“It was beautiful,” she said, accepting his hands. “It was beautiful. I wish you had seen—”
“I doubt that I could,” he said, conscious of Guelenfolk about and wondering what she might have said or seen out there that might find its way to orthodox ears; but he had not meant to make it a complaint.
“The lord Regent protects us here,” Tristen said. “I was right.
He has won Althalen. He’s held. Men loyal to the Regent died there, and so did his enemies—but most of all is Emwy village.
They’ve sided with the lord Regent. I think they have, all along.”
“They fed us when we were camped there,” Ninévrisë said.
“They kept us secret from Caswyddian’s men. They were good people, in Emwy village.”
“Then the gods give them rest,” Cefwyn said, though he thought perhaps the wish was ill considered. They were 730
uneasy dead, by what Tristen claimed, and would always be.
But Tristen was looking downcast as he turned Petelly off to the groom. He stood gazing off into the distance at the moment, and comprehension seemed to flicker in those pale eyes, cold and clear in the firelight, as if he had heard from some distant voice.
“What is it?” Cefwyn steeled himself to ask—as he should have asked in council before. He had determined to mend his faults. And to tell Ninévrisë what he did know.
“Trouble,” Tristen said, “trouble. My lord, I very dangerously misstepped tonight. He carried me to Ynefel. I was very foolish.
I almost lost everything.”
“What did he gain?” He did not need to ask who it was Tristen meant; and he had no room for charity. “Tristen?”
“Little, I hope. Perhaps knowledge of me. I—do not think lord Pelumer will join us. My enemy is moving. He is well ahead of us.”
“Tasien?” Ninévrisë asked in alarm, and looked at Tristen.
Tristen had spilled it. Gods knew what else he had let loose.
“We fear Lord Tasien may have fallen,” Cefwyn said, gently.
“My lady,—Tristen only fears so. At this point—”
“It is certain,” Tristen said; and anger touched Cefwyn’s heart—he bore with all Tristen’s manners, but he could not accustom himself to interruptions especially on important points.
And something happened, something clearly happened, then.
Tristen had looked at Ninévrisë and Ninévrisë looked at Tristen, her clenched fists against chin an instant, and then—then something else was there—all he himself could have done, the knowledge, the comfort—all that passed in changes he saw, and could not touch, and could not feel.
Anger welled up in him.
And yet—yet how could they do otherwise, and how could Tristen not be the gentle creature he had always been, with all his impossible questions and his impossible ways.
He could not rebuke Tristen. He turned and began to limp into the tent, and Ninévrisë came hurrying after, to walk 731
beside him, to offer a gentle, almost touching hand, respectful of his royal person, at least, when his friend would have had no such good sense.
Tristen said, from behind him, “Sir, I know now. He has Tasien and all his men, my lord King. If we defeat him—there might be help for the men.”
He turned. “And what will you do? Raise them from the dead?” He was angrier than he had known. He wished it unsaid an instant after. He feared what he had said.
But Tristen said, quietly, as if anger could never touch him,
“No, my lord King.”
“The leg pains me,” he muttered, and turned and went inside the tent, with Ninévrisë. He looked back at Tristen standing by the fire. “Come. Come. Sit with me. Share a cup. Bear with my humors. I was in desperate fear for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Tristen said mildly, and came into the tent, in its shortage of chairs—but before they had gotten to that difficulty, from one of those arcane signals that provided such things, two boys of Tristen’s service had come in with his chair for him.
So, close on that, came Umanon, with his page, and bearing a chair, a cup, such necessities as even the King’s pavilion did not manage to provide all comers.
Came Cevulirn, and Annas had the royal pages hurrying about, harried lads, pouring wine into any outheld cup—Tristen lacked one, but Annas provided it.
“My lords,” Cefwyn said, sat down with a sigh and extended the aching leg. “Supper will be coming. In the meanwhile, sit, ask any comfort—I would you had had your season at home, but we had treachery in Henas’amef, plans were betrayed, and tonight the enemy’s overrun Lord Tasien, gods preserve his unhappy soul, so Tristen informs us, by sources—I don’t think dismay you gentlemen.”
