“Wasn’t nothing going on,” Uwen said, “except the morning bread risin’, and then by what they say, the grease-pot was overset and it run down into the coals. After that, it was merry hell, m’lord. They don’t know if it was some dog got in, that knocked it over, or what, but Cook’s just damn lucky. It’s sausages from the courtyard, campfires and kettles for us tomorrow. It’s a rare mess.”
Tristen paced the floor, with nothing better to do—there was nothing he could do. Emuin was holding out on his own and cursed at him for a distraction, saying there were untoward influences. The ether is upset, Emuin insisted, which he did not understand, but he remembered the pigeon and the latch rattling, and with the dark outside the windowpanes, he paced and he looked for the intervention of the enemy in all that was going on—he feared to attract Hasufin’s notice, but feared Hasufin was laughing at all of them this moment. If a window-latch could rattle, he said to himself, a pot might rock and go over.
He had not prevented calamity, he with his little attempt at magic. He felt his failure keenly, and wondered whether he was not in fact responsible for the calamity. And from time to time he went across the hall and asked the guards how Cefwyn fared, but there was no news, except that master Haman had come and looked and said he could bring up a poultice they used on the horses, and he could stitch it up, but that was all that lay in his competency.
According to the guards and the gossip in the hall, Idrys had then said,
“Do the horses generally live?” and Haman had said, “Yes, sir,” and Idrys had had Haman bring what he had.
It did not please Prince Efanor, who sent the physician back with two of his guard and ordered Idrys to accept his treatment. Idrys had told the guards and the physician they were in danger of their lives if they meddled further.
So they had gone back to Prince Efanor to report that.
A long time went by, in Haman’s comings and goings, in the drift of smoke from the downstairs—many rooms had their windowpanes ajar, letting it flow out, but the smell of smoke clung to everything, and the servants were bundling fine clothes into linen wrappers and sealing the doors of chests and such with wadding. Emuin seemed better, at least so his servants reported, and had called for tea, but had headache and did not want to be moved, cursing his servants and telling the good Teranthine brothers that he wanted them to go light candles in the sanctuary.
What good would that do? Tristen wondered when he heard it, and wondered whether Emuin was in his right mind, or hoping for this salvation of his. He went down the hall to see Emuin, and Emuin was indeed better in color, but seemed to have lost substance, if that were possible.
“Sir,” he said. “Did you want more candles in here, or what can I do?”
“I want the brothers to light the candles,” Emuin said, and confided to him then so faintly he could hardly hear: “to get them out of here before I go mad. Is it dawn?” “Not yet.”
“Do you feel it—no! don’t look there. Stay out of that Place. Something’s prowling about. It’s here. Gods, it’s here.”
“I feel something dreadfully wrong. The air is wrong, sir.” He went down to his knees and caught Emuin’s cold hand in his—but Emuin did not move his head at all from where it rested, and seemed in great pain, perhaps not hearing him, as no one else ever had heard him when he tried to say the most desperate dangers. “It doesn’t ever stop, sir. It’s getting worse. I had my window rattling. And one of my birds killed itself.”
“He’s reaching out,” Emuin whispered, so faintly he might not have heard if he had not had his ear close. “He wants me. He wants me to die, apostate from the order—he wants me very badly. He wants me to die here, in this place—and damned to hell. Useful to him. Another steppingstone.”
“Mauryl used to speak Words, and the tower would feel safer, at least.
Do you know any of those Words, sir?”
“I haven’t the strength right now to think of them. Let me rest awhile.
Let me rest. My head hurts so.”
He brushed his fingers across Emuin’s brow, ever so gently, wishing the pain to stop. But it was impudent even to try with a wizard such as Emuin was. “If my wishes help at all, sir, you have them.”
“They are potent,” the whisper came, but Emuin’s head did not move, nor his eyes open. “They are more potent than you know, young lord.
Potent enough I could not die. Damn you!”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and took it for an old man at the edge of sleep, and in pain.
“Cefwyn,” Emuin said then, seeming agitated. “Watch Cefwyn.
Young fool.”
He did not know which of them Emuin thought the fool, but he said,
“Yes, sir,” and got up and left for Cefwyn’s room.
But the guards, very quiet and very correct since Idrys had had private words with them, said only that the King was in some pain, and that Idrys had said he might come in whenever he wanted.
He thought that he might visit Cefwyn, but there was a sense of ill everywhere alike, that same sense that he had had before, and he seemed to bring it with him.
There was a commotion on the stairs then, a number of men—Dragon Guard—came up the steps and kept going, to the next floor, as Cefwyn’s guards and everyone else looked anxiously in that direction.
But not just men of the Guard. Efanor. The priest, all with very determined mien. Lord Commander Gwywyn. Why to that floor? was Tristen’s first thought, and then: Ninévrisé.
Efanor had objected to her presence. The priest disliked Elwynim.
Gwywyn had begun with his loyalty to Inereddrin. “Uwen!” Tristen called out, and to the guards:
“Tell Idrys. Efanor is going against the lady. With Gwywyn. Quickly.”
He ran for the stairs, following the guards, who reached Ninévrisé’s floor just ahead of him. He hurried along behind them, overtaking Efanor and the priest, who were among the last, along with other priests, some carrying candles and some silver and gold vessels.
“Lord Prince,” Tristen said. “What is the matter?”
“Sorcery,” Efanor said, and a disturbed look came over him. “But you would know.”
“Yes, m’lord, I would. And there is no need to disturb the lady.” He saw the Dragon Guardsmen, with Gwywyn, sweep the mere sergeant of the Prince’s Guard aside from Ninévrisé’s door, along with the rest of the guards. They were going inside, and Tristen went to prevent harm to the lady, as, past the invaded foyer, a handful of frightened Amefin servants were trying to stand between Ninévrisé and a Guelen prince, armed soldiery and a priest of the Quinalt.
“There she is!” the priest called out from among the hindmost. “There is the evil! There is the sorceress!”
“No, sir!” Tristen said, and pushed his way past the soldiers and the Lord Commander. “This is wrong, sir!” he said to Lord Gwywyn. “No.
I’ve called Idrys. He’s coming. Wait for him.”
“Idrys is bewitched the same as the King!” the priest cried, “and this is a Sihhé—don’t look him in the eyes! Arrest him! Arrest the lot of them!”
Gwywyn’s face betrayed deep doubt. Tristen looked straight at him, but the priest was pressing forward and flung ashes at him, which stung his eyes, and the guards went past him, as the servants cried out in alarm.
“What is this?” That was Idrys’ voice, and of a sudden something thumped heavily against the wall and clattered down it—a guard in Idrys’ path. “You! Out! The rest of you get out of here! Good loving gods, have you lost your senses?”
“You have clearly lost yours, Lord Commander!” Efanor shouted at him.
“I hold you accountable—I hold you accountable for my brother’s life!”