All she said was true, the depth of his betrayal of her had filled his heart and warped his thinking, and he grasped at her logic as a drowning man to a life rope.
"When a battle begins," she continued, "the archers go first, don't they?"
"So as not to hit their own men, yes, commonly they go first." He knew it was not archers she meant, but he followed her where she led, and answered honestly and soberly, looking into gray eyes that hinted, to his mind, of violets.
"I think," she said, "I think we are seeing the archers of this spring."
"Precursors to the attack?"
"I think sorcery's not done with us. Lewenbrook was the beginning of it. After the archers, what would you look for?"
"The flying attacks. The cavalry."
"And the battle line behind that. Well screened, not evident."
"Archery," he echoed, thinking that it was like that, bolts seemingly random, but to the advantage of Ryssand, all to Ryssand's and Tasmôrden's advantage. Except Ryssand had lost his son, and perhaps suffered doubts in Efanor's approaches, as if perhaps there was advantage he could gain. His enemies were not unscathed, so not everything had gone their way.
But right now Ryssand hoped only to confuse matters and gather power into his hands in the confusion. Even if he had won the encounter with Ryssand and cast doubts on the offer, his lords were surely still tempted by this peace, this offer of dividing Elwynor into parcels one of which would be theirs, new lands, new honors, new titles. It had been hard enough to lead men to war with no promise of gain… and now if their enemy offered peace and a third of the contested lands, the only barb in the bait his own men would see was the fact Tasmôrden was akin to the hated Bryalt and probably employed sorcery.
He had hit that point hard tonight. He had, he hoped, made them see it.
But that meant that his own likeliest allies against this damnable treaty Cuthan brought were, ironically, the same orthodox Guelen priests that had opposed Ninévrisë's marriage in the first place. The orthodoxy that so narrowly had voted to confirm his nomination of Jormys for Patriarch were more than unlikely bedfellows for him: they were snakes in the sheets. Snuggle close to them, and he was sure they still could bite, and would, irrational in their abhorrence of all things foreign… and would they find tolerance for foreignness across the river to be rid of foreignness in the royal bed?
And now, at the moment when all these things were true, when he needed be Guelen to the core and most needed to be able to restrain these skittish, volatile barons from a headlong rush toward Tasmôrden's lure of profitable peace, lo!… he had a half-sorcerous son about to be born, and rumor about to break forth in Amefel, of all places.
Give it a fortnight, and Ninévrisë was right. If the rumor needed walk barefoot from Amefel, it would reach Lord Ryssand.
Thank the gods he had the letter, he thought. And then, Thank Tristen. They were ahead of the rumor by some few days, if the gods were good; and Ninévrisë had not had to hear the news first in hall, to be assailed by thaton Ryssand's lips.
"There's one thing I can do," he said, "that will dash cold water on this peace."
"Attack?" She looked at him in puzzlement. "The snow's not stopped."
"The snow will keep my contentious lords busy… or have them forsworn, Ryssand with them. I'll have the army on the march and damn the weather, damn the ice, and damn the opposition."
"The loyal will go and suffer. Ryssand and his allies will dispute you, and if you've sent the like of Panys and the loyal men to the river, and have only Ryssand and his friends in court…"
There was such shrewd judgment in so sweet a face. He gazed at it in deep consciousness of his good fortune.
"I can deal with Ryssand," he said. "Only so my friends stand by me."
"That I will," Ninévrisë said, "to the gates of Ilefínian."
"No!"
"To my capital."
He had met the Regent of Elwynor at hisgates when first he laid eyes on her, muddy-skirted, leading men to conference or to certain death, and it was that look she had now. His better sense wanted to deny her, the more so since she spoke of carrying his child. His better sense ached even at the thought of her riding, in the winter, and in hardship, and into war.
But she was no fooclass="underline" she had proven that at Lewenbrook, obeyed orders like a soldier and kept her post; and could any man who had been on that field deny any heart that had known that danger, no matter the fear he had for her?
"To your capital," he said. "To the promise I made you." He had kept that, at least, and meant to keep the rest he had sworn to her, if it cost him a son.
But Ryssand would do anything to prevent him.
And he was within a very little now of calling Idrys and bidding him do that which he had resisted doing: arranging Ryssand's lasting absence. But he did not.
But now, considering his grandfather's example, a man who had died abed and at an old age, with a kingdom at peace… he was not sure whether, in a king, it was not a mortal sin to refrain from that order.
CHAPTER 10
The hills of Amefel north of the town were utterly changed in their outlines, white and rounded, small trees covered. The road had become a zigzag of sharp-edged small drifts, but Dys' great feet thumped through them with ease and enthusiasm, and even on so grim a mission, Tristen found it a rare pleasure to break through these barriers of winter, he and Uwen, and the small number of Amefin guard behind them… pleasure amid grimmer intent, for it was Crissand's point of encounter with trouble they sought, and the band who had fired at him in the dark and the storm.
That answer might easily lie in error on both sides: they went to confirm that hope at Althalen—for it was quite possible that Aeself's men and Crissand had had a near pass, one with the other.
But in case that was not the source of the arrows, and to be sure of the safety of Modeyneth and Anwyll's camp, at the far end of the road, Tristen had requested a band of Ivanim light horse, armed and ready for encounter, to ride out ahead of him and assure themselves that things were well in that direction.
He rode out himself, then, for he had the gift to know who was in the land, far better than any scout, and Cevulirn himself had volunteered to stand by Tassand and Lusin in administering things in Henas'amef while he was gone… for Lusin and his company had become far too useful there, Crissand was still nursing his wound, and wished to go, but Emuin called it folly, and it afflicted him most when he sat a horse, so there he stayed in the town, assisting Cevulirn and overseeing Tassand's oversight.
So Tristen had no doubt at all in his riding out that he had left the town in good hands—no slight to Uwen, who had not had the authority Cevulirn had, when the Patriarch had deserted the town: not even Cevulirn could have prevented that disaster.
Uwen was glad to be with him, all the same, and said so.
"As I ain't set to be any town mayor, nor ever will be, and gods save me, I didn't know what I was to do when His Reverence up and went."
"No more than I could have done," Tristen said, "except I used magic, and that wouldn't have been wise, would it?"
"Not if His Reverence knew't," Uwen said, "but happens as most times folk don't know, do they?"
"I don't," Tristen said as they rode. "I don't wish people to do things or not to do them. It doesn't seem polite."