—Shaping of Mauryl, it taunted his defense. Bind me, you upstart? Banish me, do you think? Go back into the dark, foolish Shaping, until you learn my name!
—For him I bind you, Lord of Magic! For Mauryl! And for Hasufin, when he was Mauryl’s friend!
The Wind roared over him, an outraged wall of gray, and the force that attempted to form about him, to Shape itself about his shape, sundered itself on the sword’s edge, and lost all form. He could not see its fall, or if it fell, but behind him there was nothing but the Edge.
…or the reflection in the rain barrel.
…or the endless rush of wind and cloud into the void.
The wards it had woven, threads stretched from the Quinaltine and wound about Ilefínian…collapsed like a wall going down.
“M’lord,” he heard from a great distance. “M’lord, we could truly use your help, if ye hear me.”
Thunder cracked. He stood in that hall in Ilefínian with Crissand at his side, and the archers loosed arrows as Crissand gave a wild cry and charged them…battered them with shield and sword all the way to the door, where Crissand stood, sword in hand, glancing out into the hall.
Then back. “Which way?” Crissand asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Tristen said in astonishment, feeling that time had one certain direction now, and that it moved indeed as he willed it. His knees felt apt to give way; and he took two steps, helpless as a child and apt to faint, except he had the echo of Uwen’s voice ringing in his ears: it seemed to him now that Uwen had been calling for some time.
Crissand meanwhile had two shafts hanging from the bright sun on his shield and a lively challenge shone in his eyes. Between two heartbeats, it might have been, the loosing of an arrow and its strike.
“Downstairs,” Tristen said, remembering the town gates that lay far downhill of the fortress, and suddenly knowing the limits of flesh and bone—that they could not gain the gates by wishing themselves there.
“More are coming,” Crissand said at a racket of footsteps on some distant stairs. “Shall we hold here a bit?”
Lord of Althalen, he was, Tristen said to himself. Lord Sihhë he accepted to be.
“Owl!” he called.
Out of thin air and the stones of the wall, Owl flew, and flew past Crissand, out the door.
Where Owl flew, there Tristen knew he should go. Strength came back to his limbs. He settled his grip on his sword, and heard, distantly, not the crash of thunder, but the boom of something battering the doors downstairs.
Sweat ran beneath the helm and streamed into Cefwyn’s eyes as he climbed the hill that had been a long, long slope down. The fighting on the hill above him swam in a blur of red mingled with that pale blue that always in his thoughts was Ninévrisë’s.
The black banner no longer flew. He was sure of that. He thought that that was indeed Ninévrisë’s standard up there with the Marhanen Dragon…but he could not be sure; and to lose the battle now, for want of officers up on that hill, that possibility, he refused to bear: to see Ryssand escape him, he refused; and he drove himself despite the haze of his vision and the ache in his bones.
Black coat on a rider that turned his way: Tasmôrden’s man, he thought in alarm, but black was the color of the Prince’s Guard as well; and with a pass of a bloody glove across his eyes he confirmed that it was one of his own who had seen him, one of his own who turned toward him, across the corpse-littered field.
More, he knew that blaze-faced horse: it was Captain Gwywyn who came riding in his direction, leaving the battle above, and the fact that Gwywyn came personally reassured him that loyal officers were indeed in command up there, that the fighting was all but done.
With a great relief, then, Cefwyn climbed, using the rocks to help him on his right, though Gwywyn’s horse gained ground downslope far faster than made his weak effort climbing at all worthwhile. Gwywyn quickened his pace…then reined back hard, in inexplicable alarm, gazing up.
Cefwyn turned as with a grate and a scrape of stone and metal a heavy weight slid down from the rocks…a man landed afoot in front of him as Cefwyn lifted his sword in defense: an armored man in black, and likewise armed, and familiar of countenance.
“Master crow?” Cefwyn said, forcing his unused voice. “Damn you, you’re late!”
“If my lord king hadn’t led me a damned downhill chase,” Idrys retorted, “I’d have been in better time.” A glance gestured back toward Gwywyn, who, Cefwyn saw, had come to a baffled standstill. “That, my lord king, is no rescue.”
