Fortress in the Eye of Time (73 page)

But the mirror was only a mirror, silver polished bright; and it reflected only himself, Tristen no-one's son, and not any dreadful Sihhë lord, and certainly no potent magician.

He mused over perhaps going to Emuin with Book and mirror in hand and asking him—if he knew precisely what he would ask, or in what way the two might be connected. He had been foolish once today, although Uwen had laughed at him very gently about the falling leaves. Certainly he couldn't take for granted that he understood things as ordinary folk did.

But no understanding came to him—and the mirror, reflecting the evening sun, made no sense. He stared at the Book, and he leafed through it, and all it did was call back, in its aged parchment and battered, worn leather, memories of Ynefel, which he told himself were dangerous in the extreme.

He caught then what he thought was Emuin's presence, although Emuin had been very strict and at him instantly if he transgressed into the gray space. He had an impression of many candles, and of pain in the joints, and thought that Emuin might be at his prayers, somewhere nearby, perhaps just a slippage.

But underlying that, he caught the touch of some other
presence, and guessed that it was Ninévrisë thinking on what he was not sure, but he feared she was thinking of Althalen, which was dangerous.

—
Be careful
, he wished her
.

And the presence went away, either afraid or guilty.

She was very beautiful. She was very sensible, for as young as she was, and she was brave. He wanted to see her. He wanted to talk with her, even to tell her about the horses, and—to talk to her about the gray place, and about discovering the hazards there, because he knew that she had good sense, and he wanted the opinion of someone else who had something in common with him. He found her his safe doorway to the mysteries women posed him—he wanted just to sit and look at her very closely, as he had begun, today, to look at the autumn; he wanted to listen to her, and let unfold to him, in what seemed a far kinder, more truthful person than Orien Aswydd, all the things she was.

But he could not go visit her. Propriety did not allow that: he was a man, and she was the King's betrothed; and that was the way things would be—men could not, apparently, be alone with the lady. Even Cefwyn could not be, until they were married; and after that, he was not certain. She would always be Cefwyn's: that was the way of men and women getting together—
natural
men, he said to himself with a wounded feeling of which he could not rid himself. Natural men—not, as Sulriggan had said, grave-dust and cobwebs.

And what could Ninévrisë or anyone really see in him but that? What could anyone see, who did not, for reasons of what he knew, like Cefwyn, or for reasons of being ordered to attend him, like Uwen, forgive what he was first off? Those who knew him long enough seemed to get over their fear; but all men were afraid of him. Ninévrisë had been afraid at first.

And once she was with Cefwyn—Cefwyn had so little time, he would surely give a great deal of it to her. So possibly he
would
lose both of them—or at least they would have very little time to spare. So Cefwyn was giving him gifts and making it possible for him to be on his own.

It was good that he would have Uwen. But did everybody go away, always, in an abundance of gifts, just when things seemed most settled and happy?

Maybe it was the morose and distracting character of that thought, maybe it was just general distraction, but something was nagging at him as he tried to read, and he could not make up his mind what it was.

It did not feel quite like Ninévrisë. He feared it was something much more to do with Ynefel and Althalen, and he tried on that account to ignore it—although—if he could judge at all, it came from the east rather than the west, where Althalen was: it felt easterly the way Emuin had always seemed to have direction in his thoughts.

Then—quite a sharp hurt pierced his skull, right at the base of his neck, and he clapped a hand there, jolted forward against the table-edge by what became a sickening pain. He had never felt anything quite the like. He felt ill, and smelled candle-wax, as if candles had spilled over. He felt hazed, and scarcely able to breathe.

There was stone. Gray stone. A silver eight-pointed star
.

—
Master Emuin
, he asked, daring the gray space, for it was not ordinary, what was happening to him, and it involved candles. He seemed to hear voices echoing. He saw blue lights fixed at intervals. He saw the Sihhë star blaze with a white, ominous light, and he heard footsteps echoing in some stairwell
.

