Fortress in the Eye of Time

CHAPTER 22

There were dreams.

Tristen fled the clangor of metal and the sounds of men and horses, woke, and still heard the iron bells peal out their dreadful sound.

Dark had fallen while he slept. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to drive away the images of the dreams, and at last dragged his aching limbs from the safe and comfortless sheets, shrugged on a robe and went to the hearthside. He stirred the embers and threw on another small piece of wood, for the light, not for the warmth.

The candles had burned down to one guttering stub. He sought others in the cupboards, barefoot on the chill floor. To his relief he found a few, and pulled out the spent candles and set the new ones in the sconces, lighting them, one to the next, so that they chased the Shadows into the corners and beneath the bed and as far as the shutterless window.

Uwen slept, he was certain, since Uwen had not stirred out with his fire-making or his search after candles. He would not disturb Uwen for any reason of his discomfort. Uwen had done too much, and was sore from bruises. So was he, from exertion, and from the unaccustomed riding. He had taken a few bruises: his arm was sore from the shock of encounters, several, as he thought, from wresting a sword from a man. But that was all. He had no wounds. He had gone to bed soon after reaching his rooms. He could not tell what hour it was.

The sound of riders echoed up off the cobblestones, briefly overwhelming the relentless tolling of the bells. The sound passed and dimmed; the Zeide, a maze of alleys and roofs and wings, echoed sounds in deceptive fashion, but it was a large number of riders going somewhere in the night, by the stable-court, he thought.

He had dimly heard armed men tramping about the halls earlier…coming and going from Cefwynʼs apartments, he had judged. He had heard, half-waking, the bells ring out from the lower town as well as from the shrines and from the Zeide gate.

He would have stayed by Cefwyn, but Cefwyn had wanted to be alone, except for Annas and Idrys. Cefwyn had most emphatically told him to go to bed and rest.

And perhaps, Tristen thought, it was because he did not understand having or losing a father, or the questions that proper men had to discuss with each other at such times.

He knew at least what it was to lose and to be lost. He would comfort Cefwyn if he knew how — but he had not known how to comfort himself when he had lost Mauryl except by walking and walking until he had to sleep, and by days coming between himself and that time. He supposed that was not very great wisdom, and that he had, after all, nothing but the perpetual difficulty he posed to offer to anyone — which was no great gift to Cefwyn, when Cefwyn was suffering his own pain.

He shivered as he sank down on his knees by the hearth, seeking warmth. The flames had taken the wood and made a golden sheet before his face, bright, moving, distracting him from memory.

Almost.

He shut his eyes tightly against the remembrance of the noise, the dust, the faces. He buried his face in his hands and stayed so a moment, not breathing until the need for breath made his head spin and he dropped his hands and gasped like a man drowning — flesh as well as spirit, Mauryl had said.

A naked sword stood in the shadows beside the hearth, leaned point-down against the wall. Uwen had cleaned the blood from it.

It was the sword he had wrenched from a man who had attacked him. He had carried it away from the field, not of any real purpose at first, only that his hands held it, and eventually his thoughts lit on it, possessed it, and he had not, in the end, cast it away as useless to him: such a thing was not useless, in such events as moiled about him.

He had bathed, among first things when he had come home. Even so, and after all the scrubbing, the reek of blood lingered in his nostrils and he could not, no matter the perfumed oils the servants supplied him, feel clean. He looked at his hands in the firelight, at his arms that bore no wounds to betray the thing that had happened to him. He was dismayed at his own unscarred existence, and was most of all appalled that he bore no mark of it, while so many, many others had taken wounds that would mark them forever.

I do this well, he thought. I do this very well. And through his mind flitted the memory of Ynefel, his untutored hands struggling to write, and soon finding that they knew the art.

Mauryl had approved his work. Mauryl had said—

But Mauryl had no longer any clear face in this memory. The whole of Ynefel seemed strange to him and beyond recovery. He was cut off from its good memories. There was no way now back to those days, that innocence. He could not but ask questions, and questions, and questions of men less wise than Mauryl, and the questions led him, every one, farther and farther from home and safety.

Cefwyn said, Idrys said, men all said, and it was probably true, that he was Sihhë; that all the Sihhë had died terribly, and that Mauryl had called him out of death and given him a shape and substance; the servants said, and Cefwyn said, that he did not so much learn things, as remember them.

If I go on, he thought with a shiver, I may remember dying. I would not wish that.

The servants spoke when they thought he was not listening, and he knew that they greatly feared his nature, even if they regarded him kindly. He knew they thought him a wizard. They believed his name had been Elfwyn, and they said that he had died at Althalen.

And perhaps it was true — he thought that they had overheard it from those who knew — but the name of Elfwyn was not a Name to him, although he remembered clearly that Cefwyn had said it to him, trying, he knew now, to discover whether he would remember it — and he had not. Althalen itself, though a Name, was a place he thought ought to prosper, not lie in overgrown ruin. His thoughts were cluttered with far worse places than that, Names he could not recover, and others — Galasien, Aryceillan, Arachis — Names he had never heard anyone use, hovered on the edge of his awareness, and came near him at sleepy moments, like birds that tried to light, but found no footing in recent memory.

The servants said perhaps he had had his last fit because he had come near a cursed site, and the ghosts that lingered there had made him ill, as ghosts were, he gathered, reputed to do, stealing life from the living. But it was not theft that had afflicted him there. It was no ghosts that had afflicted him at all, but a surfeit of Words, Words in horrid profusion, violent Words that had not confused him at all today, when he had seen Cefwyn in danger. Once he had seen the fighting in front of him, once he had seen the Kingʼs banners all grouped together and the troops helplessly drawn in on each other, with Cefwyn trying to breach that knot, he had known clearly what to do. He had known in the way he had known, once the pen was in his hand, how to write, and in the way he had known, once he had found a horse under him, how to ride. He had known in such clear order the things that had to be done to unfold that foredoomed battle-line and bring it to bear on the enemy again.

He had known not only the use of the sword, but the process and the direction of the battle. He had known where to go, and what had to be done to let that embattled knot break open — and he had seen without a doubt on that field the specific men he had to take down to confuse the attackers and drive them in retreat.

A sweat broke out on him that had nothing to do with the fire. The wind that had swept down on them on the road had been cold, and that wind still blew — he could hear it against the windows.

He had done what he knew to do. He had not read Maurylʼs Book, but he had found a skill in him for wreaking dreadful harm — he had found a capability latent in his hands, in this present sinew and bone that Mauryl had made. He knew that things were still unfolding to him, and that he might discover more things still. He was not the feckless boy who had fallen on Maurylʼs wooden steps, and skinned knees on the stone floors of Ynefel. He was coming to what Mauryl had wished him to be, perhaps, but he was not yet aware of what that was. He did not think his present being was linked as tightly to his past as Cefwyn and the servants feared — he did not think it mattered that much who he had been, though it was a start to knowing who he was to be, and what he might expect himself to do.

That was the thing that set him shivering: not knowing what other abilities might unfold in him. He had discovered today that he was not a slight man. He was tall, and strong, and might seize a man and break his hold on a weapon; he was quick, and could strike faster than a man who came at him. He rode without needing to think — in motion, Gery was part of him, coming through for him by her bravery when other menʼs horses shied into trouble. She had gone over the dead, on uneven ground — he had not failed Gery and she had not failed him, and that was the terrible thing. While they did together what he knew to do, it had felt like flying, the sword had weighed nothing to him, and Gery had done what Uwen swore she was never trained to do, because he had the gift, as Uwen had said the Sihhë lords had had, to speak to horses and to enchant them.

He thought not. He thought it was only because he knew how to sit a saddle and because he had once, alive at some other time, ridden for many, many hours, and loved it best of anything he did. He didnʼt know how he could have risked Gery the way he had — he didnʼt know how he could not have risked her and himself and Uwen, to go to Cefwynʼs defense, when Cefwyn was in deadly danger — so many, many things he did not know how to weigh one against the other. He could not weigh the value of taking the sword, and saving the men, and killing others, who were, at the end calling out, “Sihhë! Sihhë!” and refusing to fight him, so that his chief weapon then became the vacancy he could create with his mere presence, where he rode, where he made Uwen follow, where he forced a horse to go, who had become dear to him — as Uwen was, as Cefwyn was, as the peace was, that he had found in Cefwynʼs presence.

