Текст книги "Fortress of Dragons "

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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"Gedd weren't clear of the town before they were on 'im," Uwen said. "I think ye should hear Gedd, sir."

"There's no time," Idrys said, "not an hour.—Send him with me, I'll hear him and send him back again as we ride."

"With no difficulty," Tristen said quietly.

"What's this about Ryssand?" Idrys asked him. "What do you know?"

He began to reply, and only then realized the Lord Commander might believe in his walking through walls, but would not understand it. "There's a doorway of sorts, where the old mews were. And it goes to places. Ynefel is one. But the lord of Meiden overheard a hall in Ilefínian, where wizards and Tasmôrden and his men were holding council."

"The lord of Meiden."

"Crissand," Tristen said. "They know about Lady Tarien's baby; that's one thing. And Hasufin isn't dispelled."

"The wizard." Idrys knew precisely what wizard, what trouble, and that it presaged nothing good. Ninévrisë knew, and it was two troubled looks he had. "Lewenbrook didn't suffice, then."

"It sufficed," Tristen said, "to drive him back, but he tried again, and I think he's with Tasmôrden."

"Grim news," Idrys said.

"But he didn't break through, here," Tristen said, offering the best news he had on that matter. "He tried to take Tarien's baby, the way he did the prince at Althalen…"

"Oh, dear gods," Ninévrisë said, and her hand flew to her heart.

"But he didn't," Tristen said quickly, seeing what distress it brought her. "It didn't happen. Orien's dead. She tried to help him, and she tried to get free, but she couldn't, and she died. Hasufin's still in question, but he isn't here. The baby is safe."

"Dear gods," Ninévrisë said again.

"Came here," Idrys said darkly. "How? Like what happened on the field?"

Tristen shook his head. "More quietly. The wards wouldn't let him in. There's the gap in the wards where the old mews were; there's another at Ilefínian…"

"And he came from there?"

"Not fromthere," Tristen said, "but he was there, at least . . · he had influence there."

Idrys' face, unwashed, spattered with mud and filmed with dust, seemed carved of stone, the lively flick of a dark eye the only expression.

"He seems to have influencemany places, Amefel."

"He does."

"And the earl of Meiden overheard this plot."

"He and I," Tristen said. "Tasmôrden knew about Tarien's baby, and sent Lord Cuthan to Ryssand, to make trouble."

"That he did," Idrys said.

"But more than that," Tristen said, "Ryssand's agreed to kill Cefwyn. That's what I sent with Anwyll. Cefwyn mustn't let Ryssand's men near him."

"That the letter told me," Ninévrisë said in anguish. "And Cefwyn knows it… but late. I don't know how I know, but I did learn it late, didn't I? I felt it, the farther I rode… part of it was late! And if he'd known—if he'd known when Ryssand was in court—"

"Wizardry," Tristen said. "The weather—everything's gone back and forth, from what I wish, what Tasmôrden's wizardry wishes, wherever it comes from."

"Wizardry indeed," Idrys said darkly, "and I belong with my king."

"I don't wish to keep you," Tristen said, "but let Uwen come with Gedd, too, since Uwen's heard all we've done here. They'll ride with you as far as you need. Cevulirn is already at the river, with Sovrag and Umanon. Pelumer's rangers are wherever they need be, not mentioning Aeself's band, Elwynim, who watch up and down the river. All our supplies are in place: we can be across the river in one night and reach Ilefínian in three."

"Do you say so?" Ninévrisë said, as if all the weight of days on the road had lifted. Rarely, too, did Idrys' grim countenance ever show his heart, but his relief in hearing that was visible in every line of him.

"Well done." Then, more sharply, as if a thought had come to him. " Sovrag'sthere, you say. With boats."

"One boat, always, if not others."

"Can he set me ashore at the Murandys bridge? Can he possibly ferry the horses?"

"I don't know. One man, two—with horses. Perhaps."

Idrys gnawed his lip, doubtless weighing the risks involved and the fact that once at Anwyll's camp, there was no other way but the river or the roads on the far side of the bridge—but a vast stony dome and a meander of deep woods lay between the bridge at Anwyll's camp and that bridge Cefwyn would use to cross into Elwynor: Tristen had seen those hills not in the flesh but in his dreams of Owl, a jagged maze of rock and forest on both sides of the river, rough land that had been the saving of Ninévrisë' and her father, and of no few men this winter who had escaped Ilefínian—but nowhere in it were trails fit for horses: Idrys and Ninévrisë had surely come here by the longer way round, down by Assurnford, to make any time at all.