“Gwywyn?” Cefwyn blinked and saw in Gwywyn’s bearing and in Gwywyn’s unsheathed sword suddenly not his defense, but a threat, the substance of Idrys’ warning of some nights past…Gwywyn: his father’s Lord Commander, his father’s right-hand man. And if Gwywyn had turned traitor…or if Gwywyn had always been Ryssand’s…the three of them were far enough from the rest of the army that no one up there might hear or see what happened in these rocks.
Why should Gwywyn pause? Indeed, why should Gwywyn have doubts in approaching his king, seeing the Lord Commander?
Then Cefwyn saw a reason for Gwywyn to wait, for from the side of the slope nearest the ridge appeared two more men. Corswyndam was one.
“Ryssand,” Cefwyn said, with a longing to have his hands on that throat, and a fear that he might not have the chance. “Have you help, crow? We may need it.”
“I saw from the heights,” Idrys said. “And could not reach that far. But men of mine are aware of him.”
“Aware of him!” Cefwyn cried in indignation. “They daren’t see either of us leave this field alive!”
“Gwywyn did seem likeliest as a traitor,” Idrys said. “I wasn’t wrong.”
“You might have told me!”
“I had my eye on him.”
“Your eye on him, damn you! How long have you known?”
“That he was Ryssand’s man? Messages went astray, such as only a handful knew. Lord Tristen informed me of several instances…whence I deemed it a matter of some haste to reach my lord king—and not to make myself evident to the traitors at the same time. I had no evidence.”
“No evidence!”
“No more sufficient than had my lord king, since my lord was clearly still temporizing with Ryssand. I spied over the situation. I was never far.—Her Grace, by the by, is well situated in Amefel and sends her love.”
“Gods bless!” He was all but breathless, stung to life by the thought of Ninévrisë and unbearably angry at the prospect of dying on this hill, nearly in possession of all he dreamed to have. “Could you not have told me you suspected Gwywyn?”
“I also suspected the captain of the Guelens…who does seem innocent. I’d not ask my lord king’s good temper to face one more known traitor in his councils. The half dozen my lord king already knew about seemed sufficient to suggest caution…and I consulted with men of mine, each night. They have their own orders: if Ryssand retreated, he was not to leave this battle.”
“That is Ryssand, crow. He’s left the battle! Where are these men of yours?”
“Uphill, doubtless, where my lord king should be, except he chased downhill and engaged in combat, scattering my men behind him…’ware, my lord! They’re about to charge.”
Gwywyn had joined Corswyndam now, and they came ahead: three scoundrels, Cefwyn thought, regretting his shield. He took a solid grip on his sword and reckoned the threat of Ryssand’s horse, which was not Kanwy’s equal: a heavy-footed, bow-nosed creature he liked no better than its master.
“What was the lightning down there, by the by?” Idrys asked him. “Wizard-work?”
“Hell receiving Tasmôrden,” Cefwyn said with a deep breath. For a moment he felt scant of wind, felt the ache in his arms, and then found his spirits rising, for his shieldman was beside him, and that was the most help he had had in days. “I give you your pick, crow.”
“I’ll take my own traitor, then, and my lord king can have his.”
“Done.”
Lan
ces lowered. Horses gathered speed.
There was a difficulty in attempting to run through wary opponents, ones who had seen wars before this one, and who had their backs against a barrier neither horses nor lances could pass. Cefwyn waited, waited, and he and Idrys went opposite directions at the last moment, when lances had to strike or lift.
Ryssand tried a sweep of the lance to catch him: Cefwyn flung himself past its reach. Ryssand spun his horse about, its iron-shod feet about to overrun him; but Cefwyn had fought the Chomaggari, with their breed of infighting, infantry half-carried into battle by their cavalry, in among the stones and brush of the southern hills. Ryssand kept turning his horse, his shieldman trying for position, but Cefwyn laid hold of the tail of Ryssand’s surcoat and held on, pulling Ryssand sideways, down on his back and under his own horse’s hooves as the horse backed from its rider’s shifting weight.
The horse dealt the telling blow. The second came on the sword’s edge, and Ryssand’s head parted his body.
