Fortress in the Eye of Time (86 page)

Moving the mirror into the gray place, and calling the light back onto the page was the first magic he had ever worked that succeeded, just to move light and the reflection of light from place to place
.

So he did know something now that he had not known before; and he tried, though it was hard, to manage both Places at once, the one hand with the Book, the other with the mirror, until, out of the gray world the mirror drew into the world of substance, and looking only at the mirror, and reaching into the gray place, he saw the Book appear in the reflection the mirror held
.

But the mirror's image of the Book was blurred to him, until he could manage the mirror with one hand in the gray place, and angle it just so, and the Book in the hand that was in the other world, so that he could see the reflection of the page in that gray world
.

Then he could see the letters. Then he knew what they were:

It is a notion of Men
, it said,
that Time should be divided: this they do in order to remember and order their lives. But this is an invention of Men, and Time is not, itself, divided in any fashion. So one can say of Place. That there is more than one Place is a notion of Men: this they
…

…
this they believe; but Place is not itself divided in any fashion. Who understands these things knows that Time and Place are very large indeed, and compass more than Men have divided and named
…

He was no longer reading. He was
thinking
the Words and they echoed ahead of his reading them. He thought ahead, further and further into the pages, and
knew
the things the Book contained. He had written them. Or
would
write them.

That was what it meant—to one who could move
things
between the gray space and the world of substance.

He let down the Book and folded it on the mirror, and took up the sword again, not for a sword, but only for something to lean on while he thought.

That was how he waked, bowed over the sword, Uwen's hands on his; he lifted his head and Uwen took the sword from his fingers and laid it carefully aside.

“It's time, m'lord,” Uwen said. “The lamps is lit next door. His Majesty is arming and he's ordered out the heavy horses.
We're leaving the camp standing and going on. The lady's seein' to that. Scouts ain't seen nothing, though that ain't necessarily what we want to hear, may be. I hate like everything t' wake ye, but there just ain't no more time.”

In the sense Uwen spoke—there was no more time. But things he knew rattled through his thoughts. He bent and took off his ordinary boots. And stood up.

H
e held out his arms patiently as Uwen assisted him into his armor, still by lamplight, with great care for the fittings. He stepped one after the other into the boots that belonged to the armor, and Tassand buckled them snugly at the holes that were marked. Uwen belted his weapons about him, sword and dagger, and slipped the small boot knife into the sheath that held it.

There was only the lightest of breakfasts, a crust of bread, a swallow of wine, which took no fire-making, and put no stress on the body. So Uwen said. And he knew Uwen was right.

Mauryl's Book—
his
Book, held no comfort at all in the sense that he understood now what Hasufin had understood all along and that he knew what Hasufin wanted.

Most of all he knew what Hasufin wanted to do, which was to unmake Mauryl's work: him, for a beginning, but, oh, more than that.

Hasufin wanted Galasien back, for a second part.

Hasufin wanted substance enough to use what was in that Book, for a third. Those desires were enough to account for all that was and might be. But that was not all Hasufin wanted. Beyond that—he could also imagine. That was what put him out of the notion of breakfast, and made him certain that, whatever defense the armor was, Hasufin would be determined to turn every weapon on the field toward him—for Hasufin, he was sure, cared very little about Aséyneddin, only to maneuver to his own advantage. All, all that would be out there was nothing other than what Hasufin willed, substantial so long as Men were willing or able to contend; and in so many places.

He even guessed what had brushed past him that night
while he slept on the Road in Marna, and why he had dreaded it so. It was, in a strange sense—himself.

But this time he must go toward that sensible fear from which he had once fled—and what there was to meet, he must meet, and go wherever he must.

He was glad that Uwen saw nothing of what he saw. He would not wish that understanding on him for any price, not on Idrys, or Cevulirn or Umanon; nor on Pelumer, in whatever nightmare the Lanfarnesse forces might be struggling next the woods.

And not on Sovrag, who, if things went well, might yet arrive to strike at the Elwynim from the river, but he much doubted it: the Olmernmen had Marna to traverse to reach this far past Emwy, if they would go by water, and Marna of all places would not aid them.

But now with all the fear, came an impatience for this meeting. Something in him longed in a human way for encounter with Ninévrisë's enemies, to feel the wicked certainty of himself he had felt before, with the sword in his hand, and such certainty what had to come next. Nowhere else and at no other time did he have that.

And for no reason, tears flooded his eyes and spilled. He wiped them unconsciously.

“M'lord?”

Uwen thought he wept for dread. But he wept for Mauryl's gentleness, which only he had seen; he wept for Cefwyn's, for Uwen's kindness, which he did not have—not in their terms. He knew what he could do. He knew what he had done, and knew that he could not, by the nature of what Hasufin had loosed in the land, wholly win.