And to escape that long swing south by a fast ride north to the camp and a windblown course upriver to Cefwyn's bridge… indeed, if Sovrag could, it would save time.

"The winds I may wish you," Tristen said, "but only as well as I've wished the weather, which is sometimes good and sometimes not—the winds might be foul for days, and I don't know how many horses they can manage, or even if they can. But I know Elwynim have crossed with their horses, northerly, by swimming. It's a great risk."

"If not the boats, then the swim," Idrys said. "Afoot until I can find a horse. Cefwyn expects you to come with all your force, as soon as you can. And to protect Her Grace."

"I'll ride after you as soon as tonight.—Emuin is here," he said to Ninévrisë. "Stay with him. Tassand will take care of anything you wish."

"I have no doubts of either of them," Ninévrisë said.

"Uwen will go as far as need be, then. We've signals among us, for the rangers. He'll show you. And when you come there, sir, tell Cevulirn secure the far side: I'll be there, perhaps before he can cross."

"M'lord," Uwen said faintly, "you'll be takin' only the new lads wi' ye."

"I'll be safe," Tristen said, with no doubt in his mind, and Idrys took the moment, grimy hands and all, to take a quarter cup of wine and a morsel of bread and cheese.

"I'll get me kit," Uwen said, rising, "by 'r leave, m'lord, and I'll bring Gedd."

"Half an hour, Captain," Idrys said.

"Yes, sir," Uwen said, and left quickly. Tassand took that departure for a signal to come in and report Ninévrisë"'s accommodation ready.

"I'll enjoy the tea so long as it's here," Ninévrisë said, cradling the cup in muddy fingers. "And thank you: I'll be grateful."

She was at the end of the strength she had, and sustaining herself in the gray space: Tristen had been aware of that failing, and lent strength of his own, steadying, wary of Tarien's existence above– and aware suddenly of another presence, nearer, at the door.

Owl flew in, eliciting a motion of fright from Ninévrisë; and immediately after Owl, came Emuin.

Ninévrisë held out a trembling, anticipating hand, and Emuin took it like a courtier, pressed it in his.

"Safe," Emuin said. "You slipped up on us. Slipped up on me, wily that you are, and that's no mild achievement. We had no idea you were coming."

"You know what's happened," Ninévrisë said.

"I've heard," Emuin said. "Unfortunately, so has the Aswydd girl, I fear, but no matter, no matter, you're here and Cefwyn's other advisor…" With a glance toward Idrys. "… is soon on his way back, I gather."

"You gather the truth," Idrys said, and washed down a bite. "As fast as horses can move us." He rose, a tall, daunting presence. "I fear, Your Grace, someone's followed my men, picked off my messengers, and my lord's couriers, and known in each instance when and where they'd be."

They all looked at him.

"What do you mean?" Ninévrisë asked. "Ryssand?"

"Ryssand's treachery, ultimately. But you say Gedd was followed. Now Cenas hasn't come. It wasn't for lack of secrecy. But secrecy's failed us. Either it's wizardry, which is nota talent among my men or Ryssand's, or the culprit doesn't get his knowledge out of thin air, but from councils."

"Who?" Tristen asked.

"Someone within my circles.—If you're the wizard you say, master grayrobe, wizard me this, and tell me who is the traitor."

Tristen stood still. Owl had landed on a chair arm, and folded his wings as Emuin considered the question in the gray space and out. Tristen did so, too, thinking of all the officers who came and went, and all the pages and servants.

"I assure you I'll consider the question, master crow," Emuin said. "If I find an answer I'll send it to Tristen. Heknows how fast."

"I'll be to a horse," Idrys said shortly, "and do the things I know to do. I'll reach him. Your leave."

Idrys was on his way to gather resources in a fortress he had lived in for a year and more, and where he knew well where to look. Tristen delayed for Emuin, and Ninévrisë.

"I'll just sip my tea," Ninévrisë said. Her hands were trembling.

"A hot bath, a clean gown, and I assure you gentlemen I'll be very well."

"Idrys will reach him," Tristen said.

"I've no doubt of the Lord Commander."

"Best you go upstairs," Emuin said. "Let the servants put you to bed. They'll bring you tea."

"I prefer present company." There was a certain distractedness about Ninévrisë, a fragile grasp of the world around her, a fear of solitude, and of the halls above, where a presence haunted the gray space. "How does Lady Tarien? Is she well?"

"Well," Tristen said. "She won't trouble you."

