Tristen said, from behind him, “Sir, I know now. He has Tasien and all his men, my lord King. If we defeat him—there might be help for the men.”
He turned. “And what will you do? Raise them from the dead?” He was angrier than he had known. He wished it unsaid an instant after. He feared what he had said.
But Tristen said, quietly, as if anger could never touch him, “No, my lord King.”
“The leg pains me,” he muttered, and turned and went inside the tent, with Ninévrisé He looked back at Tristen standing by the fire. “Come.
Come. Sit with me. Share a cup. Bear with my humors. I was in desperate fear for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Tristen said mildly, and came into the tent, in its shortage of chairs—but before they had gotten to that difficulty, from one of those arcane signals that provided such things, two boys of Tristen’s service had come in with his chair for him.
So, close on that, came Umanon, with his page, and bearing a chair, a cup, such necessities as even the King’s pavilion did not manage to provide all comers.
Came Cevulirn, and Annas had the royal pages hurrying about, harried lads, pouring wine into any outheld cup—Tristen lacked one, but Annas provided it.
“My lords,” Cefwyn said, sat down with a sigh and extended the aching leg. “Supper will be coming. In the meanwhile, sit, ask any comfort—I would you had had your season at home, but we had treachery in Henas’amef, plans were betrayed, and tonight the enemy’s overrun Lord Tasien, gods preserve his unhappy soul, so Tristen informs us, by sources—I don’t think dismay you gentlemen.”
“Treachery,” Cevulirn said. “Of the Aswyddim?”
He gave a rueful nod. “Clearer-sighted than your King, sir, and hence I limp, gentle sirs. Which does not hamper my riding. Nor will it keep me from answering this incursion. Thus the summons. Which you answered in excellent order. Tristen says that Althalen is made safer than it was.”
“It’s safe to leave the tents here,” Tristen said. “And we must move, before light.”
“Our men have ridden hard,” Umanon protested. “If they’re across, they’ll loot the camp. And we’ve Pelumer to find.”
“Pelumer will not reach us,” Tristen said, “and the enemy will not delay. They are closer. They’ve camped, I do think, but not—not longer than they must.”
There was an uncomfortable silence in the tent. The servants had begun to bring the food in, and stopped where they stood.
“A disciplined army,” Umanon said, frowning in clear disbelief, “that can move on its forces past a chance for loot even at a fallen camp. This is not what I’ve heard of Asdyneddin. The Lord Warden is venturing a prediction—or has he certain knowledge? And whence the news of Lanfarnesse?”
“Late,” Tristen said. “We dare not wait for him. We must not, sir.”
“Sorcery,” Cefwyn said, and said to himself he had no knowledge. “If he’s met ambush of some kind—Lord Tristen might say.”
“I cannot see through it,” Tristen said.
“What,” asked Umanon. “Through Marna?”
“I dare not,” Tristen said, “reach toward it. But Asdyneddin will face us. Tomorrow. And all Hasufin’s wizardry aims at that. These men will move because Hasufin wills them to move. They will not do as men might do otherwise.”
“We,” Cefwyn said quickly, before Tristen could say more to terrify sane men, “we found treason, sirs. And sorcery. Orien Aswydd betrayed our plans, so we made new ones.”
Suddenly Tristen stood up, staring elsewhere, toward the northeast, though the blank walls of the tent were all anyone could see.
“For the gods’ sake,” Umanon said, and even Cevulirn looked alarmed. Cefwyn quickly rose and took Tristen’s arm.
“Tristen. Sit down. Is something amiss? Is there something you should say?”
“No,” Tristen said shortly. And without leave or courtesy he drew aside and left the tent.
Uwen looked distressed, gathered up his sword and Tristen’s, and rushed after him. The servants stood confused, with dishes in hand.
Cefwyn rose, and went to the door of the tent.
“My lord King.” Idrys met him outside, and was in clear disapproval of such mad behavior, but he had done nothing to prevent him. Tristen was beside the fire, calling for his horse, in the aisle of the camp, then running past the tents, toward the northern end. Uwen had overtaken him—trying to press weapons on him, to no avail.
“The man’s quite mad,” Umanon said, behind Cefwyn’s shoulder.
“Idrys,” Cefwyn said, “for the gods’ sake stop him.” But then he knew in what bloody fashion Idrys might prevent an act that endangered him or the army, and caught Idrys’ arm before he could move. “No. Get my horse and the guard.”
“No, my lord King. You should not!”
“I said fetch my horse, damn it!”
He went back inside, limping, swearing as he struggled back into his armor while the guard and the horses were on their way; Erion Netha helped him, doing Idrys’ ordinary service, for Idrys was ordering the guard, and Cefwyn endured the mistakes of unfamiliarity with impatience; but Umanon and Cevulirn, who had not entirely disarmed before arriving for supper, were on their way after Tristen. Ninévrisé was directing the anxious pages to take sensible action to save the supper—practical, in a descent into chaos: whatever fell out, men who had run off to what might be another hard ride would come back wanting something in their bellies.
He is not mad, Cefwyn said to himself, sick at heart. He is not mad, and all that he does has our interests at heart. He could break Amefel out of the army if he wished. He could be king of Elwynor tomorrow if he wished.
But sometimes his wits go muddled. Damn him!
But he had no sooner come out the door of the tent than a Guelen man came running up, saying, “My lord King!”
At the same moment he saw riders coming down the dark aisle of the camp, and Tristen returning with them—”My lord,” said Erion, but Cefwyn could see from where he stood that there was no use chasing out into the dark, now, as sore as he was, after all the trouble of arming. Tristen, and Uwen, Cevulirn and Umanon all were riding back with several other men in accompaniment.
“What is it?” Ninévrisé asked, peering past him into the dark. Then:
“Oh, merciful gods,” she said, and went past him, running, while, in a sore-legged and kingly dignity, he could only watch and ask himself what in the good gods’ name they had found.
But Ninévrisé’s recognition of someone in the company could tell him something, if it was not some wizardly notion of hers to do with Tristen or her father’s grave—and he thought not, for her concern was for one rider in the company, a man whose horse was walking, head hanging, coughing. A crowd had started about the rider and the company, men rising from their campfires and gathering in the aisle. In the next moment it was a matter not only of escorting a stranger in, but of clearing the man’s and Ninévrisé’s path. Tristen led them through—a messenger, it seemed certain now, and a leaden foreboding had settled into Cefwyn’s heart even before they brought the procession to a halt in front of his tent.
The rider slid down, but his legs would not bear him. Guards, Uwen among them, caught him and carried him, and Ninévrisé came with him, trying to help, and finding no means.
“Lord Tasien,” the man began his account, straining to see Nin6vrise.
“My lady, —Lord Tasien is dead—they are all dead—the winds—the dark—came over the river—”
Uwen slung off his own cloak and put it about the man, who shivered and could scarcely, but for his and other help, stand on his feet.
“The rebels,” the man said, shaking as if in the grip of fever. “My lady, my lady, I was to ride—ride for help—for m’lord—when it began—the winds—”