He shut his eyes tight, feeling moisture squeeze between his lids. He wiped it with both his hands and pressed against his eyes so the red light that made would take away the sights from him. He inhaled the wood smoke, and it made him remember Althalen. He felt the stone of the fireplace against his back, and it was all that told him he was not drifting in the black and red, knowing the value of nothing, knowing not what to do, or how to weigh what he had done, or the lives, or the pain, or the fear. Words and abilities were breaking out in him so rapidly he could not master them — they were, the opposite, near to mastering him, sending him careening wildly through choices he could not reconcile, into events every turn of which violated Maurylʼs precepts of right and wrong. He met necessities that caused him to do terrible things, even — even enjoying the feeling of Gery under him, or the loft the sword could attain, like a living thing, like that day in the courtyard, when he had learned to use the axe, and found it weighed nothing to his hands. He had thought it good. He had thought that day good, and never known where it might lead him.

Or was every choice like that, when one truly, truly ventured into the wide world beyond the woods? Was there no clean, clear line to tell him right from wrong? Was there no way to make right choices without scattering harm in his wake — without making even Uwen afraid of him?

He made himself clear rules to guide him in a world of confusion: I shall not harm Cefwyn, he thought. I shall not harm Uwen. It was a modest beginning, surely.

But harm meant such complex things, and extended in so many directions. Was harm thwarting Cefwynʼs wishes, or doing what one thought best, even when Cefwyn objected? Was harm risking Uwen, saving Cefwyn?

He heard Idrysʼ voice, accusing him, and demanding he come in the gate last, because otherwise it would disrespect the King — but which King, had not been clear to him then or now.

“Sihhë!” the people in town had cried, out of joy to see him, the very people who had shunned him in their streets when he had been in such desperate need, alone, and hungry. “Lord Sihhë!” they shouted, like the men on the field, but the ones had rushed toward him and the others had fled. “Lord King!” they cried out, when the one King was dead, and the other King was Cefwyn, but he was not their king, nor wished to be, that least of all.

The wind rattled at the windowpanes. There seemed menace in the night, and the wind reminded him of the wind that had hovered around the towers of Ynefel. The wind blew now as it had blown there, in violent and angry gusts, and rattled the window latch.

— Sihhë, it said. Open the window.

— No, he said, and wondered at its simplicity. He was far wiser than that.

— Sihhë lord, the Wind whispered to him; and then it whipped away with a sinuous force, leaving an impression of its terror behind it.

But not, perhaps, fear of him. Something else came. He sprang to his feet, transfixed with the realization that the presence was not at the windows, it was with him in the room.

It found no barrier. It brushed past his attention, weak, gentle, and reasonable.

— Tristen. Tristen, welcome me, quickly. I have not much strength.

— Emuin.

— The King—the presence began to ask him, and grew thin, and almost left.

— The King is dead, master Emuin. Cefwynʼs father is dead. Now Cefwyn is King. He stood in that place of blinding light, where was neither life nor time. He looked about him slowly. There was a shadow in the light, a presence which had no shape, but essence which from moment to moment threatened to dissipate, and he thought that this was Emuin. Hold on, master Emuin. I need you. I very much need you tonight, sir. Iʼve tried before.

Emuin seemed to grow more substantial, then. And seemed dismayed at him. Oh, gods, Emuin murmured. Gods, lad. What have you done?

— I did everything I knew, sir. He held out his hands to draw Emuin closer, but the bloodstains showed dark on the light that was his skin, and he stopped reaching, appalled at what he saw. I fought, sir. I thought it was right. I knew how. And Cefwyn was in danger.

Emuin frightened him with his fear. He thought Emuin might flee him as the men had on the field.

But Emuin came closer then, and a touch brushed his stained fingers, and a silken touch folded fingers into his, and closed, almost substance. A touch brushed his face, and it seemed that Emuinʼs arms folded him close, as Mauryl would, as Cefwyn had — but never was the fear Emuin felt so evident as now.

— I donʼt know how to help you, Emuin said. Youʼve gone far beyond what I understand, lad. I donʼt know what to do.

— Tell me what is right! he asked of Emuin, but Emuin said,

Thatʼs the difficulty, isnʼt it? Whatʼs right? I donʼt know, young lord. I never knew, myself.

It was not the truth he wanted to hear of Emuin.

Then he felt something else creep near. It listened to their thoughts, a presence that lived in this white place and was a danger once they were in it.

— Go back! Emuin said, pushing him away. You must go back. Immediately. Iʼll be there as I can.

He saw something twisted and moving, nothing but shadow. He knew that it had been a man — or something like. That is Hasufin, he heard Emuin say, but far away. Be careful. Tristen. Be careful.

Emuinʼs voice faded. He saw Ynefel. The fortress seemed very near, visible through a shadow woods, a place by tricks of the eye new and substantial, then shimmering and fading into mist and deeper shadow. Something dreadful sat there now. He saw Maurylʼs face in the stones of the wall, and all his certainties that this was where he wanted to be fell away from him. He wanted to escape. He felt Emuin behind him, in that strange sense of place and whereabouts. And he dared not leave Emuin undefended in his flight.

— Inborn in the Sihhë, a voice whispered, is the skill to touch other planes. The old blood runs true. Shaping that he is, he has substance here and there alike, does he not, Emuin?

— Nothing that should interest you, Emuin warned him. Young lord, believe nothing it offers you.

Tristen stopped in mid-impulse, drifting close to that familiar place, and Maurylʼs features began to shade and warp until it was another and younger face that looked on him.

He was aware of all the land then, stretched out like the map on Cefwynʼs table, and little tendrils of darkness ran out from Ynefel, curled here and there in the woods and lapped out into Elwynor — while another thread ran through Amefel to Henasʼamef itself, growing larger by the instant.

He felt threat in that single black thread, as if it touched something familiar, something close to him. Or was himself. He was not, single chill thought, certain.

Other threads multiplied into Elwynor, a complicated weaving of which he could not see the end.

— Tristen! Emuin commanded him.

He had grown attracted to the voice. He tried now to retreat toward Emuin. He risked becoming as attenuated as the threads.

— Tristen! This is Maurylʼs enemy — this is your enemy! Come back to me! Come back now!

A hand seized his hand. It pulled him through the air faster than he could get his balance, and he fell.

He struck the floor on his side. His limbs were sprawled on cold stone, aching. He moved his hands, as amazed at the play of tendons under flesh as the first time he had seen it — and felt strong arms lift him up and strong arms encircle him, a shadow intervening between him and the fire.

“Mʼlord! — Guard! Damn, get help in here, man! Heʼs had one of his fits!”

He heard Uwenʼs voice. Uwenʼs shadow enfolded him. He blinked at it dazedly and languidly. Other men crowded about him, lifting him from Uwenʼs arms, but not quite — all of them together bore him somewhere, which turned out to be back to bed, down in the cool, tangled covers, which they straightened, tugging them this way and that.

Most left, then, but Uwen remained. Uwen hovered over him, brushing the hair back from his face, kneeling at his bedside. Uwenʼs seamed face was haggard, pale, and frightened.

“I am safe,” Tristen said. It took much effort to say. But he found the effort to say it made it so. He drew a freer breath.

“Yeʼre cold, mʼlord.” Uwen chafed his hand and arm violently, tucked the arm back beneath the cover and piled blankets on him until the weight made it hard to breathe. Uwen was satisfied, then, but lingered, kneeling by his bed, shivering in the chill of a night colder than Tristen remembered.

“Uwen, go to bed. Rest.”

“No. Not whiles ye go falling on floors in fits.”

Uwen saw through his pretenses, he was certain, although Uwen made light of it. It filled him with sudden foreboding for Uwenʼs life. “Uwen,” he said, “my enemies are terrible.”

Uwen did not move. The fear did not leave his look. But neither did he look overwhelmed by it. “Oh, I know your fits, mʼlord. They donʼt frighten me. And who else knows ye the way I do? And where should I go, worrying about you, and no way to do anything, then? I ainʼt leaving for any asking, mʼlord, so ye might as well forget about it. Not for your asking. Not even for the Kingʼs.”

Uwen was too proud to run away. Tristen understood so. He had no urge to run away himself when the danger came on him, because in the moments it came, he saw no choices. He understood this, too, and did not call it bravery, as it was in Uwen. That place of no choices was very close to him now. It still tried to open behind his eyes, and he shivered, not from fear, but because flesh did not well endure that place.

And bravely Uwen held to his hand until the tremors passed, head bowed, his arms rigid. Uwen would not let him go into that bright place again, and that, he thought, was very wise on Uwenʼs part, even if Uwen could see none of it, and could not reach after him. Uwen could hold his body, and make him aware of it, and keep him from slipping away.