"A prisoner?"

"Not free," Tristen said, "not free to come and go, but where her choices lie, I've not asked her."

"And the child?"

"Thrives," said Emuin. "The lady dotes on him, will not leave him; I ask Your Grace bear with her and the child under this roof, awkward as it is. There's no place else safe to send them."

The gray space seethed with Ninévrisë's troubled presence, and with a well-banked anger. "She tried to kill Cefwyn; wished me dead; has my husband's son—I take these things, understand, with what feeling you might expect. But likewise I take your meaning. I understand Orien is dead. But dead here, within the wards. Is thatsafe?"

"Warded," Emuin said, "as warded as we can manage. But you should know the babe is gifted. And his dreams we also ward and treat gently."

"I bear the baby no ill will at all," Ninévrisë said faintly, a breath across the teacup. She emptied it. "Might there be another cup, if you please? I've suffered from thirst as much as cold—the wind was bitter."

Tristen poured it for her himself, and she warmed her hands with it, after a sip.

"Did you fear anything?" Emuin asked her pointedly. "On the road, did anything threaten you?"

"Not in that way. It was a harder ride than I thought. I wouldn't stop, and Idrys wouldn't, and between us, and as much as the horses could bear, we just kept going." She lifted the cup in both dirty, trembling hands and had a sip. "The women's court in Guelemara had Ryssand's daughter and Murandys' niece. I assure you Tarien Aswydd doesn't daunt me in the least."

"Her Grace also," Tristen said, lest Emuin have failed to know, "has Cefwyn's son."

Ninévrisë cast him up a sudden, sharp glance, the cup clutched between her hands. "A son. Ithink so. Is it certain?"

It was nothing he could define, but he still thought so, and did not even perceive a presence yet. It was in the currents of wizardry that ran strong and deep in all he saw, everywhere about the place. A child of Orien's wizardry had come to be in this place: here was one of the other side—

And yet neither was necessarily an enemy to the other. It was not utter misfortune that he had delayed here to safeguard the one child, instead of waiting for Cefwyn's message with Cevulirn, at the river… a message that they now feared was lost. Three months ago he had had difficulty imagining things to come, and now he had diverted the enemy's current into his own hands, and seen far enough down the river he could say—yes, a son, another son, and to know that was acceptable. There was nothing else he could say of it, no word he could use, but acceptable, against all other forces loose in the world.

It said nothing, however, of Cefwyn's safety, and Idrys' fear. If Cefwyn had an enemy closer to him than Tasmôrden or Ryssand, that was outside his reach—and inside someone else's, where the old, old current that was Hasufin might after all prove stronger, or quicker, or simply overwhelm him and all he protected there.

He had first discovered fear in Ynefel's maze of walks and shadows. He had first met nameless terror in the loft where he had found Owl, and explored apprehension and unease under Mama's shadow. None of these Words was new to him—but the knowledge that ruin could be so absolute and so sweep everything he loved with it, in one stroke, against one man—this indignation, this angerwrapped in fear he had never felt in all his life. Moderation had no place in what he felt, and he did not know the depths in himself this might reach.

But two sets of eyes read more of him than he might wish—both with the gift, both of them reaching into the gray space, and wishing his restraint.

"Young lord," Emuin said, the only man but Mauryl who could chide him and call him a fool, "don't forget yourself. I fear there's more and worse to find. But you know more now than then. You may bemore now than before. The Year of Years is at its beginning this time. This is your age. The last, I fear, wasn't Mauryl's after all. It wasn't Hasufin's, either, by the narrowest of escapes.—And damned certain, this one isn't mine."

Ninévrisë looked bewildered at this exchange… her lineage endmost of all those who had ruled in these lands, the Elwynim and the Guelenfolk.

The Amefin aethelings, Crissand's folk, were older… not by much, but older than the Sihhë's presence in the south, Tristen knew it not alone from his books, but from the dark that kept Unfolding under his feet.

Emuin himself in his studies had reached as far as the stars could show him, as far as Mauryl had taught him.

There was Auld Syes, who warded Althalen. She was old as the hills were old, and said almost as little—what could one say, who watched the currents move, for whom the years were a vast and endless stream?

All… allof that stream flowed past him in the blink of an eye.

"Pity Orien," he said, strangely moved, and drew a breath too large for his body. "She had no knowledge. She never knew anything at all."

Emuin laid a hand on his shoulder, only that.

