“Sorcery isn’t remote from us,” Ninévrisë said faintly, leaning her head against him. “And it might, after all, be true, this lie. Send to Emuin. He should know this.”

“We can’t send a letter like that. No. There’s far too much risk. Our couriers have had narrow escapes.” He forgot, at times, that Ninévrisë had wizardry of her own. And now it worried him. “ WasBenwyn a wizard?”

She shook her head, a motion against his heart. “Not a shred of one.”

“ Arethere wizards?”

“There’s Emuin. There’s Tristen, if one counts him.”

“I’d count him.”

“He’s—”

“Not a wizard.” He understood the exception. “But there are others.”

“One hears them. One feels them.”

“Do you think what we plan might not bea lie?”

“I don’t know,” she said faintly. “At first I thought so, but now I don’t know.”

Ryssand would expect blame for the Holy Father’s death. He had immediately to send a message to reassure Ryssand of that notion, dangle favor before him to keep him from the desperation that would drive the scoundrel to protect himself. Desperate, Ryssand could bring the kingdom down.

It was a dangerous course they steered, but it was one that would keep the north united. In the Holy Father he had lost a valuable ally. In Jormys, loyal to Efanor, he had another.

Yet he must send condolences to Sulriggan, the late Patriarch’s cousin, and keep that lord tied to him, assured of his continued favor even with the Patriarch dead. That man could be useful.

Luriel’s marriage had to go forward, early. Young Rusyn might become a hero of the defense of the Quinaltine. He had deserved it. His father certainly had. A reward of lands would shore up Panys’ wounded dignity: he cared not a jot about Murandys, though he supposed he must.

Something rattled like claws against the window.

Rain, he thought it first, but saw no drops on the glass.

It kept up, and kept up.

It was sleet coming down.

Chapter 7

To Tristen’s distress the weather turned… natural weather for winter, so everyone said as the sleet came, and then the snow. Owl must have found some nook out of the wind, or was hunting mice: the pigeons came fearlessly to the window for bread, and the servants mopped and swept continually in the halls against the traffic that came and went.

But it was not Tristen’s wish that the weather turn, and he found something ominous in the worsening storm. Wagons with tents and other gear were on the road in the storm that first froze the roads—that was a help—and then began to ice them, and that was no help at all.

Umanon’s few wagons arrived out of a blinding white, to set up camp in ground beginning to freeze.

“One can’t hold off nature forever,” Emuin said with a shake of his head, when Tristen went to his tower to consult. “I’ve not seen such a spell, and I suppose it’s simply given us all the snow at once.”