He caught breath enough to stand, steadied himself against the table, and went out to the other room, past the startled servants, and to the foyer. Uwen had gone down to the kitchens, the guards said, when he went outside and inquired.

“Is something wrong, m'lord?” one asked.

“I don't know. Do you know where master Emuin is?”

“He hain't been by here, m'lord. The brothers was about, but they went back downstairs and he wasn't with 'em.”

Emuin had no constant guard, such as he and Cefwyn did. Emuin's rooms were just down the hall, under at least the watch of the guards at his and Cefwyn's doors, and he went
and rattled the latch, hoping the old man was all right, perhaps only having a bad dream. But no one came to the door, and he opened it, his own guard quickly getting before him to make a quick search of the premises.

“Ain't no sign of 'im, m'lord,” the guard said.

By then he was very concerned. “I think we should set the downstairs staff to looking.”

“Is summat wrong, m'lord?”

“A pain. A hurt.—A place with candles, many candles.”

“A shrine,” one said, which was perfectly reasonable. “We can send down to the Teranthines, m'lord.”

“Do,” he said. “Ask the brothers. They might know.”

 

The brothers did not know. The Teranthines in the courtyard shrine didn't know. By the time the guards had come back with that upsetting report he had long since asked the guards at Cefwyn's door what they had seen, and, none of them wishing to rouse Cefwyn from his scant rest, one of them had gone to Lord Captain Kerdin, who set a more general search underway, and who came to ask questions of him as to what he had seen or heard or what reason he had to fear for Emuin's well-being.

The pain in his head was constant, and disturbing. So was the smell of candles and damp, where it was not the surroundings about him.

Then Idrys came upstairs, and heard what was happening.

“The Bryalt shrine,” Idrys said the instant he heard the word candles, and sent one of Cefwyn's guards, Denyn, running downstairs and out in that direction.

Idrys went down the stairs more deliberately, and Tristen tagged him, his skull aching with that stabbing pain. He was beginning to be very afraid, in a way he could not explain to Idrys, who had never been over-patient with vagueness and bad dreams; but Idrys was at least heeding him, and led the way down the east main stairs, and down again to a door he had not found in all his early explorations. It led down two
turns and outside to a little courtyard that must be almost within the shadow of the—he had been told—unused East Gate. Inside that courtyard was a very old building, modest and plain: the granary and warehouses he had once visited towered over its courtyard wall.

They entered a cool, dank interior, with voices echoing in just such a tone as he had heard. “This is the place,” Tristen said, “this is where,” as a handful of Bryaltine monks came hurrying along a columned aisle that disappeared down a narrow, dimly lit stairs.

“You!” Idrys said sharply, and the monks flinched and bowed, their faces largely hidden by their hoods.

“Lord Commander,” one such shadow-faced monk said, opening hands in entreaty. “Master Emuin—he's slipped and hurt his head. Please. One of your men—”

Idrys was past them before the man finished. Tristen followed him, down and down the stone steps, where the smell of damp and candles matched exactly what he had been smelling. The pain in his head was acute, all but debilitating, so that he had to follow the wall with his hand to know where he was. He could scarcely see, at the bottom of the steps, where Emuin lay in the arms of a Bryaltine monk—awake, he thought, but there was a great deal of blood about, and blood down the shoulder of Emuin's robe, blood all over the monk and the guard—the guard Idrys had sent was there, trying to help.

“Master Emuin.” Tristen dropped to his knees and touched Emuin's hand, saying, in both worlds at once, “
Sir. Do you hear me?
”

The Shadows were close about, dangerous and wicked. Emuin was trying very hard to tell him something. He gripped Emuin's hand, and it seemed very cold in the world of substance, hard to feel in that of Shadows
.

“
Tristen
,” Emuin said faintly. “
The Shadows. A wicked—wicked—thing
—”

Idrys knelt, seized Emuin's shoulder and turned him to see the back of his head, moving the bloody hair and a wad of blood-soaked cloth out of the way. What he saw made
him grimace. “Get the surgeon. Damn it, fool—run!”