“How near is it to morning?” Tristen asked, when the tremors had passed.

“I donʼt know, mʼlord. Dʼ ye want I should go ask?”

“There must be soldiers. I must have soldiers.”

“Mʼlord?”

“Thereʼs an enemy at Ynefel. He mustnʼt stay there.”

“Gods, no.” Uwen hugged him tight. “Ye canʼt be goinʼ againʼ that place, mʼlord. It ainʼt no natural enemy, whateverʼs there, and best ye leave it be.”

“I am not natural,” Tristen said. “Whatever you have heard of me, I think it must be true.”

“That ye be Sihhë? I donʼt know about such things. Yeʼre my good young lad, mʼlord, ye ainʼt nothing but good.”

“Can I be?” He spread the fingers of his hand wide, held it before them, against the firelight. “This knows what I am. It fought for me. And I dreamed just now of Ynefel. I saw threads going out of it. My enemy lives there now and he wants this land. He reaches into all the regions around us. He reaches even into this room, Uwen. I felt it.”

“Then tell mʼlord Cefwyn. Heʼs the King, now. He can call on the priests. Or master Emuin, whatʼs more like. He could help.”

“No. Cefwyn doesnʼt understand. I do. Leave me, Uwen. Go back to the guard where you were. Of all the soldiers I must take there — not you.”

“The King wonʼt have ye go wiʼ any soldiers,” Uwen forecast with a slow shake of his head. “This is priestʼs business. Little as I like ʼem, they got their uses, lad, and this has to be one.”

“Priests.” He recalled the priests he had seen — those he had met only today in the Quinalt shrine, where the Kingʼs body was, priests scattering before him, cringing, lest their robes touch him. “They fear me. How could they face my enemy?”

“Then I donʼt know, mʼlord. King or no, His Majesty hainʼt got no soldiers willing to march that road.”

He found nothing to say, then. He had no plan, else, if even Uwen said he was wrong.

“Mʼlord,” Uwen said, “mʼlord, — Iʼd go wiʼ ye. Iʼd go wiʼ ye tʼ very hell, but I wouldnʼt see ye go there. Iʼd put meself in your way right at these gates, wiʼ all respect tʼ your lordship, I wonʼt see ye go there. No.”

“Uwen, what if this enemy comes out from Ynefel? What if he comes across to Althalen?”

“I donʼt know nothing about that, mʼlord. I donʼt know nothing about wizards, and I donʼt want to know. Iʼll guard your back from any enemy I can see wiʼ my two eyes and smite ʼim wiʼ whateʼer I find to hand, but, gods, I donʼt like this ʼun. Send to Emuin, mʼlord. Heʼd know what to do. Heʼs a wise ʼun. He ainʼt no real priest.”

He shook his head. “Emuin doesnʼt know at all what to do with this. Heʼs afraid.”

“Ye donʼt know that, mʼlord?”

“I spoke with him. I spoke with him just now, Uwen.”

“Mʼlord, you was dreaming. That was all.”

“I did speak to him.” The ceiling seemed more solid now, a pattern of woodworking and lights. “Iʼm warm now. Go to bed, Uwen.”

“Iʼm comfortable here, mʼlord.”

“Iʼm in no danger now. Go rest. Think about going back to the guard. The servants can manage for me.” He reached for Uwenʼs scar-traced arm, pressed it, careful of new cuts, and a bruise that, the size of his fist, darkened the side of Uwenʼs forearm. “I want you to be safe, Uwen.”

“I hainʼt got no family,” Uwen said finally. “The guardʼs me mistress. But I couldnʼt leave ye for the barracks again, mʼlord. Couldnʼt. Wouldnʼt be nothing then. Iʼm getting old. I feel the cold in winter, I think on my wife and my girls and my boy that the fever got, and there ainʼt no use for me beginning again. Damn, no, I couldnʼt leave ye, my lord.”

And he tucked the blanket about him and got up and wandered away to his own small room between the doors.

Tristen watched him. He had never known about Uwenʼs wife or children. He had made Uwen remember them, and he saw that Uwen had attached to him a feeling that Uwen had nowhere to bestow; as he had had for Mauryl, and had nowhere now to bestow it — not on Emuin, who had not Maurylʼs wisdom, and not Maurylʼs strength: Emuin had fled him and refused to be known, or loved, or held to, and he respected that wish, even understood it as fear. Cefwyn asked him to be his friend, but Cefwyn had so many people he had to look out for and to take care of.

But Uwen had only him. Uwen by what he said had lost everyone else. Uwen was not so wise as Mauryl: he was as brave as anyone could ask, but somehow he had ceased to depend on Uwen for advice as much as Uwen had begun to take orders from him.

And when had that happened? When had he grown to be anyoneʼs source of advice in the world, when he did not understand the world himself?

He lay still in his bed, and longed for daylight. Time — of which he had rarely been acutely conscious — again seemed to be slipping rapidly toward some event he could not predict or understand.

Far away he heard movements in the halls. From the yard came the occasional clatter of hooves, horsemen abroad in the dark, bound to or from the lower town or countryside or the camps — there was no cause to be dashing about on horses within the Zeide courts. Perhaps messengers, he said to himself, and tried to think what might be going on that had so much astir.

He had no inclination to sleep and confront another bad dream. Sweat prickled on him, the blankets weighed like iron. The beats of his heart measured interminable time, and he lay and stared at the lightless glitter of the windowpanes.

The darkness seemed a little less outside, a reddish murk, but not in the east, a glow that reflected on the higher roofs and walls — and from outside came a noise he could not at first recognize, then decided it was many voices shouting at something. Thunder rumbled. Rain spattered the glass, a few drops, and the air stayed chill — he could feel it with his fingers to the glass, and the fire seemed more than convenience tonight.

The glow outside was much too early, unless, he thought, in this wretched day the laws of nature were bent and that murkish light was an ill-placed dawn or an effect of storm he had never seen.

But whatever the cause of it there was less and less chance of sleeping or resting in such goings-on, with the accumulation of unanswered questions and unidentifiable sounds and light. He rose from bed, determined at last and least to know what was happening that kept other people awake, and searched out clean, warm clothes. He had half dressed before, probably because of his opening the clothes-press, which had a stubborn door, Uwen arrived from the other room, rubbing his eyes and limping.

“Mʼlord,” Uwen murmured, “whatʼs the matter?”

“I donʼt know,” he said, and thought of going quickly, taking just the door guard, not wishing Uwen to have to dress and break his sleep, but then he remembered Cefwynʼs order about wearing the mail, and it was too serious an order to dismiss lightly. He went to get it. “Thereʼs a great deal of going and coming. Iʼm going downstairs to see.”

“I will, mʼlord. Ye donʼt need to stir out.”

“I want to see, Uwen. I want to know.” It seemed to him his whole life until now had swung on his ignorance of the things around him — that too often he had taken othersʼ seeing and othersʼ doing, and not always had the result of that turned out for the good. He knew much too little, now, when Cefwyn was becoming King and Cefwynʼs brother was entering the household. So much else was changing, not alone in Henasʼamef, as he knew it to be, but in Elwynor and the whole of the lands he had ever heard about.

While he was putting on his boots Uwen had stumbled back to his own space, and came back fastening his breeches and carrying his boots and his coat — Uwen did not intend to let him go alone, that was clear, and of all orders he could give Uwen that he knew Uwen would obey, he had had clear warning that Uwen would disobey him wide and at large if he bade him stay.

There came an outcry from some distant place. They both looked toward the windows. “Mʼlord,” Uwen said, “donʼt be going out. I donʼt know whatʼs happening. I donʼt think itʼs nothing good. I swear to ye, Iʼll go down fast and see, and report to ye before ye could dress and be down.”

“No,” Tristen said, wound his hair out of the way as best he could and began to struggle with the mail shirt himself until Uwen came to help him.

The mail came down on his shoulders and shaped itself to his body, becoming no weight, a part of him. He picked up a coat that had turned up in the clothes-press, velvet and black like all else they gave him, the heaviest thing he had, against the chill in the night. He put it on over the mail, and Uwen, shaking his head, fastened it snugly down his chest, not pleased with his going, but helping him to be presentable, all the same.

The halls upstairs were deserted except for the guards appointed to the various doors. Noise of shouting drifted up from the lower floor, and they walked to the stairs, two of the guards from their own door walking behind them as the guards always did when he went outside.

