Fortress in the Eye of Time (82 page)

 

Within the hour the riders from the south had crested the rise along the road, a rolling tide of the swift-moving Ivanim light horse, and behind them, their slower-moving allies of Imor, a dark mass of riders and warhorses at lead. The banners were plain in the sunset, and Tristen drew a deep, glad breath when he saw it.

“Two of them,” Cefwyn said in Tristen's hearing. “Now, gods save us, if now Pelumer will come in…”

Olmern had perhaps succeeded, Tristen thought when Cefwyn made that wish. He could in no wise tell for certain, but he felt none of the hostile influence to the northeast, and that said to him that their enemy had not gone that way. The way they
had
left open to Aséyneddin had cost them dearly, those two bridges eastward of Emwy district, which Cefwyn had hoped would make an incursion from the forest-edged west the only answer if Aséyneddin wished to cross quickly into Amefel. Tasien was gone. The Elwynim
had
crossed and committed themselves. No second rebel force could threaten Henas'amef without coming by way of Emwy, and without passing them.

That portion of the plan was, he hoped, working. Cefwyn had designated reciprocal messengers that daily came to Henas'amef from the east reach of the river, upstream, and one would have reached Henas'amef last night. After that, Efanor should have sent the regular relay out north to the river and sent another courier west after them, bringing Cefwyn word of the riverside and Sovrag.

Cefwyn's system of messengers, Tristen thought, was very well done; it had freed him personally of the necessity to try to reach Emuin, which was the most dangerous thing he could do short of speaking to Hasufin himself. Cefwyn's
couriers had gone out from the army directly north this morning, to reach Sovrag directly and to bear Ninévrisë's second messages of reassurance and encouragement to the Amefin riverside villages, jointly with Cefwyn's, to assure them they were not abandoned, that Sovrag was not a threat to them, and to urge the villages to report to them directly overland in the now remote chance Lord Aséyneddin should cross somehow—on that matter, the defense of the province might have turned.

But now the bonfires they had lit on the hills had brought them Cevulirn and Umanon, and that was another wonder of Cefwyn's forethought: the simultaneous muster of the barons and their being able to join Cefwyn's column on the move had all relied on measuring distances, which Cefwyn had done in advance, and knowing very accurately how fast the various forces could move, granted they saw the signal fires and moved at all.

If one had no way into the gray space, it was a very clever way of doing things. It was a way of getting around wizards—and it was important to know how that could be done. He marked it always to remember, and never to become complacent in what he saw.

And the gray place was constantly urging at him. It was full of shadows and lights and whispers. Now with the sun taking the light from the land and making the hills gold, and with their allies riding toward them, he felt that the missing pieces that had to exist had now come together.

But he did not have that feeling of inevitability about Pelumer that he had had all along about Cevulirn's coming and Umanon's. Marna's dark edge was Pelumer's route—and he had no wish to look deeply or long in that direction.

Cevulirn came riding up in the sunset with the White Horse flying, leading his own warhorse with him, as every man in his company had a remount with him and his lance and shield and a small amount of provisions packed on the warhorse's saddle.

That was the way the southern horsemen had done forever,
constantly changing from mount to mount. So Cefwyn advised him as the riders came, and it unfolded in Tristen's thoughts that it had indeed been that way, that on their longest marches they had two and even three horses in their string. He saw it so vividly that a Name almost came to him, and he felt comfortable with the Ivanim, and knew their thinking, for reasons he did not clearly know.

Cefwyn told Cevulirn his place in line and his place in camp from memory—a precedence in line behind the Amefin, whose province it was, and ahead of Umanon, whom he had beaten in—Cefwyn told Cevulirn where his warhorses should be, and where his wagon was and where his tents would be, which they had brought for him.

“Your Majesty leaves no work for the scribes,” Cevulirn said with the mild lifting of a brow. It had seemed a point of amazement among the barons in all the preparations that Cefwyn did remember such things in very certain detail.

“Join us this evening!” Cefwyn wished him in sending him off. “We'll take a cup of wine together—and explain this haste!”