The guard ran. There was so much blood. There was so very much blood.

—
We have sent for help
, Tristen said, holding to Emuin in the gray place.
Master Emuin, be brave. Stay with me. Stay. I shall not let you go
.

In that place Emuin was listening to him. Emuin said,
I saw it coming. I was trying to find a way—trying to find what his attachment is—he has a Place. He's found his open door. Be careful, be careful
.

He would not let Emuin die. He had lost the lord Regent. This time he recognized that black brink and the threads of darkness for death itself, and he fought with all that was in him
.

Men came and men went, and finally Uwen shook at him, saying he had to let go of master Emuin because the surgeon had come and had to sew the wound
.

He let go. He had difficulty even yet seeing through the murk. The little chamber with all its candles seemed unnaturally darkened. Candle flames burned with all ordinary vigor and yet did not shed light onto the stone around him. When they went outside Uwen kept hold of his arm. When they took Emuin into the Zeide and upstairs he walked behind. When the surgeon worked, he sat outside and tried to think of Emuin being well, that being all that he could do.

 

Emuin never quite lost awareness, but it was very low. When the surgeon let them all come in, Emuin looked so very pale, so very weak. He had a bandage around his head. The surgeon talked to Idrys in quiet tones and said the bone was broken and most such did not heal.

But Emuin was listening, lying in his bed, and looked very weak, and very pale. Tristen paid no attention to the surgeon and Idrys. He went to the bedside. Emuin was distraught—afraid, he was aware of that, and kept reciting poetry, or some such thing.

—
Prayers
, Emuin gave him to understand, then, and there was something bitter and something frightened about him at the same time.
I gave up wizardry. I gave it up to find another way. And I've grown old in the world. I let myself grow old to find some sort of holiness, and I'm not what I was. I can't fight your enemy. Forgive me, boy. All that's left now is to step off that brink and hope there's something there
.

—
No!
he said angrily.
No, master Emuin. I need you
.

—
You've no damned right to need me! To hell with it, to hell with it. I grow so weary—so very tired
—

“
Ask him
,” a cold voice said—Idrys, he thought—“
ask him if he fell, or if it was an accident
.”

—
Was it an accident, master Emuin?
he asked faithfully, and:

—
Hell if I know. That's just like the man. Master crow, always picking bones, looking for trouble. Cefwyn and Efanor. Clever boys. Both—very clever lads…damned brats. Did you know they loosed three sheep in the great hall?

“
He doesn't know what happened
,” Tristen said quietly to Idrys, unable to see him, but knowing he was there. He grew afraid, and squeezed Emuin's hand until he feared it hurt, but the brink seemed nearer to both of them.
You're too close, sir. Please come back
.

—
It's my peace, damn you! I've earned it. Let me go
.

—
No, sir. No! Cefwyn needs you. Listen to me
.

—
I am, I confess it, are you satisfied? a very bad wizard. I'm old, I'm out of practice, out of patience, I can't do these things any more, that is my dreadful secret. No, the worse one is, I never was any good. Mauryl knew it. Don't look to me. I've one chance—one chance, that the gods do exist, that salvation
is
there, and it's my only hope, boy, it's the only hope I have left. You heard them. By nature, I shan't get well from this. If I heal myself, I can only do it by wizardry—and I should be damned. I've done murder, and I'm old. I shall be damned
.

He knew nothing of damnation. He saw Death coming, a
black edge Emuin was willfully seeking, and he would not have it.
You will get well, sir. You are the only one. I tried to help Cefwyn. I could do
nothing!
I could never
—

There was a tumult somewhere outside. He could not tell what it was. He ignored it until he saw, in the world of substance, Emuin look toward the door or attempt to. “Fire,” someone was crying, and Idrys was on his feet. “Fire, captain, there's smoke all through the hall!”