And still that presence on the hill tracked them, watching not them, perhaps, but any action that might oppose them. Intruders under any strange banner would surely have met arrows flying thick and fast: Lanfarnesse rangers seldom used presence-betraying canvas—but they were there. Their Heron banner flew with the Wheel of Imor and the White Horse of Ivanor and the Wolf of Olmern in the heart of the camp, announcing the presence of Pelumer with Umanon and Cevulirn and Sovrag in this gathering… welcome sight.
A man ran ahead of them, and told an officer, and that man , hurried into the centermost tent as they rode up the aisle of this gathering of tents. Cevulirn came out with Umanon, and Pelumer came close behind, all cheerfully welcoming them in.
“His Grace’s banners wi’ the rest,” Uwen ordered the banner-bearers, and smartly then the banner-bearers dismounted and with manful efforts drove the sharp iron heels of the banners deep into the soft earth, one after the other, until the Eagle and the several standards stood with the others, the Tower Crowned and Crissand’s among them.
Tristen dismounted, and of a sudden a night without sleep and the long day in the saddle caught him unawares, sending the world to shades of gray and causing him to hold his saddle leathers a moment as his feet met the ground. He tried to wish his sight clear again, but it was as if the gray insisted, and closed around him, a chute down which it was easy to fall.
But Uwen was there, a hand to his elbow, and Cevulirn named a man to guide the Amefin to their tents, which were pitched and ready for them, and a hot meal besides, while Crissand’s voice in Tristen’s left ear assured him he would personally see to the guard.
“Go in, my lord, rest.”
“There’s no rest,” Tristen said, and drew a breath and managed to see the camp again, how it stretched off into the trees beyond, the horse pickets out under the branches, under the watchful eye of the rangers… he could not miss that presence, as he was aware of every heart that beat within the camp, the converse of men-at-arms, low and wondering at his lapse.
There was nothing so wrong with the place, Tristen said to himself; it was simply fatigue. Indeed the offer of a good meal and a rest from riding came very welcome… he might rid himself of the armor for a brief while… might sit with friends, a privilege rare in the world, and rarer still on the edge of losing everything. So much… so very much he loved; and it all seemed fragile at this moment, on the edge of the enemy’s attention.
He drew a breath. He summoned his faculties away from that brink, and steadied himself away from Uwen’s supporting hand. He gathered up the threads of things he had meant to say, and walked, and gathered strength with every step
“The Lord Commander,” he was able to say to the other lords as he ducked through the tent flap, “brought Her Grace to Henas’amef, for safety’s sake. Did he tell you why?”
“Not two words,” Cevulirn said, “except it was your bidding…”
Another presence had joined them, filling the tent door when Tristen turned about, and that was Sovrag himself.
“Aye,” the river lord said. “And all full of mystery he were, an’ if the wind hadn’t served, why, damn, he’d have driven them lads to row ‘im there. What’s toward?”
“Cefwyn’s in danger.” Words poured out of him, and he wished to sit down, but found nowhere. “One of Ryssand’s men is beside him and Cefwyn doesn’t know.”
That brought somber looks.
“Gods save the Marhanen, then,” Umanon said. “And a good wind to the Lord Commander’s sails.”
“So I wish,” Tristen said in all earnestness. “And wish it twice and three times. Ryssand’s coming to the muster, but he means no good to Cefwyn. Tasmôrden’s promised him part of Elwynor for his own if he takes the crown.”
“I should have stayed at court,” Cevulirn said. “I might have stopped this.”
Tristen shook his head. “Wizardry’s in question. It reached past all of us.”
“We can’t reach him,” Umanon said. “Gods speed the Lord Commander, indeed.”
“Aye,” came from Sovrag and Pelumer, with a nodding of heads.
“What says Amefel?” Cevulirn asked, grim-faced and with his arms folded. “If it’s to ride this hour, we’re ready.”
“I’m less and less sure I know,” Tristen said in utmost honesty, for Owl was not to be found, and had shied from him—yet he knew nothing to do but forge ahead with the plans they had. “But we have to move. There’s no time to sit here.”
“Late afternoon now, but men and horses well rested,” Cevulirn said. “We can give the order.”
“To march at night?” Umanon asked dubiously.
“To move as far up the road as we can,” Tristen said. “I can wish winds on the river, but stone is stone and the hills won’t move for us. We have to go closer. Tasmôrden surely won’t rely only on Ryssand.”
“No one should rely on Ryssand,” Pelumer said.
It was true. And it was true, after all, that the hills might move, but they were stone and sluggish things and could not change precipitately. Tristen drew in a breath, suddenly apprehending a power rising out of the land and a power rising within him, different than the weary body that housed it. He felt he could scarcely move, scarcely draw breath without breaking lives and men, and yet the ones he would strike… were not in his reach. Only friends were. A shield stretched across the north and the west, subtle, and con-raining men, but it was not men. It was their enemy Tasmôrden, but Tasmôrden was not all of it.
He felt an opposing magic, felt it slip like a step on ice, one matched against the other, and like a third lightning stroke he knew he had met the enemy, met, and slid aside, unwilling to engage.
“Ilefínian,” he said on a breath. “Ilefínian! That’s his place of power in this world, and from it he draws his strength. The closer he is to it, the stronger he will be.”
“Tasmôrden?” Pelumer asked him.
“Yes, Tasmôrden. But that’s not all.” He must sit down, or fall down, and groped blindly after the tent pole, but met instead Uwen’s arm, and Crissand’s.
“My lord,” Crissand said. “What’s wrong?”
Owl. Owl was in danger, winging through the woods, diving from left to right, through the trees, with something streaking after him, dark, and broad, and filling the woods.
“Sit, sit down, my lord.”
He obeyed, calling Owl with all his might, and Owl heard him. Owl came, through a place of blue light and rustling wings. Owl came as he had come to the hall at wintertide, and burst back into the world again. A tilted view of tents came to him, an evening sun, and he swayed where he sat, then let go the vision.
“Good lovin’ gods!” Uwen said, for Owl flew through the door in a buffet of wings, dived past Cevulirn, and hit the canvas wall in a flapping lump that slid to the floor.
Owl gathered himself immediately and fluffed his feathers into order.
A narrow escape, Tristen said to himself, and offered his arm. Owl ducked his head, gave a great flap of blunt wings, and managed to reach him, to settle on his arm, ruffling and settling his feathers.
There was silence all around. Tristen looked up at a circle of dismayed faces.
“ ‘E all right?” Uwen asked, in that deep silence of the lords of the south.
“He’s well.” Tristen stroked Owl’s breast feathers, and caught a resentful look of two marigold eyes at close range that held his gaze. He knew what Owl had fled, yet had no idea in what words to tell the rest of these men, even Uwen.
“Let him rest,” Crissand said.
“Break camp,” Tristen said. He saw Uwen’s unhappy look, saw the worry on Crissand’s face and others’. “There’s no rest here.”