Half of Cefwynʼs door-guards were missing, too, meaning an empty apartment and the likelihood that Cefwyn had never yet come to bed — or that Cefwyn had had to leave it after that clattering of men up and down the hall.

Cefwynʼs father lay dead. He thought that, however exhausted Cefwyn was, however strongly Cefwyn had rejected the offers of people who wanted to stay these lonely hours with him, it was unlikely that Cefwyn would have slept at all tonight.

But that Cefwyn would be up wandering the halls — he had not expected.

They descended the stairs into the main hall, where soldiers gathered and servants and lords and ladies stood in knots whispering together, weeping, some of them. He smelled smoke, and recalled Althalen, where Cefwyn swore no fire had come since the Sihhë had died there. But this did not seem ghostly smoke. It made the eyes sting.

The noise came from the halls beyond.

“No farther,” Uwen counseled him. “My lord, stay and Iʼll see.”

He knew by Uwenʼs warning that there was no pleasure to come to him by going any farther. But all safety tonight seemed illusory; and his danger was worse, he had already persuaded himself, in biding ignorant of what happened in the place in which he lived, whether Cefwyn acted or others did without Cefwynʼs knowledge. Defend him, Cefwyn had bidden him swear: and how could he do that in utter ignorance?

Guards stood in the central hall. He went past them unchallenged, and Uwen stayed with him. So did his personal guards, into the main doors at the Zeideʼs heart, those that let out into the front court.

Those four doors lay wide open. Their access and the whole corridor was jammed with mingled soldiery and residents of the hall in brocades or velvets or priestsʼ plain habits. Lamps lit the place, as they did in all places where the wind blew through, but the glow outside the doors was the red glare of a larger fire on vast billows of dark smoke, the stench of which reached far inside the hall.

Voices roared, outside, a wash of sound in which no words made sense.

It was impossible to keep together in the crowd. He plunged past a knot of lords out onto the landing and down the stairs, searching for a clear space to stand, at first, then found himself swept up in the rush, realizing that the crowd was carrying him toward the heart of the disturbance.

“Mʼlord,” he heard Uwen call to him, one clear, thin voice in that din of voices, but he had found a clearer vantage at the side-facing steps and did not wish to yield it up.

Wind rushed at him in that exposure, cold, rainy wind warmed with smoke. Ash and sparks flew. He wondered if the far wing of the building itself was afire — but he saw as he came past the crowd on the steps that it was a large fire set at the side of the courtyard. Men came and went sparsely in proximity to its light, showing him how large that fire was, a pile of wood more than the height of a man; and the flames lit figures that hung on the curtain wall above it, men dangling from ropes, against the stones of the defenses of the Zeide. While he watched, one plummeted into the fire, in a plume of sparks.

Men. Men hanged by the neck from ropes. Men burning in the fire.

The crowd behind him shouted. Guards broke forth from the doors, jostling him. In that press, for one frightening moment, he saw a distorted face, a bloody wreckage of a man hastened along by armored Guelen guards. Red hair, the man had, and the ruin of fine clothing. For an instant the man had looked straight at him.

Heryn, he thought in horror.

Heryn Aswydd. Cefwyn had blamed him for the men who had attacked the King.

Soldiers keeping the crowd back pressed him against the wall, and he stayed there, his back against it, following with his eyes the progress of that company of soldiers and others across the yard. Raucous laughter shocked him. He came down the steps, seeking to go closer, in the smell of smoke-warmed wind. There came a rumble he realized belatedly was thunder. Droplets of rain began to fall — it will put out the fires, he thought. It will save Lord Heryn. It will clear the smoke. It will make things clean.

And then he knew that it could not, because it could never bring things back the way they had been, simple, and clear and becoming utterly safe at a word from the men who ruled his life. The fires were not going out for any rain, and the burned men would not come back to life.

“Mʼlord.” Uwen reached him and caught his arm. “Mʼlord, best you go in.”

“They mean to kill him,” he said, unable to accept that Uwen was so calm, as that last group mounted the steps toward the fire, taking Heryn with them. His voice choked. He was trembling. “Orien? Tarien, too?”

“Thatʼs in King Cefwynʼs hands, mʼlord, come. Come wiʼ me. This ainʼt no place for you.”

He could not let Uwen or anyone conceal any more truths from him. Uwen frightened him with his calm voice, his evident belief that such things as he saw now were ordinary and right. He broke away from Uwen and began to walk across the yard. Rain was falling, pelting him with large, cold drops, spotting the cobbles, making him blink as the wind carried rain into his face.

Uwen caught his arm, forcefully, this time. “Kingʼs justice, mʼlord, ye canʼt help here!”

Justice? Was this the Word from the archiveʼs Philosophy? Was this the Word that went with Happiness?

He feared the violence around him, he flinched at the loss of life — he feared the passage from life into death that he had already caused, and saw it happening again before his eyes, and he could not explain or understand it — but the knowledge that it did happen was inside him, a Word racing around a doorless dark and trying to come out. Men feared that passage as they feared nothing else — and he understood the dying on the field as much as he understood death at all. But in the Zeide, where he lived, Men had gathered to cheer as other men burned — and Uwen seemed to think it was nothing remarkable, but nothing he should look at.

Rain began to pelt down about him, but it had no effect on the fire — the blaze sent out waves of heat too great for any rain to stop.

Then lightning whitened the stone of the top of the fire-stained wall, thunder cracked right over the yard, and rain began to sweep down in fire-lit sheets. Drenched onlookers began to retreat, some running, to the doors. A man slipped and fell on the steps. It was confusion, and in all that crowd was no one he would wish to find, no one whose answers he would want to know. He began to move instead against the crowd, trying to reach that proximity of the fire where he knew he was forbidden, as he was forbidden all harsh things.

But Uwen caught him a third time, pleading with him, half-drowned by a peal of thunder, and in defeat he went with Uwen back to the steps, up under the shelter of the arch.

In the doorway a shadow accosted them with such absolute authority he stopped cold, standing partly in the rain.

It was Idrys.

“Your guards report more faithfully than your man does,” Idrys said. “And what provokes this bloody curiosity, lord Tristen of the Sihhë?”

“Where is Cefwyn, sir? Where shall I find him?”

Idrysʼ eyes raked him over. “I shall take you there, my lord,” Idrys said with no more than his usual coldness, and turned and led the way, not a far distance once they were inside. Guards with Idrys cleared their way through the gatherings of men and women who shivered and complained in the corridor.

They passed the intersection of hall and stairs and came to that chamber they called the Lesser Hall, where the guards had brought him to meet with Cefwyn the first night he came here.

“Wait outside,” Idrys bade Uwen.

“Uwen, do so,” Tristen said, because Idrysʼ tone had not been polite. Uwen was soaked; he was; he wanted to have answers from Cefwyn while Cefwyn was to be found; and as quickly as possible take himself and all his guards upstairs into dry clothing. He did not expect it would take long, or that Cefwyn could spare much time for him, but he was determined that Cefwyn should know what was done outside, if Cefwyn was in any wise ignorant. He did not wholly trust Idrys, regardless of Cefwynʼs word. He saw reasons the lords around Cefwyn might wish not to inform Cefwyn of everything that happened, and he still found it hard to believe that Cefwyn knew of that horror outside.

He entered the hall behind Idrys, into a space which now held a large table. He brought smoke with him, the reek clinging to his clothes, but he could not be certain he was the sole source. The lords from the south and strangers who had come with Cefwynʼs brother were gathered about the table, and their armed escorts stood about, crowding the walls, some of them rain-draggled, proving that they, too, had been outside.

So perhaps Cefwyn did know. But there was no dampness about Cefwyn. He saw Cefwyn and Efanor among those standing at the table, over a collection of maps, and before he could approach, Idrys arrived at Cefwynʼs side and whispered something precautionary in Cefwynʼs ear.

Cefwyn looked about at him in anger. “I told you stay to your room!”

He was shaken by the anger, dismayed, and he did not thank Idrys for whatever Idrys had said. He remembered that Idrys clearly knew what was going on in the courtyard. But he still held out hope Cefwyn did not. “Theyʼve hanged Lord Heryn,” he said to Cefwyn. “And other men. I donʼt understand, mʼlord.”

Cefwyn seemed disturbed, and still angry. “Theyʼve beheaded Lord Heryn. Noble blood does have its privilege. But youʼve clearly passed the bounds of things you need to know, sir. — Idrys, why did you bring him here? Damn it, why isnʼt he in his room?”

