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.
—I’ve 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—be 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, be thought—”ask him if be 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 bare left. You beard 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 be 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!”
“Damn,” he heard from Emuin, an exhalation of breath as much as a word. The next was stronger. “Cefwyn?”
There was a smell of smoke, however faint, that he had taken for a draft from the fireplace. He heard doors open and close. He saw Idrys leave in haste. He felt disturbance from master Emuin and even through the closed doors heard Idrys shouting at someone in the hall. Emuin was afraid. Emuin was aware, through him, if no other way.
He left Emuin’s side and went out through the several doors to the hall, where Uwen was. Servants were standing up and down the hall, all looking anxiously toward the endmost, servants’ stairs, where smoke was billowing up. The kitchens, it might be: that was where most chance of fire was, down below and on that face of the building.