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.“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 Guelessar or 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.Small chance the remnant of the loyal army would come east to cast themselves on Guelessar’s mercy, or that of Murandys.They would go to Tristen.And Ninévrisë’s eyes were aglow with hope, for the first time since the news had come to them.“Tasmôrden’s men will loot everything they can,” Ninévrisë said.“Aséyneddin had some good men, but Tasmôrden scoured the leavings of three armies.He’ll be in Ilefínian till he’s looted what’s there, and he’ll not have his army sober again until they’ve done their worst…so there’ll be no pursuing anyone.They have a chance.”And failing that, there was a wall at Modeyneth, gods save them: the old Sihhë defense, for Althalen of the last High King had had no walls, only Barrakkêth’s defenses, that wall that ran among the hills of Amefel.It had fallen into ruin even by the latter days of the Sihhë High Kings.Now a band of Amefin peasants wielding picks and axes were remaking it.And was it chance that Tristen had thought of that wall?Barrakkêth.First of the Sihhë-lords, Barrakkêth the warlord…whose black banners had swept every field, whose iron hand had struck down his enemies without pity.He sat with Ninévrisë considering the letters.He sent a page for hot tea, against the chill of the dark.Rain made a cold, rattling sound against the windows.“He might bring them to him,” Ninévrisë said.“He might even wish them there, once he knows.”And could he say it was wrong, what Tristen had done? “Never say so,” Cefwyn said, “even in the sodden father’s hearing, but I hope he does.”The world had gone differently since his grandfather’s day, when his grandfather had used wizards’ help to win his war…much differently than the Sihhë-lord Tashânen’s day, when wizard-work had exceeded siegecraft.Once magic entered the lists, the advantage shifted incalculably.Running feet, a boy’s feet.It was not the tea that arrived, but more news in the rainy night.“His Holiness,” a page said from the door.“My lord king, Your Grace, excuse me.His Holiness is coming up the stairs.”In this weather?“Bring a lap robe, mulled wine…Where’s the damned tea, do you know?”“No, my lord king, please you.”“Then find it! Bring me what I ordered!”The boy fled.He had shouted at the lad.He had not meant to.But if the Patriarch of the Quinalt had met with the patriarch of Amefel and had something to say to him, he wanted nothing out of joint.He went swiftly to the door, leaned out it to shout again.“Boy! Advise Annas! Get me my guard!”“He’s heard from the priests in Amefel,” Ninévrisë said faintly, from her chair.“Oh, I don’t doubt he has.” He returned to his seat.The page, forbidden to shout in the royal apartments, ran, steps echoing in the hall.“Don’t fear.Idrys will have it all in hand.The Patriarch himself isn’t to trifle with, and he’s on our side, or I’ll see to it Sulriggan sits on a bridge this winter.”The tea arrived at the same time the head of his bodyguard came in, Nydas, on night watch, who never excelled at soft-footed approach, and he came in a hurry.The hall had more traffic than High Street at noonday.“My lord king.”“Tell Idrys the Patriarch’s here.That’s all.He’ll know what this is about.”Annas had appeared behind Nydas, a head and shoulders shorter.“Annas.The Patriarch.”“Yes, my lord king.”“Shall I stay?” Ninévrisë asked, with more prudence than he had thought of, and made him suddenly realize, gods, no, the Patriarch would not confess before a Bryaltine and a foreigner and a woman.His Holiness was bought, sealed, and paid for, but Annas and Efanor were the limit of his tolerance for such meetings: guards, pages, and priests failed to count as persons…Idrys not excepted, in that sense.But Ninévrisë…no.“Love,” he said, catching her hands [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]