“I know the man,” Cefwyn retorted. “He’s a prig, a hardheaded and objectionable man. And a deserter, is it? A captain of the Guelens, a deserter.”

“The man with the mother says they aren’t deserters, but disguised themselves, and he professes not to know anything, except they went with Lord Tristen’s permission, and met with the patriarch at Clusyn. It was, he says, the patriarch’s idea to disguise themselves, but he had his captain’s permission to go on, because of his mother.”

“Did he come with them?”

“A very interesting point. He came just after Lord Tristen’s message and Anwyll’s. Thesecame by the same man, Dragon Guard, from the river.”

“From the river.”

“So the man says. Lord Tristen was there. Meanwhile the patriarch took to the road—whether Lord Tristen was in Henas’amef or not at the time remains unclear. And if we believe the man with the mother, they disguised themselves and the patriarch, and came as fast as they could.”

“With Tristen’s permission, while he was at the river for some godsforsaken reason.”

“The story is tangled, admittedly. I’d suggest, modestly, my lord king read the letters.”

“You haven’t.”

“I was inquiring after the patriarch. First the messenger through the gates, by a quarter hour later the man with the mother, and half an hour after that, in this weather, draggled and soggy, the Amefin patriarch and the rest of the men. We’d not have known, necessarily, except the one man wearing his colors reported to his regiment first, as he should have, and the captain of the Guelens fortunately had his wits about him and sent for me.” Idrys was dripping on the tiles, as happened… had had no cloak, by the soaking he had had, and a cold rain. Idrys had wasted no time on either end of his passage.

“Your best guess, crow. Guesses, now. Free for the making.”

“I don’t believe any of it. I think our man with the sick mother wants to reach her, doesn’t want to entangle himself—that part of the story is true—with the business at the Quinalt. He’s scared. The regimental captain had sent to know about the mother, who wasill, that was true; but recovered; she was at her house, knows nothing of all this, likely doesn’t know her son’s in the town. I’ve a handful of pieces with no ends that match.”

“I agree. The whole pack is lying in some fashion, and Tristen didn’t send them—no, he sent the man with the mother. I can guess that. He would. Stay. Let me read this.”

“Read, my lord king. I’ve an order to pass, by your leave, maybe a report to receive, and I’ll be back before you finish.”

What order that was he did not ask. The deserters had better secure sanctuary at the gods’ own altar before Idrys laid hands on them, Cefwyn thought to himself, for there was fire in Idrys’ eye.

Ilefínian has fallen. I write this from Anwyll’s camp at the river, where Cevulirn has set Ivanim archers to watch the bridges…

Cevulirn was with Tristen. Anwyll’s camp at the river. The names rang like blessed bells, familiar and sounding of protection, safety, matters well in hand… the two most loyal of his lords, aware of the calamity and taking precautions.

I have set the thane of Modeyneth to be the new earl of Bryn. His name is Drusenan. His wife is Elwynim. He lives in the village.

I have found women and children fled from the fighting in Elwynor and set them in his care. Also I have ordered a wall and gate across the road there, where two hills make a natural defense. The Emwy road is warded.

Tristen broke laws. What else did he expect? Tristen appointed an unknown man to office, and he would wager there was good reason. The south was in good order—in excellent order, except he now knew his carts were farther away.

What shall I do, Tristen? was his silent appeal, which he knew Tristen would no more hear than he could understand two wizards looking at one another and nodding. I need the damn carts, Tristen. Well-done on the riverside, but my gear sits in camp, and it’s the better part of a month to move those carts here.

Idrys’ footsteps heralded his return. Cefwyn ceased reading and waited, as his Lord Commander came back to him.

“News?”

“I’ve sent a messenger to His Holiness advising him things may not be as he’s told. I hear His Reverence was muddy, lame, and bruised. The report I have says he fell off his horse.”

“Tristen couldn’t have done it. He was at the river.”

“At the river, my lord king?”

“With my carts. I know damned well that’s what he’s done. Go on.”

“He’s almost certainly here to complain of the lord of Amefel. But not even the Majesty of Ylesuin can demand entrance into the Quinaltine.”

“We can demand other things.”

“Shall I send for the Holy Father?”

“I want him there till he’s found out something. Advise him so. Get those men with him in hand. I count that a necessity. Damn them for deserters. Damn all they say.”

“And the patriarch of Amefel?”

“A knottier problem. One the Holy Father will have to solve. One he’d damned well better solve. Can you get thatto him?”

“I’ll attend to it,” Idrys said, and left. His armor had just dried from the last foray out into the wretched weather. It was unlikely he would stop this time to obtain a cloak.

There were layers of command over the Guelens, the various companies jealous of their prerogatives, the Guelens, the Dragons, the Prince’s Guard, all, all with officers reassigned and no little sorting out of men after his accession, Captain Gwywyn going to Efanor’s guard, Idrys becoming Lord Commander in Gwywyn’s place, and no great love spent on either side of that transaction. Lord Maudyn was a civilian commander on the river, where most of the Guelens were assigned, and some of the Dragons. He hoped Idrys might lay hands on the Guelens that had come in, but there was a delicate matter of protocols involved, and it was credit to Idrys’ oversight that the one man who had reported in had gained Idrys’ immediate attention—averting disaster, Cefwyn thought.

And if they had any more men sifting into Guelessar from Tristen’s command, well to send them immediately to the riverside, to work out their disaffections within sobering sight of the enemy shore.

Ninévrisë arrived in the doorway, robed for evening, her hair about her shoulders; he had not come to bed. She had waited, and he had no idea how long.

But it was not offense which had brought her.

“A page said there were dispatches.”

“Anwyll’s report,” he said, knowing Ninévrisë ached for any message, any shred or scrap of news about her kin, her people, her land and her estates, such as remained of them. “It just arrived. And a letter from Tristen.”

“All at once?” She folded her robes close about her and came to sit and see the letters, not knowing the other things. She read Anwyll’s letter first, brief as it was, and then Tristen’s, a long letter, for him.

“Cevulirn has gone there,” Ninévrisë said.

“And this is all we have,” Cefwyn said. “Look you. Not: Cevulirn arrived… or Cevulirn came to me from Guelessaror a damned scrap of information does he give! He writes worse letters than my brother!”

“He’s building a wall…”

“A royal decree, several laws, and a treaty down at a stroke. It’s the Sihhë wall he means.”

“Gods bless him!” Ninévrisë exclaimed, laying a hand on her heart. “ I have made provision for those fleeing the capital since its fall; and also for armed men loyal to Her Grace who may escape. Them I will save if I can… He understands! He’s moved to help them. A place where my men can come.” Her eyes were bright as lamps as she looked at him, and how could he say Tristen was wrong? “He can, do you think? He can have them come!”

“He might well,” he said. He envisioned an Elwynim army, the army he had hoped would rise from the villages along Ninévrisë’s route into Elwynor, but gathering in Amefel, far to the south.