Free Fortress of Eagles by C. J. Cherryh Page A

Elwynor back into a union of kingdoms, as it had been one realm under the Sihhë kings. His father and grandfather had very carefully maintained a blind eye toward Sihhë symbols and remnants of the Bryaltine faith in Amefel, precisely to keep that heretic province attached to Ylesuin. And they had continually declared the Elwynim to be more or less Bryalt in hopes of fitting Elwynor into their crown: all that, they had done, and the Quinalt Patriarch had blessed their actions no matter how questionable in doctrine.
    But accepting a bride of Elwynim blood for the grandson without quite reclaiming that lost territory was pressing matters to the limit. The compact between the Marhanen kings and the Quinaltine was stretched thinner than at any time in Ylesuin’s brief history.
    And pigeons now shat upon the Quinalt’s porch, by petty sorcery, gods save the day.
    He had for a little while avoided being in public with his old friends. See, he would say to the Guelenfolk, who were the heart of Ylesuin, nothing has changed. The gods favor the king and the Quinalt, and there will be peace with Elwynor…
    After a small war.
    There will be piety and fear of the gods…
    But remembering the enemy’s wizardry, why, we do have wizards. Be assured they are quiet once. Pray excuse the pigeons.
    Ignore the slight grayness of master Emuin. Ignore the very conspicuous darkness of the banner of the Lord Marshal of Althalen, alike the new Warden of Ynefel, resurrected from anathema and death itself…I had never planned to love him like a brother.
    Worst of all—there was claimant for the throne of Elwynor that he both believed and feared was the fulfillment of the prophecy—he knew, and Emuin and Idrys knew, and Ninévrisë herself knew, but he was far from sure Tristen knew.
    And he could think of few things that would make Tristen more miserable.
    It was almost time. He walked the long corridor from his private office toward the state halls, a vast, well-lighted corridor of fine that windows with the royal Dragon blazing gold on red, Marhanen heraldry all but dimmed now as sunset shone like fire in the two clear panes to either side.
    He saw commotion at the doors ahead. Arrivals had begun. Efanor, he discovered, had come in early, but not too early, and Cefwyn met his brother with a warm embrace, a genuine embrace—though the ornate and overlarge Quinalt medallion Efanor affected turned between them as they met and stabbed painfully through the velvet. Efanor flattened it to him and renewed the embrace, laughing.
    â€œDid the books come, the two from the south?” Efanor asked.
    â€œHave they come? I’ve not seen them, gods, when shall I have the leisure for books again? Annas!” he hailed his chamberlain, who passed down the hall at a fair clip, shepherding servants and pages who should not be in the receiving hall, gods alone knew why the young fools had chosen that traverse precisely as guests arrived. “Annas, where are these books my brother sent?”
    â€œIn the library, my lord king.” This on the retreat, pages scattering.
    â€œIn the library. Why the library, for the gods’ sake?” He was promised a first text of the natural philosopher Manystys Aldun, observations of the ocean he had never seen. Efanor had recovered his summer baggage out of now-disgraced Llymaryn, and with it, his forgotten birthday gift, arriving in a pack train which must finally have reached the capital. Cefwyn had waited for it for months…was eager to read the text…when he might find the time. Being king, he had not his books in his room—but in some damned great room full of books where he could find nothing.
    But then Emuin arrived, far from the dire condition Idrys’ report had led him to believe…looking a little like an owl roused by daylight, true, and a little windblown, but properly scrubbed and tidy. His beard, whiter this fall than its previous