Any question of Ryssand, the Quinalt, and Ninévrisë struck so deeply to the heart of his fears he lost all sense of moderation. Most of the Quinalt zealotry which had caused such trouble in Guelessar had its doctrinal origins in the northlands, in Ryssandish territory, where the Quinaltine faith found its most absolute and rigid interpretation. They had seen that small leaven in the loaf rise up to bloody riot involving half the town of Guelemara not a fortnight ago, at Luriel's first wedding. Priests liberally supported by Ryssand's donations preached their conservative doctrine, and disaffected guardsmen Tristen had let go had spun tales of magic and sorcery in Amefel… the part about magic at least was true: sorcery Cefwyn did not believe. They had killed Father Benwyn, clandestinely murdered the Patriarch as too moderate, too accommodating to the Crown—he was sure that the Patriarch's accommodation of the royal marriage had cost him his life.
And most of all Ryssand's darts and the zealots' sermons had flown at Ninévrisë… Artisane's empty accusations, Ryssand's attempts to rouse the Holy Father to forbid it, even the appearance of a Sihhë coin in the offering box, sending Tristen into exile. All these schemes had aimed at foreign influences in the land, and he could not forget now that the Aswydds' place of exile at Anwyfar was burned to the foundations: even the moderate Teranthines come under attack. The Teranthines were no longer safe. The Bryaltines certainly would not be.
And Efanor was right: Ryssand had not taken the chance to slight Ninévrisë, on the very steps of the Quinaltine, when protocols might have covered that small spite, when in fact Ryssand's zealot priests would have taken amiss his acknowledgment of her—would have disapproved it heartily if they were there to hear, as they might have been.
What manner of game hadRyssand set in motion? And what did he intend?
Order something too extreme, and Ryssand might prove to have another, fatal dart in his quiver… something that might unsettle the populace, snow or no snow, into another convulsion of religious outrage.
But what was this courtesy toward Ninévrisë?
"He has something," Cefwyn found himself saying, unable to look his brother in the eye. "He has something that makes him confident enough to return in spite of me, something beyond an offer from Tasmôrden, which needs must include peaceful dealings between Quinaltine and Bryaltine."
"He has some accusations against Tristen almost certainly," Efanor said, "considering the company he brought with him. And I'm sure Tristen will have done something worth our apprehensions in any given fortnight."
"Almost certainly he has." About Tristen he had no illusions, nor fear of him, either. Gods, how he missed him—missed the innocent indirection that could lead a man to question his most dearly held assumptions. Truthwent where Tristen went, and his court, it seemed, could not withstand that habit of his. "Amefel can break out in plagues and frogs, and I'll still trust him. But you have the right of it. I fear he's not been discreet, not when he banished the earl of Bryn, not when he sent Parsynan out in disgrace."
"What dared we hope?" Efanor asked. "Discretion hasn't yet dawned on him."
"But, damn them, he's an assurance for our safety, if they understand him well enough, where he is. Maurylheld the old tower with never a bleat from Ryssand. What's changed?"
"Ryssand's ambition," Efanor said.
"Perhaps Tristen is the reason we hear from Tasmôrden now," Ninévrisë said softly. "Fear of what rises in Amefel. Perhaps Tasmôrden understands the new lord in Amefel very well indeed."
"So would Ryssand fear the new lord in Amefel, though for different reasons. Heurged me appoint Parsynan to the post, and I never asked. I never had the full accounting of the archive in Henas-'amef; I never had the full account of Heryn Aswydd's dealings, or where the gold flowed, and in Ryssand's uncommonattachment to Amefel, Ryssand's uncommonfear for Parsynan's safety. Gods know whether we'll ever get it out of the records, not since Ryssand's man went through them. But Ryssand can't touch Tristen—even without this army of alliance he's building—and gods help Ryssand if Ryssand ever struck at me: I don't know if I could restrain Tristen. Surely Ryssand knows that."
"But is it to the good of Ylesuin," Efanor persisted, "if we let the old power wake. Yes, Mauryl was in his tower, but he was quiet in his tower. Is it the gods' will… or is it some other will that guides this? I confess to you, brother,—I am not wholly at peace with this. I trustthe lord of Amefel, I trust him for his honor and for his goodwill—but he is—"
Efanor broke off, and left it unsaid, what Tristen was, or might be.
Sihhë?
The High King of the Elwynim?
"He is," Cefwyn said with a sigh, "Tristen. That says all. It says all he knows, more to the point."
"Are we sure?" Efanor asked. "Is it the man we know, who drove Parsynan from the town?"
"Oh, yes," Cefwyn said on a long breath. "Beyond any doubt. No temporizing, no debate. It was his best decision. Gods give us all the courage."
"Gods grant us the wisdom," Efanor said pointedly, "to apply it in due season. And thank the gods there's only one Tristen. Two would be—excessive."
"There were five, once," Ninévrisë said in the ensuing silence, "Five, if he is what most think."
"Gods save us from such days," Efanor said. "And I ask, in all, honesty, in all regard for one who's served you very well… is it; wise to lean for safety on this friend of ours, even willing the best; for us, as perhaps he does? He isMauryl's, if he is anyone's. And' Mauryl, whatever else, was not necessarily a friend of our house."
"An ally of necessity," Cefwyn said. He had not approached Efanor with his own fears in that regard, and perhaps that was a mistake on his part. Efanor was devout; but indeed, Efanor was emerging from a young man's religious innocence to a sober awareness of the power inside the Quinaltine, and its warfare with the Crown. He had seen firsthand the consequences of Lewenbrook, when an army came back after an encounter with sorcery. Efanor understood that sort of warfare, and when they came to a question of Tristen's involvement—the question was there, and it hung silent in the air a moment.
"I trust him," Ninévrisë said. " Ibelieve in him."
"So do we all. So do we all," Cefwyn said, and wished to say it, with all his heart. "He won't betray us. We'll have our army yet, damn Ryssand's conniving heart. He's failed in slandering you. Now he'll raise complaints about Tristen. That's exactly where this is; going. I can see it, right under the surface. Tristen's in the wrong and these saintly men he brings to argue how they were wronged—"
"Don't set your mind too early," Ninévrisë cautioned. "This peace—"
"This peacehe claims to bring," Cefwyn began, but a page hovered in the doorway. "Well? Well?"
The boy tried to say a word, but Idrys appeared behind him and simply moved the boy aside. "My lord king," Idrys said, and drew in a man in the habit of the Quinalt, a lay brother, a fearful and woebegone young man.
"That's very well, Deisin," Cefwyn said to the page. It was the presence of the priest that the young man very wisely doubted as legitimate or wanted, but the page drew back and Idrys escorted the priest in.
"It's good you came," Cefwyn said peevishly. The lack of warning about Ryssand was not Idrys' best work, by far, but Cefwyn bit back any harsher word.