—Sihhé, it said. Open the window.
—No, he said, and wondered at its simplicity. He was far wiser than that.
—Sihhé lord, the Wind whispered to him; and then it whipped away with a sinuous force, leaving an impression of its terror behind it.
But not, perhaps, fear of him. Something else came. He sprang to his feet, transfixed with the realization that the presence was not at the windows, it was with him in the room.
It found no barrier. It brushed past his attention, weak, gentle, and reasonable.
—Tristen. Tristen, welcome me, quickly. I have not much strength.
—Emuin.
—The King—the presence began to ask him, and grew thin, and almost left.
—The King is dead, master Emuin. Cefwyn’s father is dead. Now Cefwyn is King. He stood in that place of blinding light, where was neither life nor time. He looked about him slowly. There was a shadow in the light, a presence which bad no shape, but essence which from moment to moment threatened to dissipate, and be thought that this was Emuin. Hold on, master Emuin. I need you. I very much need you tonight, sir. I’ve tried before.
Emuin seemed to grow more substantial, then. And seemed dismayed at him. Oh, gods, Emuin murmured. Gods, lad. What have you done?
—I did everything I knew, sir. He held out his hands to draw Emuin closer, but the bloodstains showed dark on the light that was his skin, and he stopped reaching, appalled at what he saw. I fought, sir. I thought it was right. I knew how. And Cefwyn was in danger.
Emuin frightened him with his fear. He thought Emuin might flee him as the men had on the field.
But Emuin came closer then, and a touch brushed his stained fingers, and a silken touch folded fingers into his, and closed, almost substance.
A touch brushed his face, and it seemed that Emuin’s arms folded him close, as Mauryl would, as Cefwyn had—but never was the fear Emuin felt so evident as now.
—I don’t know bow to help you, Emuin said. You’ve gone far beyond what I understand, lad. I don’t know what to do.
—Tell me what is right! he asked of Emuin, but Emuin said,
That’s the difficulty, isn’t it? What’s right? I don’t know, young lord. I never knew, myself.
It was not the truth be wanted to bear of Emuin.
Then be felt something else creep near. It listened to their thoughts, a presence that lived in this white place and was a danger once they were in it.
—Go back! Emuin said, pushing him away. You must go back. Immediately. I’ll be there as I can.
He saw something twisted and moving, nothing but shadow. He knew that it had been a man—or something like. That is Hasufin, he heard Emuin say, but far away. Be careful. Tristen. Be careful.
Emuin’s voice faded. He saw Ynefel. The fortress seemed very near, visible through a shadow woods, a place by tricks of the eye new and substantial, then shimmering and fading into mist and deeper shadow.
Something dreadful sat there now. He saw Mauryl’s face in the stones of the wall, and all his certainties that this was where be wanted to be fell away from him. He wanted to escape. He felt Emuin behind him, in that strange sense of place and whereabouts. And he dared not leave Emuin undefended in his flight.
—Inborn in the Sihhé, a voice whispered, is the skill to touch other planes. The old blood runs true. Shaping that he is, he has substance here and there alike, does he not, Emuin?
Nothing that should interest you, Emuin warned him. Young lord, believe nothing it offers you.
Tristen stopped in mid-impulse, drifting close to that familiar place, and Mauryl’s features began to shade and warp until it was another and younger face that looked on him.
He was aware of all the land then, stretched out like the map on Cefwyn’s table, and little tendrils of darkness ran out from Ynefel, curled here and there in the woods and lapped out into Elwynor—while another thread ran through Amefel to Henas’amef itself, growing larger by the instant.
He felt threat in that single black thread, as if it touched something familiar, something close to him. Or was himself. He was not, single chill thought, certain.
Other threads multiplied into Elwynor, a complicated weaving of which he could not see the end.
—Tristen! Emuin commanded him.
He had grown attracted to the voice. He tried now to retreat toward Emuin. He risked becoming as attenuated as the threads.
—Tristen! This is Mauryl’s enemy—this is your enemy! Come back to me! Come back now!
A band seized his band. It pulled him through the air faster than be could get his balance, and he fell.
He struck the floor on his side. His limbs were sprawled on cold stone, aching. He moved his hands, as amazed at the play of tendons under flesh as the first time he had seen it—and felt strong arms lift him up and strong arms encircle him, a shadow intervening between him and the fire.
“M’lord! —Guard! Damn, get help in here, man! He’s had one of his fits!”
He heard Uwen’s voice. Uwen’s shadow enfolded him. He blinked at it dazedly and languidly. Other men crowded about him, lifting him from
Uwen’s arms, but not quite—all of them together bore him somewhere, which turned out to be back to bed, down in the cool, tangled covers, which they straightened, tugging them this way and that.
Most left, then, but Uwen remained. Uwen hovered over him, brushing the hair back from his face, kneeling at his bedside. Uwen’s seamed face was haggard, pale, and frightened.
“I am safe,” Tristen said. It took much effort to say. But he found the effort to say it made it so. He drew a freer breath.
“Ye’re cold, m’lord.” Uwen chafed his hand and arm violently, tucked the arm back beneath the cover and piled blankets on him until the weight made it hard to breathe. Uwen was satisfied, then, but lingered, kneeling by his bed, shivering in the chill of a night colder than Tristen remembered.
“Uwen, go to bed. Rest.”
“No. Not whiles ye go falling on floors in fits.”
Uwen saw through his pretenses, he was certain, although Uwen made light of it. It filled him with sudden foreboding for Uwen’s life. “Uwen,” he said, “my enemies are terrible.”
Uwen did not move. The fear did not leave his look. But neither did he look overwhelmed by it. “Oh, I know your fits, m’lord. They don’t frighten me. And who else knows ye the way I do? And where should I go, worrying about you, and no way to do anything, then? I ain’t leaving for any asking, m’lord, so ye might as well forget about it. Not for your asking. Not even for the King’s.”
Uwen was too proud to run away. Tristen understood so. He had no urge to run away himself when the danger came on him, because in the moments it came, he saw no choices. He understood this, too, and did not call it bravery, as it was in Uwen. That place of no choices was very close to him now. It still tried to openbehind his eyes, and he shivered, not from fear, but because flesh did not well endure that place.
And bravely Uwen held to his hand until the tremors passed, head bowed, his arms rigid. Uwen would not let him go into that bright place again, and that, he thought, was very wise on Uwen’s part, even if Uwen could see none of it, and could not reach after him. Uwen could hold his body, and make him aware of it, and keep him from slipping away.
“How near is it to morning?” Tristen asked, when the tremors had passed.
“I don’t know, m’lord. D’ ye want I should go ask?”
“There must be soldiers. I must have soldiers.”
“M’lord?”
“There’s an enemy at Ynefel. He mustn’t stay there.”
“Gods, no.” Uwen hugged him tight. “Ye can’t be goin’ again’ that place, m’lord. It ain’t no natural enemy, whatever’s there, and best ye leave it be.”