Petelly stood patiently while the boy searched up the tack, stood sleepily through the saddling and bridling—sniffed over Tristen’s 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 Cefwyn’s cloak about him and over as much of Petelly’s 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 other’s arm and said, “’At’s a King’s messenger, don’t ye see?”
The second man held the shielded lamp close, and said.
“Pardon, sir.”
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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 town’s 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, didn’t know ye in the dark, m’lord. Hain’t you no escort?”
“None tonight,” he said. He did not know the guard’s 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, ’at’s 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 guards’ 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 I’m sure he will, tell him I did not go to Ynefel.”
“Where is ye goin’, m’lord?” one asked, under the stamp and splash of Petelly’s restless hooves.
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“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 Cevulirn’s horses, and those watching Pelumer’s, 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 Uwen’s 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 422
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 anyone’s fault for not watching him—Idrys’ 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 Cefwyn’s order to go back to Cevulirn’s 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 Mauryl’s enemy.
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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 Emuin’s 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 Mauryl’s Road as far as Henas’amef, but he thought now, tonight, that Henas’amef 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 Mauryl’s Book or understand Mauryl’s reasons, he knew at least something of Mauryl’s fight.
The rest of the answers were not, he assured himself, at Henas’amef. 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.
 
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C H A P T E R 2 3
T he rain was a misery, pouring off the tent, finding ways under the edge to soften the ground around the stakes. The holy brothers had already been out in the rain, struggling to re-position the stakes at the end of the tent, and a man who had not begun his life’s work as a priest reflected that prayers and the brothers’ inexpert efforts did less for tent-stakes than minor wizardry could. Sit in the shelter of this rock, good father, rest yourself, good father: leave the tent to us, good father, in the gods’ good grace, father.
Emuin was more and more tempted to fix that corner stake himself, suspecting that the good brothers would not feel a twinge or a tingle in the air if he did.
But there were powers in the air tonight that might. He did not think that they had reached as far as Arreyburn, but he was not willing to wager on it.
“Rocks,” he called out finally, impatient, and wishing he had closer attended the setting of the tent in the first place. He had trusted woodcraft in two seventh sons of some town mayor, gods save him, and let them position it when the gale came down on them and drenched them.
“Pardon, father?” one asked, rain-drenched gentility.
“Rocks. Good bloody gods, boy, you set the left-side stakes in a runnel down the damned hillside, what do you expect?” He brushed past the pair and slogged into the rain himself, gathered up three sizable wet rocks from the hill and jammed them, one after the other, tightly up against the three tent stakes and trod on each of them, hard.
After that he retreated, drenched, inside the tent, stripped off his sodden clothing, and seized up a relatively dry blanket to wrap in while he pulled off his boots.
He had a change of clothing in the baggage. The good 425
brothers among whom he had been in retreat had given him no hired guards, who might have known how to set a tent. The hired guards had been off seeing to the protection of ten brothers going to the blessing of the harvest in this end of season, and the assessment of land-rent for the abbey’s tenants. Collecting the annual rent was a mission occasionally fraught with high passions, and occasionally beset by banditry, and the soldiers were reasonably called for. The abbot had not anticipated a message from His Highness or, now—if one believed Tristen, and he did—the King, bidding him come to a place and a danger he had tried very hard to avoid.
The brothers shivered in modest propriety in their wet robes, scorning the tyranny of the flesh. They lit the lamp after its overset in the collapse of the tent end: they were at least good for that. The oil had not caught fire, their tent had not burned down, and the brothers thanked the gods in their constant muttering of, “Thank you, sweet gods, thank you, dear gods,”
that could drive a man to desperation. The muttering, as of doves, increased in times of trouble. They blessed the lamp, they blessed the tent pole, they blessed the oil-sopped carpet that, with the mud, was going to have the lot of them looking like mendicant friars by morning.
“In the gods’ good name, sit down and be warm, brothers.
Don’t press against the canvas. It makes leaks.” Emuin tucked his own dry blanket around him, and wished the lamp oil had not had attar of roses added. It gave off a cloying perfume that had the closeness of the grave to a man who was holding the grave at bay with such difficulty tonight.
The pair settled. They heard the beating of the rain on the canvas. Thunder boomed, and the good brothers made prayers, quietly, at least.
But true gods, unlike spirits, did not permit themselves to be summoned, did not manifest at a wizard’s whim—or a priest’s—did not answer a mortal’s demand; and did not know, perhaps, mortal needs, or mortal fears. Even the Nineteen, They of Galasien, the hidden gods, were wisps in the ether, a breath, an unanswering, unanswerable riddle.
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And a wizard-turned-priest began to ask himself—then what earthly good were they? Were they more or less than Hasufin?
Was that what wizards prayed to, and what the Elwynim held sacred? He no longer knew, and now doubted his years of prayers and all his attempt to save the old lore.