“Your Majesty, Lord Tristen begged urgently to have personal audience with you. I thought it might be of more moment than it seems.”

“No, sir,” Tristen said, and evaded Idrysʼ reach to come to the table between Cefwyn and lord Pelumer. “No, sir. I need to speak with you.”

“Not now, Tristen.”

“Sir, — Emuin—” He had diminishing confidence he had any argument at all regarding Lord Heryn, but that was not the only cause he had of disturbance tonight, and it was not the only thing Cefwyn needed to know. But he recalled that Uwen doubted his hearing Emuin, and Cefwyn did not look patient of his stories or his questions at the moment. “Emuin warned me of a danger — and this—”

There was a murmur among the assembled lords.

“What danger?” Cefwyn asked. “When?”

“Tonight, sir, now.”

“Is Emuin here?” Cefwyn asked. “Has he come?”

“Mʼlord King,” Idrys said, “Emuin is not here.” Idrys took Tristenʼs arm, and his fingers hurt. “Let me take you upstairs, young lord.”

“No! Mʼlord, I saw it—” He resisted Idrysʼ attempt to draw him away, and it was clear on faces all about that no one of them believed him, or thought it likely he had spoken with Emuin at all. He kept the struggle between himself and Idrys a quiet one, and kept the pain Idrys caused entirely to himself. “I shall wait my turn, mʼlord King, if you please. I think I might know something useful, but I donʼt wish to speak what I donʼt know.” He thought of Uwen shivering in the hall. “Only let me dismiss Uwen and my guards upstairs. Theyʼre wet through.”

“So are you.”

“Yes, sir, but I want to stay.”

“Dismiss your men,” Cefwyn said. “Page. Get him a cloak.”

“From his quarters, Your Majesty?” the page asked.

“Give him mine! Good gods!” Cefwyn was in pain, and limped when he moved — Cefwyn ought to be in his bed, Tristen thought, but Cefwyn was trying to decide something with his maps that were strewn across the tabletop, and with these men, not all of whom were pleasant or agreeable. Tristen took his small permission to go to the door, and put his head out.

Uwen was there, shivering till his teeth rattled. So were the two night guards, in no better case.

“Cefwynʼs guards will see me back,” Tristen said quietly, for there was business and argument going on behind him, among the lords in the room. “Please go upstairs and go to bed, Uwen. Have the guards change clothes. Iʼll be safe.”

“Yeʼre sopped, too, mʼlord. Shall I bring a cloak down?”

“They have me one. Iʼll not be long. — Or if I am, please go on to bed. The guards here will see me upstairs. Thereʼs no need of you to stay.”

“Aye, mʼlord,” Uwen said, not sorry to be sent for a change of clothes, he was certain. Uwen was shivering and miserable, and gave him no argument about it.

He shut the door to the hall and took the heavy cloak from the page who waited at his elbow. He wrapped the thick, lined velvet about him with relief and went back among the others in the room.

“What happened inside Amefel and on the border,” Cefwyn was saying, “we must answer, early and strongly. Heryn claimed his frauds against the Crown frightened him to such a desperate treason. Heryn claimed that his only intention was to call the King here and to arrange an attack of a small Elwynim force — he swore that he meant to be there with his own forces, to come to my fatherʼs rescue. He had the effrontery to say—” Cefwyn drew an angry breath. “That had my father not moved early and had I not had him under arrest, the plan would have worked and my father would not have died.”

There was a muttering among the lords. Tristen thought it a foolish plan on Herynʼs part, a dangerous and desperate plan. He saw the motions of troops in his mind, he saw the lay of the land.

And he thought that there had been far more enemies than seemed likely for a false threat against Cefwynʼs father.

“This was Herynʼs claim,” Cefwyn said, “and we could obtain no other word from him. From two prisoners, common men, we have a name, Lord Caswyddian of Lower Saissonnd. Style of shields and various leavings on the field do indicate the river provinces of Elwynor. The prisoners did not see him on the field, but avow a son of his led them in what was given to be a retaliation for the execution of five Saissondim under flag of truce — this never happened, but this was what they were told. Sovragʼs men are not back with a report, but either by bridge or by barge, the Elwynim have at least light horse across the river in numbers. Which they may have withdrawn. Disregarding the question whether Heryn told the truth, whether this story of the prisoners reflects something Heryn did, which he denied, or whether the Elwynim betrayed Heryn and advantaged themselves of his folly to do far more than he wished — a possibility which I do not discount — I am not in either case convinced the Elwynim Regent was behind the attack. That — is behind my reasoning.”

“Mʼlord,” Efanor said, “this was not a rag-tag element. These were well armed. We have names.”

“Of a lord and men bearing no device, no banner. This is not the Regent. It is a sign of the Regentʼs lords with the bit in their teeth. It is a sign which way the wind is blowing should the Regent die.”

“Our father is dead!” Efanor said. “What matter which cursed Elwynim crossed the river? The Regent is ultimately responsible! You do not consider accepting any marriage offer from them! You would not do this!”

“Did I say so? Have I done so? I point out that we are not dealing with a well-organized enemy, brother, and that a message to the Elwynim Regent possibly — if it cannot produce us names — may still produce action, even strengthen the hand of the Regent against troublesome elements within his own realm and get us the justice weʼre due.”

“These are murderers! These are godless, heretic murderers!”

“Who, if certain Elwynim lords have acted without their Regent or in spite of him, have committed treason against him, brother. Before I commit men to the field, Iʼd know against whom we are sending troops, and why, and whether there is another choice that will not plunge the realm into a war along half its borders — with gods know what allies, at a very unstable time in our affairs and theirs!”

“You are temporizing with murderers. You are expecting truth from a man who does not worship the gods!”

“One can hardly be both godless and a heretic, brother. And this is Amefel.”

“Youʼve been in this heretic land too long, brother.”

“Efanor. Efanor. Youʼre mortally weary. So am I. And heart-sore. I know that. Go upstairs.”

“Iʼll not be dismissed!”

“Iʼll not be lessoned! For the love we bear each other, either offer counsel without reading me scriptures, Efanor, or offer me no counsel at all. If I want a priest Iʼll call for one!”

Efanor was pale. His hands shook. “This is not a joking matter, my lord brother.”

“Trust I know it is not. Trust that I make my prayers as theyʼre due, good brother, and trust that I know Amefel as having more worthy lords than the Aswyddim, the Elwynim as having many worse lords than the Regent, and that if we allow any fledgling in that nest to raise himself by the death of our father, we not only sully our fatherʼs memory, we promote his murderer to fortune and to power. If we attack and kill the Regent, we may well put our fatherʼs murderer in power, because we have at one stroke given whatever villain bears the guilt both a war and a kingship to fill.”

“Or,” said Umanon, “we throw the Elwynim into confusion, and we attack across the river.”

“Look at the map, Your Grace. Having conquered all of Elwynor, shall we arm twelve-year-old maids and send them out to stand duty? Elwynor is a vast, vast land, as great as our own kingdom. We do not do well to pull the dragonʼs tail.”

“Empty land. Pasturage. It is not that populous.”

“But it is not now hostile and we are not in it. How far apart must our patrols ride through these pastures to prevent seditions? And if we found one nest of sedition, would they not move into the unpatrolled land? We cannot occupy Elwynor, sir. You dream.”

Cefwyn was right, Tristen thought. But there was more. He burned to say so, but the argument was already bitter.

“Fear,” said Umanon, “makes fewer patrols necessary.”

“I cannot agree,” Cefwyn said. “And I will not be disputed in this. To take Elwynor would be a disaster to us.”

“Not if they fear us.”

“Sirs.” Tristen could bear it no longer. “Sirs, thereʼs more than Elwynor. Thereʼs Ynefel.”

“Who is this stranger,” asked Umanon, “that we should trust him? Heʼs Sihhë, you say, and does he not most properly stand with the Amefin — at best?”

“We trust him,” Cefwyn said, “because he saved our life. Because he drove the attackers off the field and saved the lives of all of us near my lord father.”

“He did that,” a captain said.

“But,” said a finely-dressed lord Tristen did not know, one who had come with Cefwynʼs father, “does he stand as a member of this council, my lord King? He has no real holdings. Althalen and Ynefel are a domain of mice and owls.”

“Lord of Murandys,” Cefwyn said softly, leaning forward, “his titles are by my grant, and by inheritance — titles by blood, mʼlord.”

There was chill silence.

“Or something like unto it,” Efanor muttered.

“Brother,” Cefwyn said.

Efanor ducked his head and folded his arms, the image of Idrys.