Umanon also came riding up, his men traveling in the same style as the Ivanim, leading a contingent of heavy horse. “Majesty!” Umanon called out. “A short stay at home. I'd scarcely built a fire in the hearth!”

“I shall explain tonight!” Cefwyn said. “But things are as well as they can be. Thank the gods for your meeting us. We're in good order, with you here, Your Grace! See me when first you've set your tents!” And Cefwyn told Umanon the numbers and place of his camp as well, after which Umanon rode off to his assigned place in the order, and to claim his personal baggage.

The day had worn hard on Cefwyn. He had started the day as he had started yesterday, riding strongly, but now despite the good news of a moment ago, he seemed to Tristen to be clinging to his courage and to his composure even at Danvy's sedate walk. Danvy had given a couple of quick steps as horses came up to him, and Cefwyn had corrected that, but at a price.

“Not far,” Tristen said to him, the only encouragement he could offer, for if there was one road in the world he knew it was this one and if there was one thing he could now sense like his own bonfire in this night, it was Althalen.

 

It was deepest dusk when they came to their projected camp, in that area of the road respecting Althalen's perimeter and across the road from any accidental encroachment on what Cefwyn called the cursed precinct. Tristen was very glad, himself, to get down. The wagons were yet to come and the least essential ones, with the units of horse that guarded them, would be arriving long into the night.

“Set the unit standards with their units,” Cefwyn called out, pointed warning against any such carryings-on as yesterday night. “Bid everyone keep their standards in good order. From this place on, there is danger of the enemy at any hour!”

Ninévrisë had not gotten off her horse, and Tristen walked over to see if she needed help; so did Cefwyn, at the same time.

“My lady?” Cefwyn said.

“My father's grave is here,” she said. “I wish to ride just to the edge of the ruin, my lord, to stay only for a moment, if I can do it without endangering the camp. But I feel—I wish to, my lord.”

Tristen stood by, having been ready to offer Ninévrisë a hand down. He knew that Cefwyn did not want to grant such a request, and that Cefwyn out of his willingness to please Ninévrisë would get back on Danvy and take a guard and go, though he was in pain. He would not send Ninévrisë only with an escort.

“I shall go with you,” Cefwyn said, with never a protest.

“My lord,” Tristen said. “My lord King, this is a place where I can see things others may not, and defend against things others cannot. I can take Uwen and my guards.”

Cefwyn looked at him, seemed to consider, and let weariness and gratitude touch his face. “Half yours,” he said. “Six
of the Dragon Guard. We've tents to raise.—And be careful. In this matter, I trust
you
as no other, but for the gods' own sake, for the
gods
' sake and on your oath to me, be careful.”

“Yes, sir.” He went to get Petelly and gave orders to Uwen, glad that Cefwyn had been reasonable—but most of all feeling now in his heart, as clearly as he saw the sun sinking, that Ninévrisë's request was both urgent and advised.

He mounted up and by that time Uwen had collected the men Cefwyn lent him. They crossed the road, on which a seemingly endless line of riders and men afoot stretched on out of sight, and they entered the meadow on the other side, riding up through a screen of trees to another grassy stretch, farther and farther then, out of sight of their camp, and up into the area where they had met Uwen that dreadful night, in the rain, and with Caswyddian's forces behind them.

Uwen grew anxious. So did the men with them. And perhaps, Tristen thought, he should be apprehensive himself, as he saw streaks of wind run through the grass, and one little one, following a thinner, very erratic course. He knew the child, saw her frolic without seeing her at all.

Ninévrisë said, “Something is there.”

“It is,” he said. “But don't look too closely. She doesn't like to be caught.—Uwen, it's the witch of Emwy's child. She's a little girl. I'm glad to see her. Her name is Seddiwy.”

“That old woman?”

“I don't think the child died when Emwy burned. I think she might have died a long time ago. I don't know why I think so, except the Emwy villagers are here, too, and they're not so friendly, or so happy as she is.—But they won't harm us. She's stronger than she seems.”

