“Do you suppose Ryssand holds Prichwarrin responsible for his son?” Ninévrisë wondered quietly.
“I’ve wondered, too. Prichwarrin urged it too far. It was Brugan’s stupidity, no mending that, but Prichwarrin didn’t take strong enough action. It wouldn’t grieve me if those two fell out.”
He asked Idrys, on the following day, whether there was any hint of breach.
“Murandys sends home often,” Idrys said, “but I’ve no report he’s receiving messages from Ryssand. He seems genuinely concerned, and has a worried look when anyone mentions priests. This is a man who may not know as much as we do.”
“Perhaps after the wedding he’ll seek Ryssand out.”
“Leaving his niece unwatched, and no presence in court?” Idrys said. “No, my lord king. I very much doubt it.”
His Reverence of Amefel, meanwhile, being an old man, had had a taking, a serious crisis of health—Idrys swore his innocence. But His Reverence had had a falling spell, and retired into an apartment within the Quinaltine, spending his time between his bed, his privy, and his prayers for his benighted province.
The controversy and the division was by no means healed. Efanor himself had argued vehemently with Ryssand’s priest at a most uncomfortable state dinner, a mincing of doctrine and dogma at that table that Cefwyn hoped not to see repeated. There was no profit in it, none: neither Efanor nor the priest emerged converted, the damned petticoats figured in the issue, and everyone’s digestion suffered.
“Silence this damned doctrinal nonsense!” Cefwyn had insisted to the Holy Father’s face, utterly out of patience, and the result, the very next morning, was a hesitant, rambling homily from the Holy Father on the subject of unity in the state, a discourse that made no sense, seeming to court all sides… a parable of brothers and the healing of breaches and somehow off to the rights of a father to order his family and a king to order the state and a husband his wife.
“Damned useless,” Cefwyn said to Idrys in his apartments after services. “Is thishis word against that damned priest wandering the taverns? He’s a father and that priest—what’s his name—is some errant son? Or a wife? Fetch me Sulriggan. No, tell Sulrigganbring His Holiness and I’ll talk to him. Good gods, can’t the man come to a point, say yea or nay, not both in the same sermon?”
“And what more is my lord king, but yea and nay regarding this priest that’s preaching sedition? I still advise my lord—”
“Dead priests are trouble, master crow, of a sort even you stick at, don’t deny it. Now the patriarch of Amefel’s taken residency in the Quinaltine, where you can’t reach him, save his bad stomach.”
“Unhappy man,” said Idrys, long-faced. “And holy men have been known to vanish. It’s a known aspect of holiness.”
“For shame.”
“For a long reign, my lord king. I’ll be far plainer than His Holiness. Kill this priest.”
Cefwyn looked long and soberly at his Lord Commander, saying to himself he had just asked for the hard truth, asking himself whether he was not a fool for sticking at this one deft, swift act, that might, in fact, save other lives.
But there was, beyond his own scruples against murder, the prospect of outright disaster in any miscarriage of Idrys’ proposal.
“I have observed this priest meet with those who meet with Murandys and Ryssand,” Idrys said. “Often. I’m not sure there’s a content beyond the offices of priests, but the fact remains: this priest has their patronage, and if messages do flow between Ryssand and Murandys to which we have no access, there is a conduit for them. The man’s no dullard, no wide-eyed believer, and he has far too sleek a look for a man that sleeps in hedgerows.”
“You have suspicions of Ryssand, do you? Is he playing two games?”
“Oh, of suspicions of Lord Corswyndam I have full store and several wagons over; of substance, there is only that one priest I know has his ear, and the ears of a half a score of the barefoot and hair-shirt sort, the ones who plague the streets. But what this one might sing if I laid hand to him could be valuable. If we can come at Ryssand that way, His Highness needn’t marry to rein Ryssand in. If we can find a cause to shorten Ryssand by a head—gain to the whole kingdom.”
It was a tempting thought. But he dared not. Would not. “I am not my grandfather. And, gods, if something went wrong—”
“Your grandfather lived to die in bed, his son with two sons and the kingdom secure. I askinstead of acting because I will not trample on policy. I serve my king; I beg to serve him well.”
Idrys chided him and provoked him humorously on many things. This time there was no humor, no mask. “You’re saying I’m a fool to let Ryssand live. What need to justify it, if I were my grandfather?”
“I say if Ryssand had died before this, you’d have no priest stirring up resentments in the populace. Now, lo! the priest. If my lord king fears to become his grandfather, let him remember his royal fatherfailed to be rid of Heryn Aswydd, and look how that tree grew.”
It was not a pleasant memory. Idrys was telling him what was the more prudent course. Profitable if Efanor could somehow convert Ryssand’s interests to the Crown’s interests, for Ryssand’s talents and resources were formidable; but that still left him with Ryssand for company, and Ryssand’s narrow doctrine to battle for all the years of his reign… while he hoped to settle a lasting peace with Ninévrisë’s kingdom. The Elwynim would never become Quinalt, and it was a far leap to think he could bring Ryssand away from his doctrinist allies, on that score. When he looked that far, he saw all manner of trouble.
But that was far, far downstream from where they stood.
“If I do this,” he said, “we risk dividing Ylesuin. We risk years of unrest. We risk making a holy martyr, in this priest, and that is nothing we can sweep away. My grandfather, with all his faults, avoided martyrs.”
“What to do is Your Majesty’s concern. How, I consider is mine. But the harm grows, day by day.”
“Ryssand’s no easy horse to ride. There’s no one I could set in that saddle butLord Ryssand, precisely because he isa narrow, provincial doctrinist like every other man in Ryssand. I’ve thought about my choices. I detest the man. We’re well rid of that son of his. But what do I set in his place, if not my brother, gods help him! And I’ll postpone that day at least until there is a wedding.”
“Disarm him of this priest.”
“If not this one, there’ll be another one.”
“Oh, aye, my lord king, and if we down one of Tasmôrden’s men, there’ll be another. Shall we forbear to fight Tasmôrden?”
“You know it’s not the same.”
“Be rid of this one. And the next. And the next. Eventually there will be a dearth of Ryssandish priests.”
“And enough anger to breed there and fester. Words deal best with words.”
“Ah. Another of the Holy Father’s sermons?”
He let go a breath, beaten down by the mere memory of tedium and indirection.
“Give me leave,” Idrys said briskly. “And the matter is done by evening.”
“And the town stirred up to a froth.”
“A lackof a priest isn’t noisy.”
It was ever so tempting: his piety, such as it was, halfway argued him toward it, as the safest course for the peace, and all the lives he held in his hands. But he had Luriel’s public show approaching, on which there would be crowds, tinder for a spark, and that rode his thoughts, inescapable.
“I want the town quiet. I want Luriel safely wedded and bedded and no untoward event to undo that alliance. When Murandys has Panys for a bedfellow, and wehave Panys reporting to us… thenwe can consider measures.”
“I fear I’ve not told you everything, my lord king.”
Cefwyn drew a lengthy breath and sank, somewhat, against the back of his chair, Idrys black-armored and seeming by now like an implacable fixture of his office. “Sit, damn you, crow. My neck aches from looking at you. What morsel have you saved for dessert?”