Fortress in the Eye of Time

by C. J. Cherryh

  He mounted up and by that time Uwen had collected the men Cefwyn lent him. They crossed the road, on which a seemingly endless line of riders and men afoot stretched on out of sight, and they entered the meadow on the other side, riding up through a screen of trees to another grassy stretch, farther and farther then, out of sight of their camp, and up into the area where they had met Uwen that dreadful night, in the rain, and with Caswyddian’s forces behind them.

  Uwen grew anxious. So did the men with them. And perhaps, Tristen thought, he should be apprehensive himself, as he saw streaks of wind run through the grass, and one little one, following a thinner, very erratic course. He knew the child, saw her frolic without seeing her at all.

  Ninévrisë said, “Something is there.”

  “It is,” he said. “But don’t look too closely. She doesn’t like to be caught.—Uwen, it’s the witch of Emwy’s child. She’s a little girl. I’m glad to see her. Her name is Seddiwy.”

  “That old woman?”

  “I don’t think the child died when Emwy burned. I think she might have died a long time ago. I don’t know why I think so, except the Emwy villagers are here, too, and they’re not so friendly, or so happy as she is.—But they won’t harm us. She’s stronger than she seems.”

  “Gods,” Uwen muttered, as four distinct marks flattened the grass ahead of them, leading where they had to go. “Is it those streaks in the grass?”

  “Yes, those.”

  “M’lord, I do hope you know where we’re going.”

  The light was leaving them very fast, now, and none of the men looked confident—they were very tired, they had been 721

  two days now on the road, and they might, except for this venture, be sitting at the fires and drinking wine with their friends and waiting for their suppers; but on Cefwyn’s orders they came, and fingered amulets more than weapons.

  Petelly snorted and twitched his head up as the little spirit darted beneath him—and then right under a guardsman’s horse.

  It shied straight up, and the man, most anxious of their company, fought hard to hold it from bolting.

  “Behave!” Tristen said sternly, and that stopped.

  They were coming among saplings that had been all broken off halfway up their trunks. Rocks lay shattered in the grass.

  Then one of the Dragon Guards reined aside from something lying in the grass, and said, not quite steadily, “Here’s a dead man, Lord Warden.”

  “Caswyddian’s men,” Ninévrisë said calmly enough, though her voice was higher than its wont. “Are we in danger, Lord Tristen? Might their spirits harm us?”

  It was to ask. But—“No, I don’t think so. The Emwy folk seem to hold this place to themselves.”

  They came up that long, difficult ridge, where two men had fallen. The rains had not quite washed away the scars they had made on that climb.

  They reached that place that overlooked the ruin, and it stretched very far under the cover of trees and brush and meadows. Despite the chill of the winds below, the air on this exposed ridge was quite still, even comfortable. There was a sense of peace here that had not existed before, tempting one who had the power to look in that different way—to stop and cast a look in this fading last moment of the light.

  Ninévrisë said, in a shaken voice, “Father? Father, is that you?”

  Then a change in that other Place caught Tristen’s attention, as certainly a presence would: and in that instant’s glance he saw pale blue, and soft gold. He risked a second look and saw the Lines of the ruin, the lines on the earth that had grown fainter and fainter in the hour of the Regent’s 722

  death now spreading out brightly far and wide. Brighter and brighter they shone in the dusk as the world’s light faded, until they blazed brightly into inner vision. Other lines glowed where those lines touched, and those touched other lines in their turn, like fire through tinder, blue and pale gold, each form in inter-locking order, as far as the eye could make out, one square overlaying the other—all through the grass, and the thickets.

  It was the old man’s handiwork, he thought, astonished and reassured. Late as it was, the earth was still pouring out light.

  Shadows flowed along the walls, but respected the lines of those walls now. The men about him glowed like so many stars to his eyes; and then his worldly vision said it was not the men, but the amulets they wore, the blessed things, the things invested with their protection against harm—as Emuin’s amulet glowed on his own chest, in the midst of the light that was himself.