Ninévrisë said nothing, only looked at both of them, the teacup forgotten in her hands. She was there, in the gray space, and heard, but whether any of it at all fell within her understanding Tristen could not tell.

He only had to go, now, and be sure of his defenses, around what he left. He feared more than ever in his life. The enemy had no mercy, and no alternative but to meet him: the enemy feared the same as he, and would strike at anything outside his wards.

The enemy would strike first at those the loss of whom would most damage, most wound him, most drive him to anger.

The enemy, like Cefwyn, had already moved.

CHAPTER 6

Ninévrisë slept. That was best,

Tristen thought. Uwen was on his way to the river with Idrys, and that was well, too, for Uwen could only worry, otherwise… although in the task at hand he missed Uwen's sure hands and his calming steadiness.

Instead he called on Lusin and Gweyl to arm him. It was an upside-down order of things, arming him before the guard in the barracks was under arms, before midnight, but his bodyguard never questioned, sure that they were riding to the river before dawn, sure that the stable was gathering up horses and that messengers were out to the barracks and the fires were lit on the hills, advising every Amefin lord. It was the call they all had expected since Cevulirn had marched, and expected hourly since Ninévrisë and her party had arrived.

Lusin, who would not go to war with him, looked regretful in that knowledge; but he had his duties. "You'll command the garrison that remains," Tristen said to him. "Prushan will give you all the help you may need," Prushan, a reasonable and sensible man, was too old to ride to the river, even to sit a horse behind the lines, and would provide the lordly authority in town. "And he'll need your advice. Give it to him as you do to me."

"I wish to the gods I was going with ye, m'lord. All of us. We still hoped we would."

"I need you here more than in the line," Tristen said. "You know that I do. Emuin will be at his wizardry and maybe here and maybe there… I fear Paisiwill know more of what's happening downstairs than he will. Worst, if there's danger of wizardry… of sorcery breaking out, Emuin will know what to do for that, but he can't watch his own back and he can't settle disputes in the hall. Her Grace is here. She's wise in most things and she has wizardry of her own… ask her if you find yourself at a loss, but she mustn't risk herself or draw attention. There's Lady Tarien and the baby, both with the gift… you'll have them to watch, and don't trust her: she's an open doorway. Anything can walk through it, and you have onlymaster Emuin and Her Grace to deal with what does. Lord Prushan's able to deal with the town, but the Zeide itself– youunderstand it."

"Enough to be cold scairt, m'lord, an' that's the truth."

"Enough to stand your ground," he said. "As you would on the field. You'd fight there. So you will here, protecting what's here. And watching that place in the hall—that most of all. You and Syllan, and Aran and Tawwys—I want one of you four, none else, to be at that place day and night: take turns. And set the abbot to watch the wall at the guardroom stairs, where Orien is, turn about with the Teranthine father. If at any time whoever's on watch doesn't think things are right with those places, send for Emuin, and don't wait."

"As things could break out there."

"As things could break out there," he said. "At any hour. Paisi's not a bad one to have on watch with you, where Emuin can spare him. He has the gift. Just don't let him watch alone. And above all else, don't let Tarien and don't let Her Grace near those two places."

"I'm to tell her no?" Clearly Lusin doubted his ability.

"Say that I said so." He clapped Lusin on the shoulder, no longer servant, but a friend, and a trusted officer. "Go now to Crissand's house. Tell him he'll ride with me in the morning. Don'tlet him in the lower hall."

Lusin's expression grew distressed. He was never inclined to argue with orders, but he understood, then, that he, too, was being sent off to a distance and he liked very little what he guessed.

"Go," Tristen said.

"Aye, m'lord," Lusin said, clearly struggling with the urge to say something. He hesitated on his way to the door. "Ye want us't' be back here, m'lord?"

"No. Don't let Lord Crissand follow me," he said. "Whatever you have to do, see he stays away from the mews.—Send him to Emuin, if he argues."

"Ye ain't goin' after another banner, m'lord."

"No. Not this time." Lusin appealed to him to trust him; and he cast himself on that trust. "It's Efanor I want. I'm going to warn him of the danger to his brother and set him a task the same as I

give you. But I mustn't make a mistake in this. If Crissand tries to follow me, I don't know that I can protect us both, or find the way for him. Now go."

"M'lord," Lusin said, and went, well knowing that his lord was at risk, and not happy in being sent away.

But it was necessary, what he did. Tristen knew that as surely as if it had Unfolded, for Cefwyn's back was undefended, and the doors that all led to the mews were undefended. He was not utterly sure a path led into Guelemara, but the gray space was everywhere, one could surely reach it everywhere, and tangled as it might be—where the Lines of a place failed, there the walls between the gray space and the world of Men were weak.