With an anguished shout Ryssand’s shieldman forced his way past his lord’s horse and rode down at him, and in a moment stretched long and clear as if by magic, Cefwyn turned on his heel and kicked the butt of the fallen lance into the horse’s path.
The horse went down, the rider spilled, and lay unmoving when the horse gathered itself dazedly to its feet.
Cefwyn caught a ragged breath then, and lurched half-about toward Idrys, who engaged his predecessor on foot in a noisy bout of swordsmanship, Idrys the younger man and the quicker, but Gwywyn a master years had proved.
Gwywyn knew, now, however, that he was alone, and he began to retreat, perhaps fearing some ignoble blow from the side.
He erred. He died, in the next instant, and Idrys shook the blood from his sword.
Cefwyn proffered him the reins of Ryssand’s destrier. “Catch me the guard’s horse. I’m too weary to chase him.”
“Majesty,” Idrys said, between breaths. It was rare to see sweat on master crow, but it was abundant. Idrys looked as if he had run miles, and perhaps he had, but he took the offered reins, and mounted stiffly on Ryssand’s bow-nosed horse.
And now four Dragon Guard and two Lanfarnesse rangers came sliding down from the height of the rocks.
“Damn you!” Cefwyn said to the Lord Commander.
“They were engaged,” Idrys said smoothly, from horseback. “I hurried to my appointment, my lord king. I think more may arrive shortly.—By your leave.”
He rode out. In a moment he had caught the guard’s horse, and led it back.
“My lord king,” Idrys said calmly, handing him down the reins, and by now, indeed, several more rangers stood on the height, and the fighting uphill had come almost to a standstill, a last few of the enemy seeking safety in flight, which Idrys indicated with a flourish of his hand. “Lord Maudyn seems to hold the hill; we have these rocks and several score men of my choosing from place to place along the ridge. I think between us the enemy has met his match.”
CHAPTER 8
The battering of the doors gave way to a crash of wood, a clump and a clatter on the stairs, and a worried shout.
“M’lord!” Uwen called, and came running up the steps, shield scraping on the stones, his face white and sweating: it was far run in armor, but up he came, with Tristen’s guard and Crissand’s thumping behind him, onto the upper floor of the fortress.
“It’s gone,” Tristen said, meeting him in that unfamiliar hallway, and such was the relief he felt in saying it that the sky outside the windows seemed lightened. Crissand was beside him. There, too, was a glad reunion, Crissand with his father’s guard and their captain.
“The lightnin’ cracked an’ the sky was blowin’ somethin’ fierce,” Uwen said, out of breath. “But then we said that you was in there an’ b’ gods them gates was comin’ down.”
Just so he could imagine Uwen saying it: those great, well-set gates.
“With a ram,” Crissand’s captain said, “since there was this great old tree gone down in the wood’s edge. The lads spied it and we had the limbs off it and up and took it against the gate.”
“But the guards at the gate was confused in the banners,” Uwen said, “Tasmôrden claimin’ the same device. They fell to arguin’ amongst themselves whether it was Tasmôrden back again rammin’ ’is own gates, or what it all meant…which he’s outside the walls, m’lord, somewhere! But Aeself’s goin’ through the town, street to street, now, tellin’ all the folk that it’s yourself, m’lord, that it’s Amefel come across the river, and they should hunt out the blackguards that’s left.”
There was a sudden tumult of arms within the halls, somewhere close.
“Our own,” Uwen said pridefully. “Them bandits o’ Tasmôrden’s is goin’ t’ ground an’ hopin’ for dark. They’re outnumbered by far.”
The gray space was open again. It was as if with the passing of the Shadow within the fortress that the sky and the land had lightened and spread wide, and Tristen could both hear and see again within the gray space. And the lords of the south he perceived. And the skirmish in the hall he perceived, and the living folk in the town, with Aeself among them. Cefwyn’s forces he perceived.
But Tasmôrden he could not find.
“Cefwyn’s east and south of us,” he said. “We have to tell him we’re here.” He led the way down the stairs, down to the lower hall of a fortress he had never entered by its proper doors. Its walls were stone unplastered in its upper courses, and its floor pavings smoothed more by age than art.