  That glow seemed the old man’s doing, too—yet none of the men with them, not even Uwen, seemed to see all that had happened. Only Lady Ninévrisë gazed astonished over the land.

  “Your father’s work!” he said. “Do you see, my lady? He is not lost!”

  “I see it,” she said, holding her hands clasped at her lips. “I do see!”

  “What, Lord Warden?” a guardsman asked; but Uwen said, quietly, “What m’lord sees ain’t bad, whatever it is. Just wait.

  He’s workin’.”

  “No,” Tristen said, for the men’s comfort. “It’s not bad. It’s safe. It’s very safe here.”

  The Lines, as they had that night, showed him what Althalen had been, bright as a beacon, now, advising him here had been a street, here had stood walls, here was a way through the maze, though brush had grown up and choked the open ground.

  And when he thought of that, a Name the old man had not been able to tell him seemed to sound in the air, unheard, that Question to which the old man had known the answer 723

  resounded through the grayness, and Lines on the earth rose into ghostly walls and arches, halls full of people who walked in beautiful garments, and ate delicate food, and laughed and moved in gardens and a river ran near that had boats sailing on it, boats with colored sails and with the figures of beasts and birds on their bows. He did not know whether he could say it as the old man did—but he had almost heard it ringing through the world.

  Not Althalen, he thought, then, aware he was slipping very rapidly toward the gray space—but not—suddenly—at Althalen.

  There was a murky river. He knew where that river ran—he was in sudden danger. He had risen into the gray space—and gone badly astray, trapped, by an enemy old and clever, and still able to have his way.

  He met the attack. He set himself to the fore of Ninévrisë, approaching the enemy on his own, but not taking the enemy’s vision—

  When he thought that, immediately he found a vantage he knew, outside, on the parapet of Ynefel, in the sunset. He knew his loft, the high point of a vast hall across the courtyard, highest point in the keep.

  He could see his own window, with the horn panes glowing with light in the twilight, as if he were there himself, reading by candlelight—but with the shutters inside open. That was wrong, and dangerous.

  It was his window, and it was his home, and he knew the study below, in which he kept his books, many, many of them—not Mauryl’s books, but his own books. He was puzzled, and thought, That was never true.

  The height of Ynefel rang with a Word, then, which he could hear, but not hear, in the curious barriers of this dream; and at that Word, all of this glorious building trembled and fell quiet.

  He stood on the very parapet, where he had gone—or would go—naked in the rain.

  He watched all the buildings from there—the illusion of a 724

  living city widespread about Ynefel’s skirts, streets busy as the streets of Henas’amef.

  But it had not been Ynefel on that day. It had had another Name. So had he. And he had come there with Mauryl’s help to cast all that citadel down.

  He was angry, he knew not why or at what. That anger grew in him, and as it reached the point that he must loose it or die, he let it loose.

  In that loosing, a wind swept the halls, swept up the men in their elegant clothing, and the women in their bright gowns, and the children, alike, with their toys, and whirled them all about the towers, tumbling one ov
er the other, out of the bright world and into that gray space where they hurtled, lost and afraid.

  Some, more determined and more powerful, found their way back to their former home, and peered out of its walls, frozen in the stone.

  Some became Shadows, angry ones, or fearful ones, or simply lost ones, wailing on the winds that carried them through that gray light, until darker Shadows hunted them down, one by one, and ate their dreams and their hopes and their substance.

  But all such shadows as came to him for refuge he breathed in and breathed them out again with his will, and by them he mastered the anger that threatened his reason. By them he learned…better things.

  A young man in gray had stood by him, but that man was gone.

  He possessed securely the walls, the woods, the river, in all the vacancy he had made.

  He had done this. All the City was gone. He remained. The Tower of Ynefel remained.

  The faces watched from the walls, and the lives flowed through him with a heat like too much wine. He was trembling now. He wanted to know—who had done such a thing, and could it possibly be himself who had begun it?