If there was disaster about to fall on those he loved, it was of his attraction, and he—

He had one thing to do. Beyond it—he could not see anything for himself, but he wanted it: he could no longer temporize with it, or delay it, or understand any more than he did, and he could not bear the increasing burden of his own household his own following—men who looked to him for
reason and right, men who wanted to pour out their devotion on him, never knowing him as he was, not seeing into his heart, and not knowing—not knowing he enjoyed that dreadful time when the sword flew in his hand like a living thing and he
had
no questions.

“Well, I done what I can,” Uwen said, testing the motion of his arm. Uwen looked him in the face. “M'lord, take care of yourself today.”

“Take care for yourself,” Tristen said. “Promise to care for yourself, that is what you can do for me. You will know the time, Uwen, and you must take no shame in turning back: I know this is the most difficult order I could give you; but do not follow me too far.”

“Ain't retreating before I get there, m'lord.”

Uwen had made up his mind not to listen. With curious abstraction, then, Tristen reached back into that place of white dreams and snared something of that blinding, peaceful light. It took form in his hand, bluish-white, and he passed it to the other hand, tossing it back and forth, back and forth, a little illusion that whitened the floor and the canvas.

That was, he thought, illusion enough to frighten any Man, the simultaneity of Here and There which men did not ordinarily see.

For a moment the faint letters on the sword blazed bright.

He let the illusion go.

“Gods,” Uwen said.

“Uwen, believe me that I am capable of going where you dare not. Where you
must
not.”

“I'd still try, m'lord.”

“I know you would. I ask you not to. You could endanger me. I would have to defend both of us.”

“Then I ask ye to come
back
, m'lord. Ye swear to me ye're comin' back or I'll swear I'm goin' behind ye, and I don't break my given word.”

Yesterday he would have had no hesitation to swear what Uwen asked. But now every binding of him to one realm or the other seemed full of dangers. The small illusion he had
wielded to scare Uwen was no weapon potent against a wizard who had the skill of Shaping—and thereby of unShaping.

“Uwen,—no. I shall not swear that. I swear I shall try. But there may be frightening things, Uwen. There may be reasons you should retreat—believe them when you see them.”

“Horses is waiting, m'lord,” Uwen said. “I heard 'em come up.”

So Uwen chose to look past illusion as well—in his own way, the Edge that moved between.

“Uwen. I swear—I swear that you may call me, and also send me away. That power I give you, and I know that I have no safer guardian.”

It took a great deal to make Uwen show fear. Now he did. “I ain't no priest, m'lord.”

“You're a good man. You understand right and wrong so easily. I don't. Mauryl always
said
I was a fool.”

“Of course ye understand,” Uwen said with an uncertain laugh. “And ye're the least like a fool that I know, m'lord.”

“But I swear I
don't
understand such things. I haven't lived in this world long enough to be wise. So I trust you with my going and coming. Call me only if you truly want me. Then I shall know at least one man wishes me alive. Then I might come back to the world. But think twice before you call me.”

“Now ye're being foolish. And His Majesty would never send ye away.”

“Cefwyn has no knowledge what I might do. Nor does he have pure reasons. Yours I trust. Do not beg off, Uwen. I give you the calling of me. You cannot refuse. And if you should die, Uwen,—there would be no one to call me, would there? So you mustn't die.”

“M'lord,—” Uwen opened and shut his mouth. “That were a clever, wicked trick.”

“Cefwyn taught me,” he said, and gathered up his Book and walked outside. The horses had indeed arrived, wearing their war-gear, Dys and Cass in black caparison that made them part of the dark.

“M'lord,” said Aswys, their trainer.

“I'm ready,” he said, and tossed the Book into the heart of the fire.

“My lord!” Uwen exclaimed.

The pages glowed along the edges and began to turn brown, the ink still showing. And that, too, began to go.

“He shall not have it,” he said, “neither Book nor mirror.” He went to Dys, who was working at the bit and fretting in dangerous boredom. Dys' face was masked in the metal chamfron, and nothing showed but the gloss of his eye, scarcely a hint of his nose. Tristen patted him under the neck, put his gauntlets on, and waited until he saw Cefwyn come out of his tent, with Idrys. They had Kanwy waiting; and Idrys' heavy horse, Kandyn. Cefwyn rose to the saddle, and Tristen took the reins from Aswys, then, and was not too proud to use the mounting-block as Cefwyn had, not wishing to have the girth skewing. He cleared the high cantle and settled, moving his leg to let Aswys recheck the girth, while Uwen got up on Cass.

Tassand brought his helm and other servants handed up his shield, while Lusin, who used a mace by preference, would ride in the second line and carry the lance for him, in their lack of mounted aides, as Syllan would carry Uwen's. One of the boys they had acquired came bringing Uwen his gauntlets, with worship on his face—and ducked back in awed haste when Cass took a casual snap at him.