“Treachery,” Cevulirn said. “Of the Aswyddim?”
He gave a rueful nod. “Clearer-sighted than your King, sir, and hence I limp, gentle sirs. Which does not hamper my riding.
Nor will it keep me from answering this incursion.
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Thus the summons. Which you answered in excellent order.
Tristen says that Althalen is made safer than it was.”
“It’s safe to leave the tents here,” Tristen said. “And we must move, before light.”
“Our men have ridden hard,” Umanon protested. “If they’re across, they’ll loot the camp. And we’ve Pelumer to find.”
“Pelumer will not reach us,” Tristen said, “and the enemy will not delay. They are closer. They’ve camped, I do think, but not—not longer than they must.”
There was an uncomfortable silence in the tent. The servants had begun to bring the food in, and stopped where they stood.
“A disciplined army,” Umanon said, frowning in clear disbelief,
“that can move on its forces past a chance for loot even at a fallen camp. This is not what I’ve heard of Aséyneddin. The Lord Warden is venturing a prediction—or has he certain knowledge? And whence the news of Lanfarnesse?”
“Late,” Tristen said. “We dare not wait for him. We must not, sir.”
“Sorcery,” Cefwyn said, and said to himself he had no knowledge. “If he’s met ambush of some kind—Lord Tristen might say.”
“I cannot see through it,” Tristen said.
“What,” asked Umanon. “Through Marna?”
“I dare not,” Tristen said, “reach toward it. But Aséyneddin will face us. Tomorrow. And all Hasufin’s wizardry aims at that.
These men will move because Hasufin wills them to move. They will not do as men might do otherwise.”
“We,” Cefwyn said quickly, before Tristen could say more to terrify sane men, “we found treason, sirs. And sorcery. Orien Aswydd betrayed our plans, so we made new ones.”
Suddenly Tristen stood up, staring elsewhere, toward the northeast, though the blank walls of the tent were all anyone could see.
“For the gods’ sake,” Umanon said, and even Cevulirn 733
looked alarmed. Cefwyn quickly rose and took Tristen’s arm.
“Tristen. Sit down. Is something amiss? Is there something you should say?”
“No,” Tristen said shortly. And without leave or courtesy he drew aside and left the tent.
Uwen looked distressed, gathered up his sword and Tristen’s, and rushed after him. The servants stood confused, with dishes in hand.
Cefwyn rose, and went to the door of the tent.
“My lord King.” Idrys met him outside, and was in clear disapproval of such mad behavior, but he had done nothing to prevent him. Tristen was beside the fire, calling for his horse, in the aisle of the camp, then running past the tents, toward the northern end. Uwen had overtaken him—trying to press weapons on him, to no avail.
“The man’s quite mad,” Umanon said, behind Cefwyn’s shoulder.
“Idrys,” Cefwyn said, “for the gods’ sake stop him.” But then he knew in what bloody fashion Idrys might prevent an act that endangered him or the army, and caught Idrys’ arm before he could move. “No. Get my horse and the guard.”
&
nbsp; “No, my lord King. You should not!”
“I said fetch my horse, damn it!”
He went back inside, limping, swearing as he struggled back into his armor while the guard and the horses were on their way; Erion Netha helped him, doing Idrys’ ordinary service, for Idrys was ordering the guard, and Cefwyn endured the mistakes of unfamiliarity with impatience; but Umanon and Cevulirn, who had not entirely disarmed before arriving for supper, were on their way after Tristen. Ninévrisë was directing the anxious pages to take sensible action to save the supper—practical, in a descent into chaos: whatever fell out, men who had run off to what might be another hard ride would come back wanting something in their bellies.
He is not mad, Cefwyn said to himself, sick at heart. He is not mad, and all that he does has our interests at heart. He 734
could break Amefel out of the army if he wished. He could be king of Elwynor tomorrow if he wished. But sometimes his wits go muddled. Damn him!