  But of his own countenance and his own reasons he could discern nothing.

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  He had lived—or would live—in that small room with the horn-paned window. He had come at Mauryl’s asking, and he knew at once his enemy was the man who had stood beside him, the young man in gray, against whom he had fought with all the resources at his disposal—even binding the lives of the people of Ynefel to his effort.

  He wanted to know who he was. He wanted to see the face of the one who would have drunk up all the world only to cast out the man in gray.

  He had asked Mauryl—or would ask one day—whether Mauryl could see his own face. He thought it clever of himself to wonder that in this dream, a trick by which he could make the dream reveal itself—and him.

  But in this dream he had no mirror, nor were there any such, until, still in this dream, suddenly standing within his own room—or what would be his room—he found on the bedside table a small silver mirror. Threads of shadow formed about it, resisting, strands clung to it as he picked it up, and shriveled when he would not be deterred.

  He had been clever. He had gained in this dream the mirror Mauryl had given him; but once he had found it, he was back in the courtyard by the kitchen door and the rain-barrel. Daylight was behind him and even with the mirror he could see no more than he had seen in the rain-barrel that day, only his own outline, an outline with a shadowed face.

  So the dream had tricked him, and would not at any trick he could play unfold more than he had seen.

  He was sitting on Petelly’s back again. He had his hands locked before his lips. He was aware of the men watching him.

  He had come all that distance through the past, alone of those living, and alone of the dead—but he knew nothing. Nothing.

  He had found reason to fear—and out of his fear, and in re-vulsion at Hasufin’s cruelty, he thought now, had flowed his terrible anger.

  And when his anger broke loose—at least in the dream—he had used lives for the stones and anger for the mortar of his fortress.

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  It might be illusion. Mauryl had said not to fear dreams, that there was not always truth in them. He thought that Mauryl had had a part in what had happened.

  The old man had said—Hasufin would use even his dreams.

  The old man had proposed to hold Althalen, and everywhere around him, now that he had broken with Ynefel, was the evidence of the old man’s power. Surely Hasufin could not make something seem so fair—more— feel so fair, and so safe, and so familiar.

  But the faces of Ynefel lately in his memory were a truth he could not deny.

  They moved on certain nights—or seemed to, when the wind blew, the balconies creaked, and candleflame wavered in the drafts.

  Ynefel, which held always a warm, homelike feeling for him—was a terrible place, where he—he!—had done something unthinkable and destructive.

  “M’lord,” Uwen said, moving his horse close. “M’lord?”

  He could not move. He could not look aside from that structure of glowing lines, feeling always less than he needed to be, less wise, less kind, less—able to create something like this, so fair and so bright in the gray world.

  His handiwork—was other than this.

  Men feared him. All men did well to fear him.

  Uwen took the reins somehow, and turned Petelly about, and once they were faced the other way he realized that Ninévrisë

  was close beside him on one hand, and the guardsmen had gathered about them, hands on weapons and yet with no enemy against which they could defend him.

  He put his hands on Petelly’s neck, and patted his neck. “I can manage, Uwen,” he said as steadily as he could.

  “M’lord,” Ninévrisë said—frightened, too, he thought. He had taken her into danger. “I saw nothing—nothing amiss here.”

  “Then the harm, if there is harm, is in me.”

  “No such thing, m’lord,” Uwen said firmly, and, leaning 727

  from his saddle, managed to pass the reins over Petelly’s head again, which required his help to straighten out. Petelly lifted his head, making the maneuver more difficult; but he secured the reins, settled Petelly’s anxious starts in one direction and the other, and as their small party began to ride home, went quietly, reasonably back the way they had come, among the hills, shadowing with night, and finally across the road, down the busy center lane of the camp, where wagons and men continued to come in.