“My lords,” Cefwyn said, “I have not slept tonight, nor have you. I have sent messengers informing the northern lords of my fatherʼs death, and of my resolution to hold this town and settle matters on the borders before returning to the capital. The press of events here affords me no respite for an official mourning nor for the receiving of their formal oaths, which I hope they will tender in intent, at least, by messenger. The danger to the realm is here, whether in Amefel, whether on the river. Our decision is made. My father—” Cefwynʼs voice faltered. “My father will be interred here—”

“Mʼlord!” Efanorʼs head lifted.

“Here, I say, in a Quinalt shrine earliest of all Quinalt shrines in Amefel, a place of great import, great and historic sanctity, and presided over by the southern Patriarch, who will conduct the services as soon as we have built an appropriate vault, brother, in which our father may lie until I have dealt with his murderers! The King of Ylesuin will not be carried home, sirs, murdered, and with no penalty dealt his killers. The Kings of Ylesuin living and dead will not quit this province until they have justice, sirs, and on that I take holy oath! You will not dissuade me.”

Heads bowed, even Efanorʼs, in the face of Cefwynʼs anger. Tristen ducked his head, too, but he had caught Cefwynʼs eye, and Cefwyn seemed not angry at him, nor as passionate as his voice had sounded. “The rest, the rest, sirs, I shall inform you after Iʼve taken more sleep than I have yet. Good night to you. Gods give you peaceful rest.”

The lords bowed, murmuring polite formalities. Tristen wondered if Cefwyn had changed his mind and wished him to leave, too, but when he had caught Cefwynʼs eye, Cefwyn shook his head and caught his arm. Efanor also remained, exempt from the order, it seemed; and Idrys — constantly Idrys stayed at Cefwynʼs shoulder.

The door shut. They were alone, save the Guelen guard.

“Efanor,” Cefwyn appealed to his brother.

“Have we secrets to share at last?” Efanor asked. “Now am I in your counsel, brother? Am I at least privy to the secrets you bestow on the Sihhë?”

Cefwyn made a curt motion of his hand: the guard withdrew and closed the door.

Then Cefwyn leaned on the table, head bowed above the map in an attitude of profound weariness. “Efanor, trust me. After the funeral, I shall send you to the capital, while I pursue matters here. Is that not trust? I shall give you highest honor. I forget our quarrels. Only do not ever oppose me in council on matters we two have already discussed, — and bear me some small patience now, as I bear it with you.”

“What moves this sudden liberality?”

Cefwynʼs face had been weary. Now it went hard and angry and he straightened his shoulders. “The godsʼ grace, Efanor! I cannot fight outside enemies and you at once. Grant me this. Our fatherʼs death will be repaid. I do not say it will be repaid tomorrow, but that it will be repaid — give me this much trust. Give me your affection, if you have it to give. But I shall take your duty, if you offer at least that.”

Efanorʼs eyes wandered to Tristen and back again. “Whatever influences work here have mellowed you — or your experience in this land has vastly increased your subtlety.”

“I am tired.” Cefwyn eased a chair behind him, extended his wounded leg, and sat down, holding it. “Gods.”

“Better you had followed your physiciansʼ advice, Majesty,” said Idrys. “The guards should bear you up to bed.”

“No.” Cefwyn reached to the crown about his brow, rubbed it, where it left a mark and bloodied a cut. He settled it on again. For a moment he rested his eyes against his hand, wiped at them, looked up again. “I have no subtlety left at all, Efanor. This province has undone it. I pray you be my loyal brother, nothing less.”

“I am astonished,” Efanor said dryly. “I am truly astonished. But bear you good faith, I shall, if you bear it to me. I had not expected your trust, Cefwyn.”

“I need all such allies as I can trust. We are under attack. Mauryl — was a grievous loss. — Tristen.”

“Sir.”

“You were out there. Tonight.”

“I saw, sir.”

“It was justice,” Cefwyn said.

“I believe you,” Tristen said, knowing nothing else to say.

“You had news of Emuin. A messenger? To you and not to me? Or what?”

It was not Cefwyn and himself, it was not Cefwyn who could be his friend and bear with his imprecisions and his foolishness.

Nor was he the same as he had been, even days ago. He said, with cold at heart, “No, sir. Emuin does speak to me. He tries to help me. But he canʼt, always. I think thatʼs why he went away.”

“Wizardry,” Efanor said.

“No, sir,” Tristen said, “I donʼt think so. I donʼt feel so. Just — he hears me.”

“How can you dispute such things?” Efanor demanded, not of him, but of Cefwyn. “How can you countenance such arguments — wizardry and not wizardry? Do natural men hear wizards?”

“We had no natural man at issue in Mauryl,” Cefwyn said in a hard voice, “and damned well we should consult, brother, both Tristen and Emuin, where they have something of significance to say.”

“Consult as you like, then. Iʼll none of it!”

“Iʼll warrant youʼll hear nothing to imperil your delicate holiness. Stay. As a wizard, Tristen is gentler than Emuin is.”

“I saw his gentility on the field.”

“And he ours, and yours tonight, brother! Forbear. Father gave me a province next a wizard and Emuin for a counselor to help hold it. Now Maurylʼs fallen, and left me Tristen for a ward — whom Emuin approved. Tristen swore to be my defender, and kept his oath like a good and godly man, or this realm would have no king, not you, nor me, nor Marhanen at all — and Heryn would lord it over a realm of his own tonight, snugged right close to Elwynor. Wherewith the Regent would go down, some pretender would rise up with the marriageable daughter, and Heryn would become bulwark of an Elwynor no longer held at bay by a river that Mauryl, I have long suspected, defined as their border until his overdue but unwelcome departure from these mortal bounds. That is my fear — that whatever stricture the old man laid on the Elwynim no longer holds. But it is not a fear I wish to rehearse before the Amefin lords—”

“Whom I would not have admitted to counsel, let me tell you.”

“Brother, I know these men, that some are in dire fear of being tied to Herynʼs sins, and others hated Heryn bitterly for reasons of their own and thought until today that he had had unquestioned Marhanen support. As perhaps Father did find him useful, Father not well knowing the inner workings of Amefel — but, to be quite pragmatic about Heryn Aswydd, I have been in this province long enough to have known too much about his excesses in office and to have received at least tentative approaches from the lords most desperate of those excesses, so that I no longer needed him. Therefore his head will adorn the gate.”

“And in your manipulations you drew Father into this—”

“Do not you dare say that to me!” Cefwyn brought his hand down on the maps, hard. “Father chose to believe Heryn instead of me. Ask Fatherʼs councillors if they could dissuade him, or whether they fed the fires. Ask them! I do not ask where you stood.”

Tristen clenched his hands together, wishing he knew what to say to prevent a fight. But after a moment Cefwyn said, more quietly,

“I do not ask, brother. I take your presence here as exactly what you said, coming here to make things look better than you feared they were. But I do not think you looked to find me in Henasʼamef.”

“I did not,” Efanor said, also quietly.

“To what an extent we have left our childish trust. We swore, you and I — we swore not to let Grandfather divide us.”

“I keep that oath,” Efanor said. “I do not know if you do, brother.”

“I shall. Nor shall I believe the lies men tell. Heryn finally realized that small change in his affairs, tonight. I fear that Father did trust him. But I would not. — Tristen. Tristen, my friend. What do you need of me?”

He was confused in the flow of Words, Words that made great sense in the instant he heard them, and faded the next, but that advised him that far more had passed than he knew, and that nothing in these chambers was so clear or unequivocal as matters had seemed on the battlefield. How alike these two lords were, he thought, Efanor and Cefwyn, alike in features, alike in stature, in small turns of expression — but for Efanorʼs smooth chin and the crown on Cefwynʼs brow.

“I came to say,” he began, and his thoughts were still chasing the matter of Heryn and the fire, and the hanged men, and Heryn beheaded because he was noble. And the Marhanens. “I came to say, sir, I fear — fear—”

“Be at ease,” Cefwyn said.

He could not but look at Efanor, who he knew disapproved him. At Idrys, who frowned. And, distractedly, last at Cefwyn.

“I saw Ynefel,” he began. “I saw Maurylʼs enemy reaching out of it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it, sir.”

“You were nowhere near Ynefel. You dreamed, you mean.”

“I dreamed awake, sir. And I think the harm never left Ynefel when Mauryl — died. Mauryl said I should go, I think, to keep me from it. Itʼs not a good thing, to let his enemy stay there. His enemy is reaching out into Elwynor. Even here. My window rattled, more than once, and it did that in Ynefel. He did it.”

