He drew a calmer breath. Shadow-lord. That was the thing he was. That was who he was. The knowledge was no blazing noon of clear understanding. It was a moonrise in a still, cold night, gathering shadows into shapes, and Shadows into power.
—Auld Syes, he said to the Queen of Shadows. Faithful lady. Cross the water. I need you. Come.
“Tasmôrden?” Crissand asked, and he realized he had lost the thread of speech. “Is it Tasmôrden you mean, my lord? Or is it something less substantial we face?”
“Tasmôrden, if we can reach him in time. And Ryssand. Ryssand will be the hands and the feet of this attack. Should Cefwyn die, the army would break apart and fight each other, Maudyn against Corswyndam and Prichwarrin, on Elwynim soil. What then could we win?” Owl spread his wings, rowed against the air, settled again on his wrist. “But others must stop Ryssand. Idrys must stop him.” And with that realization, the acknowledgment that he could not be in both places, the fatigue settled in full. “I’ll sleep an hour, until we ride. Is there a place?”
“Here.” The lords might regard him with misgivings, the one who had summoned them who now nodded like a man with too much ale, and after speaking nonsense, began to slip toward dreams. But one quiet, sure voice drew him with its slight wizard-gift, and gained his wide-wandering attention. “Rest. I’ll attend the breaking of camp.”
“Sir.” He knew the name, then, in his distance from the world: Cevulirn would watch over all that had to be done and Uwen and Crissand would care for him, and so he let the two of them draw him to his feet and guide him.
“He ain’t taken ill,” Sovrag said in troubled tones. “He ain’t fevered nor any such.”
“Tired,” Uwen said out of the gray mist in which the world of Men proceeded. “An’ hearin’ summat we don’t hear. He’s a’ready fightin’ the fight we ain’t come to, your lordship, an’ scoutin’ ahead of us, don’t take it for aught less, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Gods bless,” Umanon said solemnly, but seemed not to condemn him; and Pelumer’s presence flitted close and offered comfort and a sense of stealth that Unfolded in all its skill.
… Like Emuin, who studied at his charts in Henas’amef, in his tower… subtle, and present without even paying close attention to him. Emuin was always doing something else, but he did many things constantly. It was very hard to evade him.
Ninévrisë was a whisper in the gray space, listening, Tristen thought, and wary of what was within her, and wary of that third presence, and the fourth, and the fifth and sixth, Tar ten’s son, and Tarien, and her sister Orien pacing the Lines of her confinement, as their brother continually attempted the greater Line of the lower hall.
The Aswydds would take any alliance that opposed their confinement. They would steal Elfwyn away with them if they could: that was always a risk, for as long as Tarien lived she had that tie to him… but Elfwyn seemed protected, loved, held.
In seething confusion the living mingled with the Shadows, all through the fortress at Hen Amas. Far to the west, within the Lines of Althalen, another Power quietly knew his daughter’s presence in the land, knew, and welcomed, and waked to the growing danger of his people.
“My lord!” It was Crissand, returned from the rows of tents and men, aware of his drifting at the edge of the gray space. Crissand’s concern flared brightly in the mists. Uwen was there to caution him, however, and Cevulirn steadied him, and the flame that burned so dangerously bright slowly ebbed to a flickering candle.
There was a guide, should he need one, a guide who could fly through any confusion.
… Owl swept close, a shadow across his sky, and winged past him, directing his attention northward. Here, Owl seemed to say. This way!
And with the crack of Mauryl’s staff, he heard: Pay attention, boy!
Ilefínian… there was his battle. Owl drew him there, to where the enemy waited, urged him to leave the battle of Men to men, and abandon Cefwyn to his fate.
And in that mere wisp of an outcry against that notion Tristen knew he exposed his weakness to his enemy, and showed that enemy most clearly the way to his heart, if ever it had doubted it.
It was folly to have followed Owl here, utter, dangerous folly. He drew back from that place, to that flickering candle that was
Crissand’s presence. He refused Owl’s urging—for the first time in his presence in the world refused what his guide asked of him.
No purpose of wizards was worth Cefwyn’s life. Nothing in the world was more precious to him than that. Cefwyn had banished him, severed him from the court, but entrusted him with all that was most precious to him: never had they been closer friends than now.
And could he knowingly ignore Cefwyn’s peril? He could shake the mountains and the hills and will them to future courses… but he could not gain Cefwyn’s attention, could not warn him, could not reach him, not with magic enough to shake the earth.
Cleverness, perhaps, would serve where magic failed.
His battle was joined now, in this very moment, and now he and his enemy alike drew back to consider one another, to reason out what was the feint and what was the true intent.
And Owl urged him northward, constantly northward, as if there were no other course.
As if there were no other course.
Back! he bade Owl, and: Away! he bade all advice from wizards, even Emuin, even Mauryl’s Unfolding spell. Neither wizard had defeated the enemy. Mauryl had never seen clearly, never understood how little of Hasufin remained, how small a soul still yearned for life and worked at the edges of greater, more terrible ambition: he had had the knowledge to seek powers outside wizardry to repair the breach, but he could not himself repair what Hasufin had done.
Mauryl or Emuin singly or together could not win past what Hasufin had loosed, only delay its ascension.
Emuin would have had him learn the way of wizards, that being what Emuin understood, but, his greatest wisdom, Mauryl being Mauryl and not suffering foolishness easily… Mauryl had simply wished him to be, grow, learn… become what he could become. And that was the greatest spell of all.
He was not through. Not yet.
He knew, if he fell, Cefwyn would fall. If Cefwyn fell, it was for Emuin to steal Elfwyn away, cloak him in his subtle grayness, and carry on in whatever way he could.
And if he should fail, it was for Emuin to live as long as Mauryl, and learn what Mauryl had known, and Summon him from a second death…
—No! he heard Emuin protest, far and faintly. But from the Lady of Elwynor came a promise, a vow, a resolution that would fire the coldest heart.
“Time to move, lad,” Uwen said, touching him, which even Crissand feared to do.
He opened his eyes on both sober faces and hoped, for he dared not wish, that there be no more to Unfold to him, no more revelations of the sort that opened the Qenes to his memory, and gave his heart the chill of lasting winter.
“The others is summat afraid,” Uwen said, “seein’ how ye was overcome. They’d take better heart if ye can rouse up an’ hear a man, lad.”
“I do hear,” he said. His heart beat as if he had run Emuin’s stairs… or the height of the web of stairs in Ynefel itself. But that beat was a comfortable feeling, and that remembered fear he understood. It was the creaks in the dark and the crack of thunder in the afternoons. It was the gray wash of rain and the perfect green leaf that blew and stayed against the stone.