Fortress of Dragons by C. J. Cherryh Page A

breath, and another one.
    It was a fine morning, in very truth—a peaceful, a glorious, a safe morning, leisured instead of idle…he had never before understood the distinction in those two Words, until he had found time to draw breath.
    â€œNo alarms,” Uwen said cheerfully, over buttered bread, “and Her Grace ain’t seduced the guards yet.”
    Tristen knew the power of Orien’s persuasions. She had bent her thoughts on him once, though to little result.
    And it was indeed worth his concern, regarding anyone set to watch her.
    Also the lords had all seen her arrival…and they had had few questions last night, considering his long ride, but they would have them before the morning was over. That Orien reported an assault on a shrine in Guelessar, just across the border, seemed credible, but it was still to doubt.
    And they had not even heard the matter Tarien brought.
    So, breakfasted, dressed, with Uwen off about his duties, he resolved to gain some of those answers from the question that was Orien. He was sure of himself, at least, that she could not charm him into compliance, or overwhelm him with sorcery: she had tried both when he was far more innocent, even then to no avail. If he had fear for his men, he had none at all for himself, nor in the least doubted he could deal with the ladies.
    Emuin was asleep, like Owl. So was Paisi. Outside was snow, remnant of the storm that had blown white and thick while it lasted. Now the sun was bright, and the weather seemed to have spent its momentary tantrum. Midwinter, the hinge of the year, as Emuin called it, had passed with a fury.
    And just last night they had finally gotten into shelter all the contingents of their muster that had been at risk on the road: Umanon’s heavy horse and Cevulirn’s light horsemen, both accustomed to sleep under canvas: they were safe in the camp, while Pelumer’s rangers out of Lanfarnesse would camp wherever they were. Lord Sovrag doubted the storm would have greatly delayed his boats on their journey south, for the storm wind had blown from the north, and his men, he declared, would manage come what might. So the storm that heralded Orien’s return had done nothing to disarrange his plans, and things regarding the camp were in order.
    He did not trust, however, that that was true in lands beyond his reach—clearly not so where men had assailed a nunnery and sent the twins toward his hospitality.
    â€œNews’d come welcome, out of Guelessar,” Uwen had remarked at breakfast, and in putting it that way, laid his finger on the most worrisome thing: an attack on such harmless religious women under Cefwyn’s rule, in Cefwyn’s own central province, hinted at unrest in the heart of Guelen lands, perhaps even in the capital itself. Welcome, indeed, would be the knowledge that Cefwyn was safe and taking firm, swift action there.
    There was the chance, of course, that Orien had made up the story. There remained a chance that she had done the damage to the nuns, or drawn baneful events to them for the sole purpose of setting herself and her sister free of Cefwyn’s guards.
    But whose if not Orien’s was the storm that had so cast things into confusion, and posed Orien and him alike an obstacle? The snow had begun on Midwinter Day, had gathered strength and gathered violence for days—then vanished without fuss once he had found Orien and her sister. Was she so powerful as that? She never had been…not alone.
    And whose was Owl? His , for what he could tell, but he had not planned Owl’s arrival. He had not planned the storm. He had not planned Auld Syes’ arrival in his hall on Midwinter, or the darkness and all the events and omens which had followed.
    And most of all he had not planned Tarien’s baby.
    So what Uwen had said about Guelessar and the lack of news from Cefwyn settled into his heart with a cold, persistent worry…for there was no safe way to