Ináreddrin dead, Cefwyn King—and Tristen set at liberty in the midst of it: none of the news that had flooded toward him by earthly messenger and unearthly summons could give a wizard-priest peaceful dreams. He felt the danger in the ether, where Tristen’s every disturbance of that expanse of dream and substance gave advisement to the enemy which sat gathering forces at Ynefel. Every breath of wind through the insubstantial realm informed the power they least wished informed, and Tristen had no inkling what a powerful presence he was there. Tristen could not see himself—Tristen could not see the disturbance he made, could not, at least, understand that his manifestation was not ordinary, that it shouted to the heavens and drew attention. He was Sihhë. He was indubitably Sihhë, and that power was born in him—if he had been born. That power was in his bones, if he had had them shaped in anything but the womb of air and Mauryl’s will.
If he had ever personally doubted since he laid eyes on Tristen, it was only regarding the order of presence he had to deal with—not its potency.
No, Tristen was not a wizard. He did not need to be. No, Tristen did not work magic. Tristen willed things, and the ether bent, bending the earthly realm with it—even when Tristen was unaware he was doing it.
Like a young man, Tristen had reached out to the only elder he saw; or he, like an old fool, had sensed the troubled ether and reached first. He could not now remember how it had been—but he had become ensnared, and then Cefwyn had, and after him, others, the ineffectual gods save them.
Now Tristen had begun searching the mortal earth for a force he could not master in the unearthly realm, searching—although he was certain Tristen did not know it in so many words, and likely did not think of it in anything like the way a 427
wizard thought of it—for points of Presence in the earthly realm where the enemy was most vulnerable.
And where the enemy was consequently most powerful: unfortunately. One went with the other.
If Tristen would not be so rash as to dare assail Ynefel itself, still there were even in Amefel places almost as fraught with the enemy’s presence. He could name one very dangerous site without an instant’s hesitation.
The boy was on the road. He caught impressions now and again as an unskilled presence tried to keep from attracting notice and achieved—if not the opposite—at least a very qualified success.
The boy—the Shaping, the Sihhë-lord, the power that a dying and desperate master had released on an unsuspecting world, where men thought that priests could hold back the dark without being shadowed by it—was looking for answers in a physical realm that could only lead him to trouble. There were places of potency. But in very truth, there was no dark to hold back—at least—the dark that there was had no wellspring and no dividing line that this wizard had ever found. The dark that he knew was general. It was ubiquitous. It had its frontier in every soul that lived and had lived, and the good brothers yonder in their goodness were a pale, powerless nothing if he cared to look.
They were all but invisible in the ether, as all but a few of the Teranthines were invisible.
Once he had thought it a refuge, once he had thought it holiness, and a sanctuary where a wizard once stained with his craft could find a lodging for his soul that the Shadows could not find or touch.
But now he began to suspect that the good brothers did not shadow the ether not because they were good, but because they had masked themselves from everything, had carefully erased their stray thoughts, had poured out their human longings, emptied themselves of desires and become so transparent an existence that they had not only ceased to be evil, they had ceased to be good. They had ceased to fight the battles of everyday life, and simply weighed nothing. Not a feather. Not 428
a grain. They had given up everything, until they vanished from the scale of all that mattered, having given away themselves long before any power declared the contest.
There were
those who did cast a shadow in the ether. There were those whose presence could become a Place, and whose Places, however many they created in their lives and the leaving of life, were links to the physical world. Advantageously situated, they could make a power both elusive and unpredictable—like Hasufin.
He could recall a young, smiling boy whose shadow had loomed among wizards at Althalen, a Shadow trading on its child’s shape, and on human sympathy and human scruples, Mauryl had argued, when the most of them among Mauryl’s students saw only the child, and argued that its natural, childish innocence might protect them long enough to let them, through moral teaching, change its character.
Then Mauryl had said a thing which echoed frequently through his nightmares nowadays, that innocence answered no questions, nor wished to, and that a very old soul counted on their reluctance to harm the housing it had chosen. No other disguise could have gotten it to that extent through their defenses.
Most of all he recalled how a child’s body had lain still and helpless while the indwelling spirit ranged abroad in the halls of Althalen, killing men armed and unarmed, ordinary men and wizards, old and young, with no difference, up and down the halls, stifling their breath, stealing the force in them for the strength to break the bonds Mauryl had set on him.
That spirit is almost as old as I, Mauryl had warned the six of them that night. My student, yes, he was that, long ago, in Galasien. He was a terror to his enemies, but mostly, most of all, Mauryl had said to them on that dreadful night, Hasufin was a despiser of all restraint. As his teacher, I set him limits he immediately disdained. I set him work that was too tedious for his artistry. I set him exercises he overleaped as irrelevant and unengaging to his ability.
This spirit ruled in Galasien. Oh, he was noble-born. He 429
would be a king over Galasien. And as I raised up the Sihhë
kings to bring him down, now I bring down the Sihhë because they temporized with him, and nothing less than their destruction tonight will prevent him.