“The manʼs mad,” Efanor said in disgust.

“No, now,” Cefwyn said. “Tristen. Go on. He, you say. This danger. What should we do about it?”

“You ought to have shutters, sir. Mauryl closed them every night.”

“Shutters,” Efanor said. “Of course. Shutters will save us. Good gods, brother!”

“Be still, Efanor. You are no help to his good sense. — Tristen. What about the windows? Are we speaking of magic, here? Is it something Mauryl did?”

Efanor made it hard to remember things in order. Idrys was staring at him, listening to everything he said and ready to find fault with what he could scarcely explain in words. He tried to gather his points in order. “Maurylʼs enemy, mʼlord King. He came to Ynefel, usually with storms. He rattled the shutters at night. Now the windows rattle here.”

“Wind does that!” Efanor said, and Cefwyn: “Hush, brother.”

“Mauryl said — Mauryl said that holes in the roof were no matter. That there are lines on the earth Men make when they build, and so long as you take care of them, the enemy canʼt get in. You ought to close all the doors when the Shadows go across the courtyard. You should have shutters, mʼlord, and close them. Everyone in the town should. Doors and windows let a spirit in. It canʼt cross at other places.”

“And it seeks to come indoors.”

“I donʼt think it has, here. People are careless in town — but I donʼt think itʼs powerful here, yet. I think it could become powerful, if people started listening to it. I think Heryn was listening to it. I think that someone in Elwynor might be.”

“Is this a god, this creature?” Idrys asked. “Or what?”

“It was a man. I think itʼs a ghost. A haunt. Emuin calls it Hasufin. But Iʼm not certain thatʼs its name.”

“Hasufin,” Cefwyn said.

“Gods forfend,” Efanor said, and he no longer sounded scornful. “I said there would no good come of this place. Itʼs the whole cursed province. But past the holy shrines, no ill will come.”

“It wants a Place, sir, thatʼs what I know. But itʼs not just staying there. Iʼm afraid itʼs not. I donʼt know if it has help to go outside Ynefel, or even if it wants to. If youʼd give me soldiers, sir, Iʼd go find out.”

“No,” Cefwyn said, “no such thing. Iʼve sent for Emuin. I expect him soon. Heʼll deal with whatever it is.”

“I donʼt think so. Emuin canʼt deal with it by himself. I think Mauryl did. But he was so old. He wasnʼt strong enough. I think—” He was trembling, and folded his hands under his arms to hide it. “I think thatʼs what I was brought here to do. But I canʼt read the Book, and I donʼt know how.”

“Gods bless,” Efanor muttered.

“I would go,” Tristen said. “I would go back to Ynefel. If you would give me soldiers. I would go there and find out what the trouble is.”

“Well offered, Tristen, but what would they do?”

“I donʼt know, sir. But I would try to send it away.”

“Try you would. But itʼs not a task for soldiers.”

“A task for priests,” Efanor said.

“No, sir,” Tristen said. “Soldiers are more apt than priests. I do think they are.”

“Against unholy magic?”

“Against whatever this is, sir.”

“Tristen,” Cefwyn said, “I fear no men would follow you. You ask far too much of them.”

“Uwen said so. But I think — sometimes — I shouldnʼt have left there. I think — if I were what Mauryl wished me to be — I should have known what to do.”

“Believe Uwen in this. Leave it to experienced men.”

“To priests,” Efanor said.

“I donʼt find any strength in them, sir. They seem more afraid than helpful. Iʼve seen this thing. I saw it in the courtyard.”

“Here?”

“No, sir, at Ynefel. It was a man made of dust. And it fell down into leaves.”

There was long silence. “Sihhë,” Efanor muttered finally. “And here we are, brother. The old ills, the magic, the wizardry, are all returned with him. What next?”

“Tristen,” Cefwyn said, “you will not work against me. Whatever you do, you will not work against me or against the realm of Ylesuin.”

“No, sir, I would not.”

“You saw nothing of my fatherʼs death, by fact, hearing, rumor, or conjury before it happened. You would have told me if you had any warning at all.”

“No, lord King. I never saw it. I would have told you.”

“Nor have you plotted with Heryn.”

“No, sir. I would not. I would have stopped him if I could.”

Cefwyn had seemed to believe him all along. He thought that Cefwyn wanted him to say all these things for Efanorʼs sake.

“Heryn named two names,” Cefwyn said. “Those when pressed may name others. In the meanwhile, — in the meanwhile — we can hope the Elwynim will not dare another move, since none has come by now. I say we go to bed, brother. And, Tristen, I say you leave matters to Emuin. He will come. And you can ask him what to do.” Cefwyn stood, favoring his injured leg, and embraced him. “I never thanked you. I do that now, from the heart. Go back to your bed and have better dreams. Weʼll talk on this again when Emuin comes.”

But, Tristen thought, but — Cefwyn had never yet understood him. Cefwyn had never understood there was imminent danger, and Efanor certainly had not. He looked to Idrys, who was holding the door, as first Cefwyn then Efanor, left the room.

“Sir,” he said to Idrys, “sir, please tell him—”

“Mʼlord King has his father lying dead,” Idrys said coldly. “He has his pious brother to deal with, no easy matter. He has fractious lords chafing to establish their influence, and to add to his problems he has the Quinalt aghast over your influence as it is, mʼlord of Ynefel. I suggest for the moment and in days following you keep very quiet and do not offer advice on priests again in Prince Efanorʼs hearing. This is a religious man, to whom priests mean much. I would not, not, sir, say again what you said to him about the ineffectuality of priests.”

“But it is true, sir. If they could have kept me out of the shrine they would have, this morning. And they could not.”

“Mʼlord of the Sihhë, if you persist, you may find what priests can do in this world. They can move princes to do the bloody things you saw in the courtyard, and they can move lords to speak and act against your King, to whom you swore fealty and obedience, sir. That you saved my lord on the field counts much with me and I honor that. But you will do as much harm to Cefwyn as you did good today if you turn the Quinalt priests against him with your talk, and well you might. I shall oppose you in that, I do warn you.”

“But the danger, sir,—”

“Is in no wise as urgent as you have presented it. If you can prove otherwise, come to me with it and I shall batter His Majestyʼs doors down to gain you audience with him. Otherwise admit that while you may know Emuinʼs thoughts from afar you know nothing of Quinalt orthodoxy, on which rock you will founder if you persist in speaking such opinions, true or not. Good night, lord of Ynefel.”

Cefwyn was going away with Efanor and with the guard, upstairs. Idrys left the door and followed, already well behind and hastening to overtake Cefwyn.

There were men of the Guelen guard still about the council door who might take him to his room, separately. And he sensed that Idrys had listened to him, but Idrys was telling him that truth or falsehood did not matter, and against all Maurylʼs teachings — it did. There was no equivocating with thunderstorms and less with the Shadows.

And least of all, he feared, with what he saw in that gray realm which Cefwyn did not see, which no one but Emuin seemed to travel with him.

He did not know how to make Idrys understand, when he did not understand the threat himself. He did not know how to make Cefwyn believe what he himself could only half believe was so. He held Cefwynʼs cloak about him, thinking of doing as Cefwyn expected him to do, and asking the guard to escort him back to a place where he could be guarded, and kept, and, he feared on his experience with Men, locked more securely away from seeing unpleasant truths.

That meant that he should know less of Cefwynʼs affairs, not more, and he should have none of his questions answered, and none of his warnings heard: the more ignorant they kept him the less they would sensibly heed his warnings of what little he did see.

He moved away from the doors and left the guard, who had not questioned him and perhaps did not think of doing something without someone asking them to move, for someone who was not their assigned duty — he had learned of Uwen how the guards thought, and what they were told to do.

He walked to the massive central doors. The rain was still coming down, but the fire was not wholly drowned. It burned sullenly, and a handful of men, some well gone in wine or ale, stood in the shelter of the arches, watching the fires. There were guards, but they were watching the men, or talking with each other. And, he thought, he had Cefwynʼs cloak about him, with the Marhanen Dragon blazoned on the leather edges.

So it was no difficulty to walk out onto the steps in the drizzle, and to walk down the steps in the shadow of the wall, and then to walk around the corner of the wall, and to walk on in that shadow, along the puddled base of the wall, to a dividing wall and a gate that always stood open by day.

It was open by night, too. He walked through, past the steps and the doors at the end of the wing, doors which were shut, their guards inside in the dry warm air, where sensible men had rather be.

