Fortress of Eagles by C. J. Cherryh Page B

humorous, now.
    â€œReputed, I say, my lord king. Reputed is the simple truth, which the lord of Althalen would by no means deny.”
    â€œDead, sir, I am not sure of.”
    â€œGods.” Cefwyn’s hand rested on Tristen’s back. “My good friend. My friend most innocent. And yet grown far more clever. Gods, if for fifteen days, a gloss of piety…an instruction. Merely an instruction in the ceremonies. It would tantalize the barons with doubts…distract all gossip from Ninérisë…”
    â€œMy lord king,” Idrys objected.
    â€œNo, now, a gloss, is all. Efanor will always discuss religion…would deliver him sermons for hours if Tristen were willing, at least to make him aware of the forms and the rites. If’t would raise no apparitions, no blackening of the offerings, no souring of the wine,…”
    â€œNo, my lord king,” Idrys said firmly. “No, no, and no.”
    â€œThe Patriarch is a practical man, a shrewd man. He knows what there is to gain and lose. A little gesture, no deception at all…simply a due respect…”
    â€œMuch to lose,” Idrys said. “Do not trust His Holiness.”
    â€œOh, never. Never. He never deludes me. But he quite confessedly finds my brother’s honest devotion far more dangerous to him than a host of Emuins and the entire Teranthine brotherhood. Or the Bryaltine. Did you know my father tried to have me declared a bastard? And His Holiness would not. His Holiness does not want a truly religious man. He does not want my brother, and if he would understand that Tristen is doing this only to please the Quinalt, gods, flatter the old fox…”
    â€œYet he must have appearances. By every tenet of the Quinaltine, he cannot countenance a Sihhë-lord beneath his roof!”
    â€œAppearances indeed. His Holiness dares not disillusion Efanor, but no more dares he see Efanor on the throne; and he knows now he cannot cozen me, threaten my friends, and still maintain his income. He damned well will find a niche in his piety for the Sihhë, such a fine niche it will cover and explain the Quinalt’s murder of them at Althalen and its approval of my grandfather while it explains its acceptance of Tristen of Ynefel whom— whom we have never proven is Sihhë. It may take Quinalt scholars a month and a wagonload of parchment, but when the Quinalt covers its own sins, it covers them in ink, in seas and oceans of ink, deep enough for fishes. So, yes, yes, Tristen, my dear friend, yes, if you could find it in you to listen to my brother’s pious instruction, learn the forms enough to go through them, gods! if you could publicly wear some trinket of a relic to prove it will not blast you, if you could attend in chapel and not provoke omens…a convert—gods, a Sihhë convert. What would the Holy Father do?”
    â€œOne cannot imagine,” Idrys said dryly, and in no greater approval, so that Tristen himself had doubts.
    But Cefwyn showed none at all. “A Sihhë convert, a donation, a royal abbey…that would salve the wound of the coronation I wouldn’t let the old fox do over. Gods, more than justify the Sihhë in the Quinaltine. If they make a way in for Tristen, the heresy of the whole of Elwynor becomes a trifle. We could see Ylesuin and Elwynor together accommodated in a doctrine that could admit you, my friend. A month or two, a few donations, is all you would have to endure, attending ceremonies with the court, being punctilious in your observances—”
    â€œHazardous,” Idrys said.
    â€œBut filing in with the court, out with the court, bowing when the court bows, attached to my brother’s well-known, prickly piety… Efanor’s convert. And my brother is Marhanen. Efanor will know exactly the stakes. Religious that he is, I shall have him simply to understand this is political—he will still try to secure Tristen’s soul,