truth than the maneuvering of the ball, and wondering why at long last Emuin, who shied from discussing wizardry directly even with him, had suddenly spoken in council and employed this trickery of the eye.
Was it because he had resolved to speak out the truth to these men, and Emuin followed him?
Emuin made a final flourish, hurled the ball at the wall, making the assembly at that side flinch.
Nothing hit. Nothing happened.
"Don't trust your eyes," Emuin said, serenely passing the silver ball from finger to finger, to the assembly's disquiet. A glow possessed his hand, which vanished. So did the ball. "Don't believe what you see. Don't believe what you suspect. Listen to your lord."
A stillness followed.
"Your Grace," old Pelumer said then, "what about Orien Aswydd in our midst, telling whoever might want to know all she can see here?
There's the depths of cellars. I'm sure the town itself has a number of them that could host the lady. I'm sure the Zeide has."
"I'd rather have her here," Tristen said, "over all, I'd rather have her fortress of dragons.html
where master Emuin can keep an eye on her."
Master Emuin snorted. "Great good that will do."
"But while they're here, Tasmôrden can't get his hands on His Majesty's child," Cevulirn said, "which would be disaster if it happened. And if we place the Aswydds somewhere we can't watch, there's a greater chance he might reach them."
"When he does know," Umanon said, "he's bound to be sure the whole world knows. Her Grace of Elwynor a bride, and a queen without a title, and now there's a bastard in the Marhanen line, out of an Aswydd sorceress, no less, and will the Quinalt abide it? I don't think so."
"Sink 'er," Sovrag said. "I tell ye, that's the way out o' this muddle."
"Oh, aye," Emuin said. "We have that choice: kill the child, or let it live: two choices more: kill the sisters or let them live; and again, two choices: keep them prisoner or let them free. The child is male, and has the wizard-gift, and she claims it's His Majesty's. Again two choices: believe her or don't believe. Those are your choices, lords of the south, eight choices we all have, but not a precious one else can I think of."
"Do you doubt her?" Umanon asked.
"I believe her," Tristen said, "and I know her son has the gift. In the storm I thought there were three; and there were only Orien and Tarien when I found them. I felt it again when I spoke with them. I have no doubt at all."
"And doubt as to the father?"
"I never felt they were lying." Tristen watched Owl wander down to his hand and he lifted it to oblige Owl, as claws pricked uncomfortably through the fabric of his sleeve. Owl arrived at his fingers, and swiveled his head about to regard him with a mad, ruffled stare, as if utterly astonished by the things he heard—before he bent and bit, cruelly hard.
He tossed Owl aloft, and Owl fluttered and flew for a ledge.
The eight choices Emuin named, whether those present thought of it or not, were the same choices Emuin had had in Selwyn's time— the choices Emuin had had when he killed a prince of the house of Elfwyn, the last High King, the last reigning descendant of the Sihhë.
fortress of dragons.html
Gentle Emuin had killed a child.
And Mauryl, the Mauryl who had fostered him, had ordered it.
He stared at the wound Owl had made, blood, that smeared his fingertips: he worked them back and forth, and looked up where Owl had settled.
Wake, Owl seemed to say to him. Rule. Decide. Blood will attend either choice.
He drew a breath, looked at the solemn, shocked faces of the assembly, with the blood sticky on his fingertips… and knew that the question was Orien Aswydd.
"She won't rule here again," he told the assembly. "Cefwyn set her aside. Now I do." And as he said it he made that doom certain with all his force, all the might that was in him. Emuin turned in alarm and mouthed a caution, half lifting a warding hand, for Emuin above all others felt the currents shift,
Was it because he had resolved to speak out the truth to these men, and Emuin followed him?
Emuin made a final flourish, hurled the ball at the wall, making the assembly at that side flinch.
Nothing hit. Nothing happened.
"Don't trust your eyes," Emuin said, serenely passing the silver ball from finger to finger, to the assembly's disquiet. A glow possessed his hand, which vanished. So did the ball. "Don't believe what you see. Don't believe what you suspect. Listen to your lord."
A stillness followed.
"Your Grace," old Pelumer said then, "what about Orien Aswydd in our midst, telling whoever might want to know all she can see here?
There's the depths of cellars. I'm sure the town itself has a number of them that could host the lady. I'm sure the Zeide has."
"I'd rather have her here," Tristen said, "over all, I'd rather have her fortress of dragons.html
where master Emuin can keep an eye on her."
Master Emuin snorted. "Great good that will do."
"But while they're here, Tasmôrden can't get his hands on His Majesty's child," Cevulirn said, "which would be disaster if it happened. And if we place the Aswydds somewhere we can't watch, there's a greater chance he might reach them."
"When he does know," Umanon said, "he's bound to be sure the whole world knows. Her Grace of Elwynor a bride, and a queen without a title, and now there's a bastard in the Marhanen line, out of an Aswydd sorceress, no less, and will the Quinalt abide it? I don't think so."
"Sink 'er," Sovrag said. "I tell ye, that's the way out o' this muddle."
"Oh, aye," Emuin said. "We have that choice: kill the child, or let it live: two choices more: kill the sisters or let them live; and again, two choices: keep them prisoner or let them free. The child is male, and has the wizard-gift, and she claims it's His Majesty's. Again two choices: believe her or don't believe. Those are your choices, lords of the south, eight choices we all have, but not a precious one else can I think of."
"Do you doubt her?" Umanon asked.
"I believe her," Tristen said, "and I know her son has the gift. In the storm I thought there were three; and there were only Orien and Tarien when I found them. I felt it again when I spoke with them. I have no doubt at all."
"And doubt as to the father?"
"I never felt they were lying." Tristen watched Owl wander down to his hand and he lifted it to oblige Owl, as claws pricked uncomfortably through the fabric of his sleeve. Owl arrived at his fingers, and swiveled his head about to regard him with a mad, ruffled stare, as if utterly astonished by the things he heard—before he bent and bit, cruelly hard.
He tossed Owl aloft, and Owl fluttered and flew for a ledge.
The eight choices Emuin named, whether those present thought of it or not, were the same choices Emuin had had in Selwyn's time— the choices Emuin had had when he killed a prince of the house of Elfwyn, the last High King, the last reigning descendant of the Sihhë.
fortress of dragons.html
Gentle Emuin had killed a child.
And Mauryl, the Mauryl who had fostered him, had ordered it.
He stared at the wound Owl had made, blood, that smeared his fingertips: he worked them back and forth, and looked up where Owl had settled.
Wake, Owl seemed to say to him. Rule. Decide. Blood will attend either choice.
He drew a breath, looked at the solemn, shocked faces of the assembly, with the blood sticky on his fingertips… and knew that the question was Orien Aswydd.
"She won't rule here again," he told the assembly. "Cefwyn set her aside. Now I do." And as he said it he made that doom certain with all his force, all the might that was in him. Emuin turned in alarm and mouthed a caution, half lifting a warding hand, for Emuin above all others felt the currents shift,
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