The gate to the stable court was latched, but not locked: he supposed there were so many guards about and there was so little place to take a horse without leave that, absent the chance the horses would stray from there, no one cared. The stable door was shut, but that had no lock, only a latch. He went inside, and heard a stirring in the straw.

He thought at once of Shadows. Then he thought that the horses who lived here would not stand quietly if there was harm about; and it proved only a sleepy, half-scared stableboy who called out asking who was there.

“Tristen,” he said.

“Me lord?” The child came as far as the door and shoved it open to the drizzly night. “They donʼt ʼlow no lamps, mʼlord, on account of fire. What would ye be wantinʼ?”

“I need a horse,” he said.

“Aye, mʼlord.” The boy-shadow sounded doubtful, and scratched his ribs. Lightning lit the aisle, shone off the white-edged eye of a heavy-headed and dark horse that looked out of its stall, waked by the goings-on. “Ye want ʼim fʼ far or fast, mʼlord?”

“The best you have,” he said. “A horse that didnʼt work today.”

“ʼAt sure ainʼt many, mʼlord. We brung Petelly here from pasture. Heʼs a big fellow, fair fast. ʼE donʼt mind thʼ weather, but ʼeʼs a stubborn mouth, and ʼe sure donʼt like the spurs, mʼlord, ʼe pitches like a fool.”

“I wouldnʼt like them, either,” Tristen said. The boy went to the horse who had put his head out; and who regarded him with a wary eye as the boy led him out in the flickers of the lightning. Petelly stood patiently while the boy searched up the tack, stood sleepily through the saddling and bridling — sniffed over Tristenʼs hands as Tristen took the reins and heaved a sigh as Tristen climbed up, moving into a sedate walk as Tristen rode out into the rain.

He tucked Cefwynʼs cloak about him and over as much of Petellyʼs back and gear as he could make it cover. He rode Petelly quietly to the Zeide gate, and the guards, surprised in a dice game, let him through with only a question who he was and a look at him by lamp-light from their open gatehouse door.

“Tristen, sirs, from the Zeide.”

“What business?” one asked.

“My own, sirs.”

But one plucked at the otherʼs arm and said, “ʼAtʼs a Kingʼs messenger, donʼt ye see?”

The second man held the shielded lamp close, and said. “Pardon, sir.”

Perhaps it was the cloak. He did not think they knew him. They were not the guards who had been on duty the night he came, and it was at least the second, if not the third, watch of the night. But he did not quarrel with their notion he was a messenger — which was, he supposed, wrong, but, then, he was doing nothing he ought to be doing, and it was, he supposed, too, less wrong than running off with Petelly, which he knew was going to perturb master Haman, and probably get the poor stableboy in trouble.

But he could not do other than he did, and did not tell them the truth: they opened the gate for him, and he rode Petelly slowly down the slick cobbles of the townʼs main street to the town gate, and the gatehouse there.

“Who goes there?” the challenge came to him. The gatehouse door opened, its lamps sending out a feeble light onto flooded cobbles, water pocked with rain, where the drainage was not good. One resolute man waded out into it, carrying a lantern and dutifully looking him over.

“Gods, didnʼt know ye in the dark, mʼlord. Hainʼt you no escort?”

“None tonight,” he said. He did not know the guardʼs name, but the guard seemed to know him. “Open the gate, sir.”

The other came out, saw him and made a quick sign over his heart. “Gods bless, ʼatʼs the Sihhë.” The thunder was booming off the walls, and the lightning lit the faces, whiter than the lantern-light.

“The gate,” Tristen said.

The guardsʼ faces were fearful. They both made signs against harm, and hurried to lift the bar on the little gate, the Sally-port, the Word came to him. He rode through, and they began quickly to shut the gate after him. But he had thought of one trouble he had not accounted of when he had begun to evade the watch Cefwyn set over him.

“When my man comes here,” he said, “as Iʼm sure he will, tell him I did not go to Ynefel.”

“Where is ye goinʼ, mʼlord?” one asked, under the stamp and splash of Petellyʼs restless hooves.

“Searching,” he said, which was at least a part of the truth. “Tell him I will be back.”

He turned Petelly along the wall-road, and at his asking Petelly picked up his pace, laying back his ears at the thunderstrokes, but shaking his neck and wanting to run.

“Go,” he said, and let Petelly have the rein he wanted. Petelly stretched out and ran, splashing through puddles and tearing along the road beside the Ivanim camp.

He had at no point of his evolving escape been sure he could escape and ride out past the guards, and past the camps — but no one now put his head out of a tent, no sentry prevented him in this downpour. He passed the Ivanim. He passed the camp of Lanfarnesse. The guards in town were not at fault, if no one had told them not to let him out. The sentries of the camps outermost, watching Cevulirnʼs horses, and those watching Pelumerʼs, had no reason to challenge him: he had come from the town, past other sentries.

And with the last tents and the last picket lines behind him — there was nothing but open road and the night ahead of him.

Now he had no one to account to and no one to harm but himself: his greatest fear had been Uwenʼs finding out, and rushing after him in a mistaken and utterly dangerous direction, because they had talked of Ynefel. He was sure that Uwen, hearing Cefwyn and others come in, as he must have done, would be wondering already why he had not come back. Uwen would have begun to worry; and probably already Uwen would have dressed and gone downstairs to look.

Then Uwen would ask close questions of the guards, who perhaps had not seen where he went. But once they began to search as far as the stable-court, which was a favorite haunt of his, and far more likely than the garden in the dark and the rain, then the boy would surely say at once that he had given him a horse.

But after that — after that, Uwen had to ask for a horse, too, and Uwen was not a lord: Uwen could not obtain a horse for the asking. Uwen would have to go to the commander of the watch, who might have to wake someone of more authority, like Captain Kerdin.

Or Idrys. Idrys would be angry, and cast about very far and very fast looking for him, bringing his cold wrath down on those who should have asked more questions. He was sorry for that, he was very sorry for it.

But there was no way at least Idrys could blame Uwen, who had not been on duty. It was, if it was anyoneʼs fault for not watching him — Idrysʼ own fault, though he did not think it would put Idrys in any better humor. Idrys would send down to the town gates to ask where he had gone, and they would surely say, He went west, and Idrys would know at once, the same as Uwen would, where besides Ynefel he might go.

Then Uwen would beg a horse and orders that would let him and the guards ride out to catch him. He hoped that Idrys did not ride out himself.

But the boy had said that they were bringing in horses from the pastures, horses that were not the best; and if the boy had given him one of the strongest and fastest horses they had, in Petelly, that meant whoever of the guard chased him would not have the best. And Uwen was not a foolish man. Uwen would not rush ahead of other riders.

What he was doing was disobedient. Mauryl would say so. Dangerous. Uwen would say so. But it was clever. He thought so.

Not wicked. Or — not as men reckoned wickedness. He had harmed no one, except, perhaps, the guards who had let him do what they thought he had a right to do. He had disobeyed Cefwynʼs order to go back to Cevulirnʼs forces, and not to go with him, and Cefwyn had thanked him for it, because he should have done that. And if they would not listen to him in their council, still, someone had to do something, because the enemy was not waiting for a more convenient time — and Cefwyn had acquired new advisors who urged Cefwyn to listen to the priests, who knew least of all about Maurylʼs enemy.

And once Emuin arrived, Emuin also would forbid him to try, even enough to find out what that enemy was doing — he had begun to perceive the reasons of Emuinʼs retreat far from him, and it was because Emuin doubted he could do anything. Emuin was afraid of his enemy, and did not want to face him.

But if Emuin waited until the enemy did more than rattle the windows of the Zeide, then the threads he had seen going out of Ynefel would be very many, and very dark. And that was not good advice.

He had been at two places where he had felt the Shadows most powerfully. He had gone on Maurylʼs Road as far as Henasʼamef, but he thought now, tonight, that Henasʼamef was not, after all, the end of his travels, only a resting-place, a place to learn. He could not rest too long, or remain too safe — Mauryl had not brought him into the world to be safe; he knew that now: Mauryl himself had not been safe. Mauryl had been fighting an enemy all unknown to him, an enemy that had finally overwhelmed him, and now, though he had never yet been able to read Maurylʼs Book or understand Maurylʼs reasons, he knew at least something of Maurylʼs fight.

The rest of the answers were not, he assured himself, at Henasʼamef. He had been closer to them at Emwy than he had been anywhere since he had left Marna, in that place where the Emwy road came closest to Ynefel.