But she was not here. Only this one Shadow of a soldier. Such was the threat in that depth: all the spirits that Men feared fled it. It was not Sihhë, nor even of Ynefel’s age… it was older, older, and echoed of his fears in Ynefel’s loft, or that night on the stairs, when all Ynefel had creaked and tottered.
And this danger lay in the heart of a sleeping town, at the heart of Cefwyn’s kingdom. What precisely it was did not Unfold to him, but he knew it recognized him—he knew it wished him harm, but that thus far it could not press past the protections of his magic.
It hated him as it wished destruction of all that Men had built; and it hated him because he stood with Men, and wished them and their doings well.
It hated him as it had hated him at Ynefel and whispered outside his window.
It hated him as it had striven through Hasufin, but it was not
Hasufin: it had possessed Hasufin, and diverted him from Mauryl’s hands.
It hated him because it knew its destroyer had come. And having failed in direct assault, it sought a weakness, any weakness, or an ally that might serve it for an instant—as Hasufin had served, and served more than once.
Here was a battle to fight, within these walls, within the mews. He had a chance here. It was willing to face him here.
But if he failed to be at Ilefínian, Cefwyn would surely die. If he failed to be at Ilefínian Hasufin would prevail.
A sound disturbed him. He hurtled back to the world of Men, and the outer Lines, and stood by the altar rail, his hands and feet like ice.
Efanor had indeed come as quickly as he had asked, barefoot and wrapped in a sheet, and attended by two of the frightened priests.
“This place is in danger,” Tristen said. “I need your help, Your Highness.”
“What danger? From the enemy?”
He drew a breath, for there was so much to telclass="underline" “The Lord Commander brought Her Grace to Amefel. She’s in Henas’amef, with Emuin; Idrys is going back to Cefwyn, in the north. All the south is crossing the river, coming north to Ilefínian, and Cefwyn is coming from the east… but so is Ryssand. Ryssand means to kill him. But worse, there’s someone who’s stopped the messengers reaching me, someone close to Cefwyn.”
“A traitor!”
“Idrys doesn’t know who. But he’s going back as fast as he can, and I’m going north, to deal with Tasmôrden.” Owl swept down from some height among the rafters and he unthinkingly lifted his gloved hand to receive Owl’s taloned feet. “We can deal with all that. Hasufin is in this. He tried to take Tarien’s baby, but we stopped him. Now he’s helping Tasmôrden, who’s helping Ryssand, and if Cefwyn defeats them, this place offers Hasufin a chance to break through.”
“The Quinaltine? This is holy ground!”
“Henas’amef has a place, a doorway that opens sometimes to a wish from outside. So does Althalen: the Lord Regent wards it, and so does Auld Syes, and I know nothing gets through there. Ilefínian has such a place; so does Ynefel; and this is one, an old place, I think, old as Galasien. Cefwyn says your grandfather is here… whoever it is, I think all the Shadows here fear what lies beneath this floor.”
“Grandfather?” Efanor glanced wide-eyed at the shadows beyond the candles. “Grandfather never ran from anything.”
“The wards were never right here. The Masons who raised this building made a mistake and I’ve set a new Line, but this is still where Hasufin may try to come.” He dared no more detailed explanation: he saw the unease on Efanor’s face. “I have to go to Cefwyn, to help him. Will you guard it?”
“Gods witness I’ll guard it!” Efanor declared. “—But how do I do that?”
“You have the gift.”
“Oh, no, not I!”
“It waked you from sleep, Your Highness. And you and the priests, gifted or not, must walk this Line, and wish it may hold, wish it with all your hearts and minds. Pray for it! Wish it strong. Let no Shadow break out here, not a single one, or the Line will break and terrible things will come. I’ve set the new Line on the pavings. Do you see?”
He marked it with his sword, and Efanor came, barefoot as he was, and looked along it, left and right, resolution and wariness in the lines of his face.
“It glows,” Efanor said faintly, as if it were a fault to be mended, instead of an indication of its strength and health. “It glows.”
“It must! Keep it glowing! Walk here, Your Highness. Walk this Line continually, and wish it strong, against all the ill it holds back.” He sought for some reassurance to give Efanor that would keep Efanor’s wits about him and remind him, come what might, of his sole, single-minded duty: and he found it in the little book he had brought, his proof to Efanor who he was, and that they still were friends. He gave Efanor his own gift back again and pressed his fingers about the beautiful little book, even as Owl fluttered up about his shoulders, urging him to leave. “Think on the good, never harm! Think only on the good, and on us living, and your brother being well, and walk the Line and wish it strong. Do you still see it?”
“I see it,” Efanor breathed, looking along it.
“Do that for me,” Tristen said, “and for your brother.” He was sure now that he had made himself understood. He had faith in Efanor, as in no one else in the Quinaltine, and knew Efanor could command the priests as no other in the court could do. And now he felt the place beginning to fade about him. “Pray, Your Highness!” That was the magic Efanor knew how to work, and it would have to serve. “Pray and bless the place and think only of good and life! Walk the Line, and make it strong!”
The gray wind whirled about him again, cold this time, and violent. Sounds howled past him, and the gray place darkened around him as Owl flew ahead of him.
Then even Owl seemed uncertain, and took a new direction, and then a third.
Angry Shadows loomed up, old Shadows, those older than Men and resentful of those usurpers, and these Shadows seemed to track him with mindful attention. The dark was their weapon, and they wielded it with a lash of wind to make it more bitter and more biting. They wished to sweep him back again and, by defeating him, to breach the Line he had made, but it was no longer his fight, that within the Quinaltine, where Quinaltine prayers went up. The soft tread of feet along the Line resounded among these Shadows like a single repeated chord, over and over, the same thing, endlessly the same thing—yet he could not tell from what quarter. He had lost his way for a heartbeat, he had lost Owl—then thought he saw a light.
He turned that way, then stopped and lost ground, belatedly aware of yet another hostile Shadow, a threat that prowled that region ahead, not behind.
He dared not even think, here. He dared not move. The enemy came as the Wind, both wary and angry, and the Wind blew and whispered to him.
—Ah, well, here you are.
He turned away from that Voice. He refused to be afraid, refused to run, but he would not deal with it, either, not now, not yet.
—Mauryl’s mistake walks on two feet. Mauryl’s undoing… all his efforts wasted in you.
It could not tempt him to argument. He was concerned only with the way out, and he searched for it.
But the Wind came near him, tugged at his cloak and his hair.
—I banished Mauryl as he banished the lords of Galasien. Was that not justice?
Questions. He would not answer, would not look, but his heart seemed apt to burst. He ran the loft stairs, he hid in the dark, and the Wind came and scattered his birds.