But he had no sooner come out the door of the tent than a Guelen man came running up, saying, “My lord King!”
At the same moment he saw riders coming down the dark aisle of the camp, and Tristen returning with them—“My lord,”
said Erion, but Cefwyn could see from where he stood that there was no use chasing out into the dark, now, as sore as he was, after all the trouble of arming. Tristen, and Uwen, Cevulirn and Umanon all were riding back with several other men in accompaniment.
“What is it?” Ninévrisë asked, peering past him into the dark.
Then: “Oh, merciful gods,” she said, and went past him, running, while, in a sore-legged and kingly dignity, he could only watch and ask himself what in the good gods’ name they had found.
But Ninévrisë’s recognition of someone in the company could tell him something, if it was not some wizardly notion of hers to do with Tristen or her father’s grave—and he thought not, for her concern was for one rider in the company, a man whose horse was walking, head hanging, coughing. A crowd had started about the rider and the company, men rising from their campfires and gathering in the aisle. In the next moment it was a matter not only of escorting a stranger in, but of clearing the man’s and Ninévrisë’s path. Tristen led them through—a messenger, it seemed certain now, and a leaden foreboding had settled into Cefwyn’s heart even before they brought the procession to a halt in front of his tent.
The rider slid down, but his legs would not bear him. Guards, Uwen among them, caught him and carried him, and Ninévrisë
came with him, trying to help, and finding no means.
“Lord Tasien,” the man began his account, straining to see Ninévrisë. “My lady,—Lord Tasien is dead—they are all dead—the winds—the dark—came over the river—”
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Uwen slung off his own cloak and put it about the man, who shivered and could scarcely, but for his and other help, stand on his feet.
“The rebels,” the man said, shaking as if in the grip of fever.
“My lady, my lady, I was to ride—ride for help—for m’lord—when it began—the winds—”
“Inside. Inside,” Cefwyn said, conscious of the men gathered about, common soldiers who had heard enough to send fear into the army. Gossip was inevitable. The men had to know and it was going to run through the camp on the fastest legs. “Deal with the matter!” he said to Gwywyn. “We know the message already. We are marching early to meet it.—Damn it!”
They had borne the young man into the tent, into light and warmth, and set him at Tristen’s bidding into Tristen’s own chair. Annas gave the man a cup of wine to drink, and Tristen steadied the man’s hands, while Ninévrisë, all dignity aside, knelt down and had her hand on the man’s knee. “Palisan,”
Ninévrisë said. “Are they across? Have they crossed the river?
Have any lived?”
“They—” The man lifted his head and stared in fear into Tristen’s eyes, and went on gazing, Tristen’s hands holding both his hands on the cup. He had a gulp of wine at Tristen’s urging, and only then seemed to catch his breath.
“Sorcery,” he said. “I saw this camp—I was not certain—I was not sure it was friendly.”
“What did you see?” Cefwyn asked. “Speak it plain, man. Your lady is listening.”
“I—grew lost. I didn’t know which way about on the road I was. I couldn’t tell east from west, though the sun was up.—I lost the sun, my lady. It changed.” The man struggled to speak amid his shivering, and he took a third gulp. “It was noon. And the sun was dark. And they were coming across. And the winds were blowing. M’lord can’t have held them. They were so many—”
“When did you leave the battle?” Idrys asked coldly.
The Elwynim turned a frightened glance on him, and began 736
to shiver so his teeth chattered, and Tristen set his hand on his shoulders.
“Where did you ride?” Tristen asked him.
“My lady.” The Elwynim looked to Ninévrisë. And she drew back. “My lady—”
“You could not have come so far so fast,” Ninévrisë said,
“without help.”
“He had help,” Tristen said.
“What help?” Cefwyn asked. A King should not be caught between. His men ought to inform him. “Damn it, what do you know?—Tristen. What more?”
Tristen walked away from him and stood looking at the canvas side of the tent.
“Answer the King,” Idrys said, “lord of the Sihhë. You swear yourself his friend. What are you talking about?”
“A Shadow.”