And the wooden doors stood ajar, the bright wounds of the wood and a bar standing askew attesting how force and a stone bench had gained entry for his men.
He set a hand on Uwen’s shoulder, grateful beyond measure, and they went outside, where Lord Cevulirn stood on the steps with Umanon of Imor Lenúalim, directing riders who occupied the walled courtyard.
“The lost are found,” Cevulirn said, seeing them, and Tristen came and embraced the man, embraced stiff and proper Lord Umanon as well, and then had the dizzy notion that hereafter he truly did not know why he lived, or what he should do, or where he belonged. It was as if all that directed him had left, and when he stood back from Umanon he looked outward across the open courtyard, to the open doors, and the walls of houses of a town he had never seen.
He was still lost. Owl had flown up when he came out the doors, and settled now on an absently offered wrist as he gazed over all this motion and tumult of men who took his commands and sought his advice.
But Cevulirn and Umanon knew the governance of a people far better than he knew; Uwen knew the ordering of soldiers in far more detail than he. Crissand knew the needs of the countryfolk far better than he. He looked out across the square and saw Sovrag of Olmern with his men, and Lord Pelumer with him, saw all this array of martial power set now amid a town that had been in the grip of a bandit lord, and saw what appeared to be the common people venturing to the gate, to look inside and wonder what had come on them now.
He knew where he did not belong.
—Emuin? Master Emuin? he asked, anxious for the old man, for Paisi and Ninévrisë and Lusin and all he had left behind; and an answer came to him, at least that Master Emuin’s charts were in an irresolvable muddle and that baskets and pots and powders were strewn everywhere.
But Emuin was alive, and so was Paisi, and so was Ninévrisë, and they could be here, if they chose. He invited them, if they chose…Leave Lusin in charge, he said, and showed Emuin the way.
“Where’s Dys?” he asked, for he longed to find that other heart he could not touch at a distance: he relied on Uwen, and on Crissand, and sure enough, now his guard had found him, Gweyl and the rest, and would not be shaken lightly from his tracks. “Cefwyn’s out there.”
“Ye ought to send a messenger, m’lord,” Uwen said. “Ye ought to sit here safe and send one of these lads.”
“But I won’t,” Tristen said, with the least rise of mirth. “You know that I won’t.”
“As
I ain’t the captain of Amefel any longer,” Uwen said, “I can shake free an’ ride with ye; an’ as your guards has to go, though probably ye can call the lightnin’ down on any leavin’s of Tasmôrden’s lot…still we’ll go, m’lord.”
Idrys’ men had gone out, probing toward Ilefínian, and came back again to say there was a strange assortment of banners before riders on the road: the black banner of the High Kings that Tasmôrden had claimed, in company with the Tower and Checker of the Regent and the Eagle of Amefel, with two and three others less clear to the observers.
“Tristen,” was Idrys’ pronouncement, where they had established not a camp, but a staying place on the hilltop, under the open sky, a place for dressing wounds and collecting the army in order. “Did I not say this egg would hatch?” Idrys asked. And Cefwyn finding no word: “What shall we do, my lord king?”
What indeed should they do? Cefwyn asked himself somberly. Go to war with Tristen? Call a battered Guelen army to take the field against the friend of his heart, who had claimed that banner?
“Bring Danvy up,” Cefwyn said, looking out and down the hill. Close after the battle, two of Anwyll’s men had found Anwyll climbing uphill with Kanwy in hand and a handful of the company behind him, but Kanwy had a wound and was due a rest: it was his light horse that would serve now, for a short ride and a meeting.
“What shall we do?” Idrys repeated his question, hammering it home.
“Do? I think I shall meet my friend and hope for my lady’s safety at his hands.”
“Hope?” Idrys echoed him. “Is hope what we have, now? Nothing of faith? The hatchling’s spread wings, my lord king, and it’s no damned pigeon we deal with.”
Cefwyn gave a wry and silent laugh. “A dragon. A dragon. master crow. But he is still my friend.”
Idrys said nothing for a moment, only gazed at him as if in reproach. Then: “He was still your friend when he sent me to the Olmermen. He was still your friend when he marched, and he leads those who are my lord king’s sworn men, but now, now there is a question.”