Fortress of Eagles by C. J. Cherryh Page A

crowned himself, on the field, and that meant Cefwyn had not taken the Crown of Ylesuin from the hands of His Holiness. The Quinaltine Patriarch had wanted Cefwyn to come into the Quinaltine shrine and have the Patriarch set the crown on him all over again. But Cefwyn had not been willing to be crowned twice; so he had only taken the northern barons’ oaths of fealty in a Quinaltine ceremony, those who had not sworn already in the south. “Will it make the Patriarch happier?”
    â€œIf you could do that, if you could simply stand with the court, if we could quiet the general fears that the king and his house as well as his bride will go off to be Bryaltines or worse, that all the south will break out in magic like a pox, why, then, gods, yes, it would make him happier. If we win the Holy Father, then Murandys and Nelefreíssan, and finally ever Ryssand must fall in line. The lords break every law of the Quinalt themselves almost every day and twice on holidays, but they fear heresy. They do honestly fear it…as if the gods being waked up by another man’s sins should then notice all that they do amiss. The Holy Father has his own methods, the Quinalt being the holder of all treaties, and if he approves, then he will bring the rest of them into order.” Cefwyn drew a great breath and gave him a long, solemn stare. “You are the most unskilled liar ever I knew. But if you could take only a little instruction, learn what will be done, stand quietly, do nothing wizardous…”
    â€œI am no wizard, my lord. I am not.”
    â€œNo wizard as Emuin is no cleric. If someone were to show you what to do, and when to stand and when to appear to pray…make the gesture…make the people sure you are not of wizardous substance, that you will not burst into flame or break out in warts. You don’t have to convince the Holy Father. The Holy Father well understands political religiosity. He respects it—he frankly prefers it to devout faith in those he supports. What will win him is your making the offering, showing respect for his authority—publicly bowing to him.”
    â€œOught I?”
    â€œFor me. For Her Grace.”
    â€œThen easily. I might go to the Quinaltine and meet the Patriarch and swear to him if you wished.”
    â€œNo. No. No. Know this. His Holiness is Sulriggan’s cousin. He will never be your friend Never expect that. Say nothing but good day to His Holiness or any priest, on any occasion.”
    Sulriggan again. He was a very troublesome man, the lord of Llymaryn, not attending court this winter, in Cefwyn’s extreme displeasure, after he had left the court of Amefel in disfavor. He was never guilty of treason. When Cefwyn had great need of every man he could muster, Sulriggan had not been there, had suffered no wounds at Lewenbrook, where the southern barons had proven their courage; and in shame, Sulriggan had sat all autumn in Llymaryn, with even Efanor angry at him. That much was no inconvenience to anyone.
    But that His Holiness the Patriarch of the Quinalt was Sulriggan’s cousin, and the king must court him, that was terrible news. No one had told him that. It made matters very much more difficult.
    â€œI would become Bryalt like Her Grace. I could do that. I could say I was Quinalt. If I am to lie, had I not as well swear to the Quinalt?”
    Cefwyn looked as if he had swallowed something startling and uncomfortable. Idrys had lingered at the doors, throughout, and looked askance when he said that.
    â€œAs well slip a raven in amongst the doves,” Idrys said. “ That would be a sight.”
    â€œThat, form master crow.” Cefwyn said, in the way he and Idrys were accustomed to trade barbs. “I slip your black presence in amongst the pious priests and they bear it.”
    â€œI am no wizard,” Idrys said, “nor reputed to be dead.”
    â€œMind your tongue!” Cefwyn’s order was not