  He said, to the men, when they crossed the road, “What I saw—what I saw boded no harm to you.” He knew that he had acted in such a way that might spread fear through the army. “I beg you not mention it. I shall tell His Majesty when I know the answer.”

  The leg ached, ached so that a cup of wine was Cefwyn’s chief wish, far more than a supper, no matter the servants’ efforts. It was past dark, there was no sign of Tristen and Ninévrisë, and he had debated with himself whether to offend Ninévrisë by sending men out—or whether to sit and worry.

  But the mere sight of Cevulirn and Umanon was reassuring, and persuaded him he had so many men in the vicinity that no enemy scouts would be too daring, and that the Elwynim rebel that tried Tristen’s mettle would find that small band no easy mark at all. Sit still, he told himself. Let them learn what they can learn in their own way. Sending someone into wizardous doings was not wise.

  Sending two most valuable persons to seek out wizardry worried him intensely.

  But he had trusted Tristen too little so far. He could not rule by hampering his best counselors, whatever the frightening nature of their investigations.

  Outside the royal pavilion, the White Horse of the Ivanim and the Wheel of Imor Lenúalim were snapping in a stiff wind alongside the Dragon and beside them, the Tower and Star, the Regent’s Tower and the Amefin Eagle. The wagons 728

  belonging to the Guelen regulars were disgorging their supplies.

  The Duke of Ivanor and the Duke of Imor had pitched their tents alongside his, with Tristen’s on the other side, next Gwywyn’s tent, which was the command post for the Dragon and the Prince’s Guard. They made no individual fires tonight, in the tents of the common men, so as to give any spies that did venture onto surrounding hilltops no convenient way to count their number. But fires were starting outside, and cooks were hard at work with the big kettles, boiling up soup and unpacking hard bread they had brought from town. The common men would not fare at all badly tonight, mutton stew and enough ale to wash it down, very good ale, he had ordered that personally.

  But it would not be enough to become drunk.

  There was a grimmer and very businesslike feel to this camp, from which they would set out on their final march either to fight or to establish a camp in the face of the enemy, from which they would launch a more deliberate war.

  There was more and quicker order, for one thing, so Idrys had reported f
rom his latest tour about. Untaught peasants, accepted into Amefel’s line, followed lords’ and officers’ orders and soldiers’ examples tonight in the not unreasonable confidence that their lives very soon would hang upon what they learned. So from a slovenly behavior at the outset, things were done remarkably well this evening among the Amefin, and two of the Amefin village units, of Hawwy vale, were at drill even in the dark and by lantern-light, an excess of zeal, Idrys said, and he agreed: they dared not have the men exhausted.

  Meanwhile, Kerdin Qwyll’s-son said, the Guelen regulars moved among the Amefin, impeccable and meticulous in their procedures, instructing those who would listen. A few officers had gone about near the fires and had eager and worshipful entourages of wise Amefin lads who wanted to live long lives.

  Among them, too, in the attraction of the bonfires, were Cevulirn’s riders, drilled from boyhood to ride the land and teach the young village lads what time they were outside the 729

  service of Cevulirn’s court. They had set the small Amefin section of the horse-camp in good order very quickly, and joined the tale-telling around the fires. So did Imor’s men, mostly towns-men, well-ordered and well-drilled; merchants’ and tradesmen’s sons, they drilled on every ninth day, and of those merchants’

  sons every one that afforded his horse and attendants was proud and careful in his equipment—a haughty lot, more so than Cevulirn’s riders, who, if the ale did start flowing, might grow less reserved than their gray, pale lord.

  But they had not heard from Pelumer and they had not received Olmern’s messenger.

  He had made his third venture to the door, and to the fire at which his own cook was preparing the lords’ fare, when horses came down the main aisle of the camp, and he saw Ninévrisë

  and Tristen and their escort coming in safe and sound.

  Then he could let go his anxiousness, particularly when firelight lit the arriving party’s faces, and Ninévrisë leapt down and ran to him saying that things were very well at Althalen.