Dys usually whipped his tail about. Today it was braided and tucked for safety, and Dys moved with a flexing and rattle of the bards that protected his neck, the straps of the armor passing through the caparison. The white Star and Tower blazoned central on his black shield and barred on Uwen's, floated in the dark, while, beyond them, Cefwyn's Dragon banner writhed and rippled against the firelight. Further away, the Wheel and the White Horse shone out of the dark, as Umanon and Cevulirn appeared.

Ninévrisë came out of her tent, wearing her father's mail shirt and with her father's sword belted on; after her came her ladies, her standard-bearer, and the two Amefin lords who
guarded them. “Come back safely,” she said, and sent her standard-bearer to his horse.

Then she said to Cefwyn, “I would rather be on the hill. I would
rather
be closer.”

“If it comes this far,” Cefwyn said, “as it may, you do not fight, m'lady. You ride. My brother has excellent qualities—among them a walled town. The whole northern army will rally to him if the war goes that far.”

“You do not pass me on like a gauntlet! I shall marry
you
, m'lord, or ride after you!”

“The gods,” Cefwyn said, “see us all safe, m'lady.” He turned Kanwy, then, and established an easy pace down the aisle toward the edge of the camp.

“Be well,” Ninévrisë called to them as they passed. “Gods keep you! My lord of Ynefel, be safe!”

The standard-bearers, ahorse, caught up the standards, and the order established itself as the Guelen heavy horse and the Amefin fell into line, creaking of saddles, a slow, quiet thump of hooves on the trampled ground of the aisle, more and more of them as they passed their own sentries, and reached the Emwy road.

The dawn was beginning in the east; and in the west…

Even by night, that shadow was on the horizon; Tristen could see it without looking toward it in the gray world. He rode side by side with Cefwyn, westward, with only the standard-bearers in front.

With open road and a cool night, Dys wanted to move; but they had the Amefin foot to follow them—and not so far, in terms of the horses, before they should look for the Elwynim force that had crossed the bridge and rolled over Tasien's defense.

“Aséyneddin will stay to the road,” he said to Cefwyn, when Cefwyn was about to send scouts out. “They have reason to fear Althalen—and even for Hasufin's urging, I doubt he will risk Caswyddian's fate. Or if he does—he will not fall on the camp without Ninévrisë knowing. Send no men by that ruin.”

“Dare I trust all our lives on your advice? She has no defense. Should she have no warning?”

“The camp is very well defended. The scouts you send into the ruin will not come back, m'lord. They will die if you send them. I beg you, don't. They have no defense. We were safe. They won't be. The sentries are enough. Her father will protect her.”

Cefwyn drew a deep breath, started to argue, then shook his head, and sent the scouts only to the fore, down the road. Idrys was not pleased with it. But Cefwyn did as he asked.

The next was a long ride, Dys and Kanwy walking along quietly, but Kandyn and Umanon's horse took such exception to each other that Umanon drew off well to the side of the road.

Cass had no such animosities: he and Idrys' horse alike were stablemates of Kanwy and Dys, and trained together. He was amiable, of his kind; but Dys, young, in his first campaign, made a constant demand for attention: he snapped and pulled at the reins, seeking to move ahead of Kanwy, which Tristen did not allow, or to the side, where he could annoy Cass. Tristen kept ahead of his intentions and refused to let him work himself into exhaustion: Dys, very much of a mind with him, seemed to sense the reason he was born was coming closer and closer, as yet unmet, untried. Dys wanted this day, too, not knowing entirely what he wanted, and keeping Dys in check kept his hands busy and his fears from having precedence: in that regard Tristen was glad of Dys' antics, and only half-heard the converse of the other lords.

But he knew from what he did hear that, behind them, at all the speed they could safely manage, the Amefin troops were marching behind the Amefin Eagle, footsoldiers fewer in numbers than they had planned and lacking the support of archers they had planned to have, both by reason of Pelumer's absence. And they could not go more quickly than they did for the sake of the Amefin.

The wagons would not follow today: Ninévrisë, in command of the camp since their change in plans, would
stand ready to strike the tents and advance to Lewenside, just the other side of Emwy, if they drove Aséyneddin in retreat—or to order the baggage burned, the horses and oxen driven off, and save herself and the men in camp if the battle went the other way and it looked as if Aséyneddin might take it. Messengers were already designated from their army to make the ride back to her, once they knew the situation that developed at the army's approach to Emwy.

 

The sun was well into the sky, all the same, a gray sky, when they came near that series of ridges that preceded the turn toward Emwy-Arys.

Then in the distance a saddled horse turned up, grazing beside the road, no one in evidence. It looked up as they came, still chewing its mouthful of grass.