“It’s another of his fits,” Uwen said in anguish. “M’lords, it’s another one. He had one out there, and they pass.”
The messenger cried out, and the wine cup left his hand, sending a red trail across the carpets that floored the tent. He fell, sprawled on the stain. And he had wounds—many wounds.
“Gods!” a page whimpered. “Oh, blessed gods.”
“Sorcery,” Umanon muttered, and others present, even servants, were making signs against evil. Ninévrisë’s face was white.
“Tristen,” Cefwyn said. “What’s happening? Tell me what you see! What is this Shadow?”
“Evil,” said Cevulirn.
“Tristen.” Cefwyn seized his arm, hard, compelling his attention.
“Aséyneddin provided a Place,” Tristen said, “and it must have a Place. Shadows are coward things. But this one…this one…is very…”
“Tristen!”
“The lord Regent denied it a Place here. But…it can find others—even here. It’s trying. Men in camp mustn’t listen to it.
Hasufin sent this man. He helped him through the 737
gray place, to see us. To see us, and know our numbers.”
“Tristen!” Cefwyn shook at him, aware of the fear of the lords near him, and the priest-fed superstition and the palpable terror this messenger had already engendered.
“It shifts,” Tristen said faintly. “It moves. The trees of Marna are its Place. The stones of the river are its Place. The Road changes and moves. The things that are—change from moment to moment. It’s advancing. But it much prefers the trees.”
“What is he talking about?” Umanon asked. “—My lord King, do you understand him?”
“I should take him to his bed, Your Majesty,” Uwen said.
“No!” Tristen said. “No, Cefwyn. Hear me. We must ride and stop them.”
“Now? At night? Men are exhausted, Tristen. We have mortal limits.”
That seemed to make sense to Tristen, at least. But he made none to anyone else.
“We will have panic in the camp,” Cevulirn said, and cast a fierce look about him, lingering on the servants. “Say nothing of this death, do you hear, you!” It was a voice very loud and sharp for Cevulirn, and it sent cold fingers down the backbone.
“Sire, we must send men through the camp, to quiet rumors.
Very many saw this man come in.”
“We must advance,” Tristen said
with a shake of his head, and in a voice hardly more than a whisper. “Nothing can help Tasien. The enemy is advancing. There’s a Place we must meet it. But that Place could become closer, and worse for us. We must go.”
“Now?” Umanon asked sharply, and Tristen left that hazy-eyed look long enough to say,
“Emwy would help us.”
Cevulirn was frowning, Umanon no less than he; and pressing exhausted men on this advice, in the chance of catching the Elwynim at some sorcerous disadvantage—it might be their only hope. It might be their damnation. Tristen knew no common sense at such moments. What Tristen might do—other men might not.
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“No,” Cefwyn said, then, deciding. “Weary as we are, we cannot. In the morning, before dawn, we will move, with horse and foot, as fast as we can, and still arrive fit to fight. Lady Ninévrisë will command the camp.—Tristen?”
But without a by-your-leave, Your Majesty, Tristen had simply—left, with Uwen close with him.
That Distance came on him, and he could not breathe. He went to his tent past startled guards and servants.
He had not reckoned that Uwen had followed him; but when he reached the shelter of his own tent, he caught his breath and wiped his eyes, and turned to find Uwen staring at him.
Trembling, he shrugged as if it had been nothing.
Then the shadow came on him again, so that he caught for the tent pole and leaned there, half-feeling Uwen’s hands on him. Uwen gripped his shoulder hard and shook at him; and he saw the two boys had somehow retrieved the chair from Cefwyn’s tent.
“Uwen. Ask them to go. Please.”
Silently Uwen braced an arm about him, and said to the servants what he wished him to say, in kinder terms than he could manage, and steered him for his chair. He sat down. He saw that, clever as his servants were, by whatever means they knew such things, they had his armor laid out ready for him—the suit of aged brigandine, of all that the armory had had, the one that best pleased him, because of its ease of movement. That was as it should be. And he already wore the sword he would use.
He took the sword from his belt, and sat with it in his arms.