Fortress of Dragons by C. J. Cherryh Page A

knows what they did.”
    â€œHis Majesty doesn’t know about the child?” asked Umanon.
    â€œHe last saw the lady this summer,” Cevulirn said. “So did we all.”
    â€œThere’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’t know. But someone may.”
    â€œCuthan,” Tristen said, provoking another hush. “I think Cuthan kept her informed, and informed himself.”
    â€œThen Parsynan might know,” Prushan said.
    It was true. It was entirely possible.
    â€œMarhanen issue with an Aswydd and a witch to boot,” Pelumer murmured. “The Quinalt will be aghast.”
    â€œNot only the Quinaltine,” Umanon said, who was Quinalt himself. “Any man of sense is aghast. How many months is she gone?”
    â€œEight,” Emuin said.
    â€œGods save us,” Umanon said, letting go his breath. “Gods save Ylesuin.”
    â€œAnd gods save Her Grace,” Sovrag muttered, for Sovrag adored Ninévrisë. “ There’s a 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.
    â€œThe 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 that is unfortunate.”
    No one had thought of that. Tristen had not. The stares of those present were at first puzzled, then alarmed.
    â€œWe’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?”
    â€œNo 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.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œA witch,” Sovrag said, “no less; a sorceress. And what’s our blessed chance it’s a daughter?”
    â€œSmall,” Emuin said, hedging the point.
    â€œIt is a son,” Tristen said bluntly. “And he has the gift.”
    Another murmur broke out, with no few pious gestures against harm. Blow after blow he had delivered to the alliance, with no amelioration, and he had nothing good to offer except that the lady and Cefwyn’s son were not at this moment in Elwynor, in Tasmôrden’s hands.
    â€œThere’s some as’d drop the Aswyddim both down a deep well,” Sovrag said. “And solve our problems at one stroke.”
    Tristen shook his head, lifted his hand to appeal for silence, and Owl bated and settled again on his shoulder. “No,” he said in the stillness he obtained.
    â€œYe’re too good,” Sovrag said. “Give ’em to my charge. My lads’ll take ’em downriver, an’ they’ll go overboard with no qualms at all.”
    â€œNo,” Tristen said again, and the gray space came to life. The hall seemed a hall of statues, everything set, the very pillars of the roof and the occupants of the hall