“Gods,” Uwen muttered, as four distinct marks flattened the grass ahead of them, leading where they had to go. “Is it those streaks in the grass?”

“Yes, those.”

“M'lord, I do hope you know where we're going.”

The light was leaving them very fast, now, and none of the men looked confident—they were very tired, they had been
two days now on the road, and they might, except for this venture, be sitting at the fires and drinking wine with their friends and waiting for their suppers; but on Cefwyn's orders they came, and fingered amulets more than weapons.

Petelly snorted and twitched his head up as the little spirit darted beneath him—and then right under a guardsman's horse. It shied straight up, and the man, most anxious of their company, fought hard to hold it from bolting.

“Behave!” Tristen said sternly, and that stopped.

They were coming among saplings that had been all broken off halfway up their trunks. Rocks lay shattered in the grass.

Then one of the Dragon Guards reined aside from something lying in the grass, and said, not quite steadily, “Here's a dead man, Lord Warden.”

“Caswyddian's men,” Ninévrisë said calmly enough, though her voice was higher than its wont. “Are we in danger, Lord Tristen? Might
their
spirits harm us?”

It was to ask. But—“No, I don't think so. The Emwy folk seem to hold this place to themselves.”

They came up that long, difficult ridge, where two men had fallen. The rains had not quite washed away the scars they had made on that climb.

They reached that place that overlooked the ruin, and it stretched very far under the cover of trees and brush and meadows. Despite the chill of the winds below, the air on this exposed ridge was quite still, even comfortable. There was a sense of peace here that had not existed before, tempting one who had the power to look in that different way—to stop and cast a look in this fading last moment of the light.

Ninévrisë said, in a shaken voice, “Father? Father, is that you?”

Then a change in that other Place caught Tristen's attention, as certainly a presence would: and in that instant's glance he saw pale blue, and soft gold. He risked a second look and saw the Lines of the ruin, the lines on the earth that had grown fainter and fainter in the hour of the Regent's
death now spreading out brightly far and wide. Brighter and brighter they shone in the dusk as the world's light faded, until they blazed brightly into inner vision. Other lines glowed where those lines touched, and those touched other lines in their turn, like fire through tinder, blue and pale gold, each form in interlocking order, as far as the eye could make out, one square overlaying the other—all through the grass, and the thickets.

It was the old man's handiwork, he thought, astonished and reassured. Late as it was, the earth was still pouring out light. Shadows flowed along the walls, but respected the lines of those walls now. The men about him glowed like so many stars to his eyes; and then his worldly vision said it was not the men, but the amulets they wore, the blessed things, the things invested with their protection against harm—as Emuin's amulet glowed on his own chest, in the midst of the light that was himself.

That glow seemed the old man's doing, too—yet none of the men with them, not even Uwen, seemed to see all that had happened. Only Lady Ninévrisë gazed astonished over the land.

“Your father's work!” he said. “Do you see, my lady? He is not lost!”

“I see it,” she said, holding her hands clasped at her lips. “I do see!”

“What, Lord Warden?” a guardsman asked; but Uwen said, quietly, “What m'lord sees ain't bad, whatever it is. Just wait. He's workin'.”

“No,” Tristen said, for the men's comfort. “It's not bad. It's safe. It's very safe here.”

The Lines, as they had that night, showed him what Althalen had been, bright as a beacon, now, advising him here had been a street, here had stood walls, here was a way through the maze, though brush had grown up and choked the open ground.

And when he thought of that, a Name the old man had not been able to tell him seemed to sound in the air, unheard, that Question to which the old man had known the answer
resounded through the grayness, and Lines on the earth rose into ghostly walls and arches, halls full of people who walked in beautiful garments, and ate delicate food, and laughed and moved in gardens and a river ran near that had boats sailing on it, boats with colored sails and with the figures of beasts and birds on their bows. He did not know whether he could say it as the old man did—but he had almost heard it ringing through the world.

Not Althalen, he thought, then, aware he was slipping very rapidly toward the gray space—but not—suddenly—at Althalen.