And if a place on the earth had ever afflicted his senses in the same way the mews did, the misaligned Lines within the Quinaltine itself defined that place.

There must be a way through, there; and it was that place he sought, both to warn Efanor, the simple reason he had given Lusin– and to mend those Lines before they afforded a passage for the enemy into the very heart of Cefwyn's capital.

To protect the mews from such an invasion he had taken such precautions as he dared. He had warned Emuin and Ninévrisë of his intention because he was sure they could not prevent him. And now he sent Lusin with his message, so late that by the time Crissand could even reach the mews, he would have done what he set himself to do—for, give or take the war of the weather, and considering the craft and strength of the enemy, he knew he had a remarkable run of that mystery Uwen called Luck, that quantity he saw as a stream of opportunity flowing their way.

That favorable current was back again tonight: the winds in the heavens served himand cleared the roads, and Her Grace had warned Cefwyn and reached him. But as with swordplay, the enemy might allow the pattern a while, only to create false confidence… and he would not press this luckof Uwen's by casting Crissand's rash, brave presence directly into Hasufin's reach, on unfavorable ground.

The new guards by his door at night, Amefin, had one advantage over Lusin and his old friends, and even over Gweyl and his comrades: they were far less forward to charge after him on their own initiative. He went down the hall, down the stairs, and past the closed great hall as if he were going to Emuin's tower, with only two of the Amefin in attendance, and descended into the lower corri-dor where the servants had left only the single candles burning in the sconces.

Owl came winging past him, from whatever perch he had occupied. He had wondered would Owl agree with him, and Owl evidently did—Owl swooped down the hall ahead of him to the disquiet of the young men of his guard.

He had envisioned willing the Lines into his sight and the wards opening for him in an orderly, careful process; he had envisioned alerting Emuin, in the moments before he went, to keep his intentions out of the gray space as long as possible.

But the instant Owl reached that part of the hall the Lines were there and the old mews showed itself without his will, blue and rustling with wings; and into that vision Owl glided, away and away into the blue depths.

– Emuin! he had time to think.

But only that. Owl, contrary bird, had chosen a path of his own without his wishing it, and he followed, as follow he must…

The light became gray, sunlight falling aslant through familiar tumbled beams.

He was at Ynefel, not Guelemara… and wanting Guelemara, he wandered and stumbled instead through the ruin of Ynefel's lower hall.

He was immediately put out with Owl. He had no imminent sense of the enemy's presence, but he knew the enemy might lurk anywhere and knew if he went delving into one place and the other, it only increased his chances of encountering danger.

Hasufin had held this place… had been born here, perhaps, and this shattered hall was more likely a haunt than most. Ynefel was first, a place old, and enchanted long ago, walls more ancient than any existence he had had.

Thatwas the peculiar strangeness the mews evoked. He was never conscious of himself as being old, but he knew in his bones what was older than his presence in this land. And Ynefel was one such Place, a tether for strayed, damned souls.

Shadows ran here, the dead, he had come to understand, of lost Galasien, not of Men. All around him, he saw the faces locked in Ynefel's walls, stone faces that had seemed at night to move in the trick of a passing candle.

Three in particular stood at the corner above, where the stairs had turned. The wooden stairs had fallen, but as he looked up he saw them still watching, one seeming horrified, and one angry, the third at this remove seeming to drowse in disinterest.

He blinked and shivered, and was suddenly in the courtyard of Ynefel, looking back at the door, where Mauryl's face had joined the rest.

Mauryl looked outward and elsewhere, seeming blind to him now, disinterested.

Owl flew past, and he was glad to look away. Any sight was better than Mauryl's disregard of him. He followed Owl, angry, determined that Owl should lead him now where hewould…

He blinked and stood under the open night sky, among ruins that glowed blue with spectral fire. This was Uleman's handiwork… in Althalen.

Not here, either, he said to Owl, angry and desperate.

Time meant nothing in the gray space. An eye might have blinked in the world of Men; the sun might have risen. He could ill afford Owl's whims, willed him to lead true, and still Owl evaded him, and led him past a line of blue fire, the Line of a ruined palace.

Doggedly he shaped the strong blue Lines of the Quinaltine in his thoughts. He remembered that tangled set of Lines within them, remembered them down to the smell of the incense, the sound of the singing.

