Crissand was not the only absent earl of Amefel—there was in fact a general scarcity of local faces, not that the earldoms had no interest in the current matter: indeed, they had a more acute concern in Orien Aswydd's return than did the dukes of the southern provinces, who had never been under her rule. But most of the Amefin court had gone out to see to their lands and villages after Midwinter Day, attending ordinary needs and necessities, and traditional observances—in truth, more than one of them simply disappearing from court much as Crissand had done, with no more leave: Tristen reminded himself it was the habit of the court, that no one had ever held them to any different courtesy, and that it was not so different with Crissand—but he knew and Crissand knew that there was an assumption between them that demanded a leave-taking, and that had not been satisfied.
So, too, likely Crissand and likely the other absent earls would be slower returning than they had planned, thanks to the unexpectedly heavy snow: and there was serious business to do out in the villages, plans to make for the spring, justice to hear, even winter weddings… all such things the earls had under their hand, and reasonable enough they rode out after the Midwinter festival to see to their duties—if Crissand had ridden to his own lands, to Meiden.
He had not.
So now with Crissand and Drumman both out among the snowdrifts and the wretched roads, it fell to old Earl Prushan to stand by his duke's right hand, an honor usually several degrees of precedence removed from that good old man… in fact, beside Prushan, next, were only a handful of the lesser earls and the ealdormen of the town, a set of faces all grave and curious, all come to hear the circumstances of Lady Orien's uninvited return… but not the representation of the highest lords in Amefel that Tristen would have wished. It was instead the gathering from Lewenbrook, the southern army, the neighbors, who came to him at his call.
How many of the earls had gotten wind of Orien Aswydd and absented themselves?
Fearing what? Had they not seen Auld Syes enter the hall on Midwinter Eve? Had they not seen enough strange things in this turning of the year to send them uneasy sleep?
A whisper of wind wafted past Tristen's head. Owl swooped down and lit on his forearm, piercing his flesh with sharp talons, caring not a whit for his discomfort, it was certain. He was more and more distressed, and yet refrained from a general call into the gray space, a shout to rouse all that was his against all that was Orien Aswydd's.
"Last night," Tristen began, addressing those who had come, the locals, and the southerners, "last night I heard travelers in the storm, and I found Orien and Tarien Aswydd walking toward the town. They say armed men burned the convent at Anwyfar, and killed their nurse along with the nuns there. They say they had a horse at first, and lost it, and walked the rest of the way, hoping for shelter here. I don't think it's a lie, how they came here. But they're not welcome guests. They're still under Cefwyn's law. I had nowhere to send them, but I don't set them free."
"Send them to Elwynor," was the immediate suggestion, from more than one voice, and others had a more direct suggestion: "Better if they'd burned."
"Point o' that—who burned Anwyfar?" Sovrag asked, above the rest, and that was the question.
"Who burned Anwyfar?" Tristen echoed the question. "Orien said it was Guelen Guard, Cefwyn's men—that it was Captain Essan."
"Essan!" old Prushan exclaimed, and no few with him. The earls knew the name, if the dukes of the south did not, and for a moment there was a general murmur.
"There's another should have hanged," someone said. "Turned right to banditry."
"I know Cefwyn didn't order it," Tristen said. "If he wanted to kill them, he certainly didn't need to send men to burn a Teranthine shrine and kill all the nuns, who never did him any harm."
"Ryssand," said the Bryaltine abbot, standing forward, hands tucked in sleeves. "Ryssandish, it might well be. Parsynan was Ryssand's man, and every other trouble he visited on us Captain Essan had a hand in. And why not this?"
The ealdormen thought so. There were nods of heads, a small, unhappy stir.
"And what when the king in Guelessar finds it out?" Prushan asked, and Earl Drusallyn, who was almost as old: "And what when the king blames us?"
"Send 'em to Elwynor!" an ealdorman said.
And Sovrag: "Hell, send 'em to the Marhanen, done up in ribbons!"
"No," Tristen said. "No. Not Elwynor, and not Guelessar." He drew a breath, not happy in what he had to tell. "Lady Tarien's with child. Cefwyn's."
"Blessed gods," Umanon said, under the gasp and murmur of the assembly, and a deep hush fell.
"I haven't told Cefwyn yet," Tristen said. "I have to write to him, and my last messenger to Guelemara came and went in fear of his life. I don't know what's happened there, with Guelen Guard burning shrines and killing nuns. I don't know if Cefwyn knows what they did."
"His Majesty doesn't know about the child?" asked Umanon.
"He last saw the lady this summer," Cevulirn said. "So did we all."
"There's the gift in both of them," Emuin said in the low murmur of voices. "What they didn't want noticed, even the ladies of the convent might not have noticed. The king doesn'tknow. But someone may."
"Cuthan," Tristen said, provoking another hush. "I think Cuthan kept her informed, and informed himself."
"Then Parsynan might know," Prushan said.
It was true. It was entirely possible.
"Marhanen issue with an Aswydd and a witch to boot," Pelumer murmured. "The Quinalt will be aghast."
"Not only the Quinaltine," Umanon said, who was Quinalt himself. "Any man of sense is aghast. How many months is she gone?"
"Eight," Emuin said.
"Gods save us," Umanon said, letting go his breath. "Gods save Ylesuin."
"And gods save Her Grace," Sovrag muttered, for Sovrag adored Ninévrisë. " There'sa damn tangle for us."
What indeed would Ninévrisë say? Tristen asked himself in deep distress. What indeed could she say? She loved Cefwyn, and eight months was before they were married and before Cefwyn ever laid eyes on her—from that far back a folly arrived to confound them all.
And folly it was. Cefwyn had not done it on his own, he was surer and surer of that: Cefwyn, who had not a shred of wizard-gift, was utterly deaf and blind to the workings of wizardry, but not immune: no man was immune, and there was every reason in the world these two women had worked to snare him and cause this.
"The legitimate succession in Ylesuin," Cevulirn said, "was already in question, with the Quinalt contesting Her Grace at every turn, and them wanting to refuse the war if they can't have the land they take. The unhappy result is that there is no settlement on an heir in the marriage agreement. And thatis unfortunate."
No one had thought of that. Tristen had not. The stares of those present were at first puzzled, then alarmed.
"We're to fight a war to bring the Elwynim under Her Grace's hand," Umanon said, "and now Tarien Aswydd bears a pretender to Ylesuin?"
"No legal claim," Pelumer said, "since there was no legal union, no matter the vagueness of the marriage treaty. In either case, there is an heir: Efanor."
"But the Aswydds claim royalty," Umanon said, "and royalty on both sides of the blanket, as it were. It's not as if our good king found some maid in a haystack. This is troublesome."
"A witch," Sovrag said, "no less; a sorceress. And what's our blessed chance it's a daughter?"
"Small," Emuin said, hedging the point.
"It is a son," Tristen said bluntly. "And he has the gift."