He stopped with his foot on a step, and beneath that step was no slight fall. The Edge was under it, and he could all but hear the crack of Mauryl's staff, his stern reprimand to know where his feet were—flesh as well as spirit.

Flesh had obligations, and hazards, and he had risked too much overrushing Owl, thinking he knew where he was going. He meekly wished the bird back to him, and stood patiently until he felt the brush of Owl's wing above his hair.

To the left, or what passed for left: therewas the place of smoke and incense. He stood where the Holy Father had stood, the last time he had been in this place.

Above him was the roof the lightning had riven.

Behind his back was the hallowed place with the mismatched Lines, the trap for Shadows.

They seethed in a mass here, many, many Shadows roiling in confusion at the intersections of those Lines, Shadows trapped within the vicinity of the Quinaltine, forced over the centuries to endure prayers to gods they did not acknowledge, the gods of those who had usurped their power. Angry, frustrated and frightened, they ran along the rails, down beneath the altar. They flowed away like spots of ink, they skittered into the masonry, and under benches.

There was no sound here until he took a step, the scrape of metal-guarded leather on stone.

Tristen drew a sharp breath, perceiving another presence. Owl flew toward the doors, and up, and up.

And of a sudden a fierce crash of metal rang from the left of the shrine to echo to the heights: a priest in the columned side aisle had dropped a great platter, and fell to his knees, and to his face.

"I came to speak with Prince Efanor," Tristen said, and that priest scrambled up and ran for the outer door.

He had no way to know whether that frightened man would bear his message as he had asked. He had no time to wait. He sent Owl out the opened door, out and around to the high walls of the Guelesfort, to a place midway in the west wing of the palace.

There, there, Efanor slept, closely guarded. It was an easy passage in the gray place, knowing exactly where Efanor was.

And Efanor, unlike his brother, had some slight presence in the gray: his dreams were very much within reach.

– Prince Efanor, he said. Come to the Quinaltine. Don't delay for anything. Have your servants bring your clothes.

Efanor leapt into bright awareness, within a gray space he had only skimmed in his meditations.

– Tristen? Is it Tristen? Gods save us!

– Come quickly. I'll not tell you until we meet face-to-face. Come to the Quinaltine.

Efanor doubted his own reason. Fear and denial colored his presence: good Quinalt that he was, the gray space should not be open to him, or so he believed, and strove halfheartedly to deny his own senses.

But Tristen drew out the little book of devotions Efanor had given him.

– Know me by this. Come. Believe me. And hurry.

Efanor believed. Confidence flared. Hope did, and curiosity, and Tristen left the gray space quickly, aware of the hovering Shadows, old Shadows and new ones, hateful and hating. It was no good place to linger, not for the space of a breath. But he knew now that Efanor would come.

Another priest had arrived, and ran back. Then a third, and a fourth, and all fled.

Shadows prowled the confused Lines meanwhile and tested the strength of them, pressing at the tangle in the wards: Tristen felt their fear and their desperation, and saw the wound in the Lines they made.

He drew his sword and with it traced a Line of his own on the stones, slowly, surely, drawing the Line with the touch of the metal on stone, securing it with the touch of his boots on the floor and the strength of his wishes in the stones.

Past thisShadows should not come. This was what they should agree on, this was what they should guard, one Line, one defense. He wished it so, and the ward flared behind him.

The Shadows just at arm's length writhed and seethed, imprisoned in the tangle of Lines that had been, and now so great a panicked number of them pressed against those old wards that one failed at last, as it might have failed under the enemy's assault. The breach let forth a great rush of them.

But they came up instead against the new Line, a moiling confusion that set his teeth on edge. They brought death, and cold, and anger, but his Line held.

He chose the broken Line and dispelled it, freeing more reticent spirits, as easy as a pass of his hand and a wish. He dispelled one misdrawn Line after another, until long-pent Shadows, rushing forward to freedom, found his Line, and knew their boundary, and found a straight path along it. They flowed along that perimeter, and rushed back and forth, back and forth, no few violently trying its strength. But without the crossed lines channeling their anger, those attacks came at random, in isolated areas along the line, and posed little threat. Some, finding order in their movement, sangto him, and made the Lines sing, the music of stone, the music of the Masons' making.

Still he brandished the sword up and around until the blue fire of the ward flared along the walls, and up among the rafters, along the threatened roof and down again, past statues in their niches and down again to completion against the pavings.

And those Shadows older than Men, those filled with the greatest anger and contempt, cowered back from that fire, knowing well its potency, and listening to the music.