Текст книги "Fortress in the Eye of Time"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

Afterward, though, when they were mounting up again, Cefwyn said they should go warily, and Uwen said he should stay close, that thereafter they were crossing through more chancy territory. There was a woods ahead, which the King’s men had wanted to cut down, but Heryn Lord Aswydd, as Tristen gathered Uwen meant by naming the Duke of Amefel, had lodged strong protest, because of the hunting and because of the woodcutters of Emwy village and others, and had undertaken to keep the law there himself.

“So,” Tristen said, “can the Duke of Amefel not find the sheep?”

And Idrys said, “Well asked.”

Cefwyn, however, looked not at all happy with the question, so he guessed he had wandered into a matter of contention between them, and he was well aware that Idrys had begged Cefwyn to choose some other direction.

But Cefwyn, unlike boys growing up with wizards, was a prince and did what he pleased, when he pleased, and what he pleased was to ride in this direction. So Tristen thought, and began to worry–    Still the soldiers seemed to take the news of their direction as a matter of course, and Idrys had almost laughed at noon. It seemed, at least, the men felt confident of accomplishing what Cefwyn wished at Emwy village, whether that was finding lost sheep, or Elwynim, or outlaws.

He thought about it as they rode, and patted Gery’s neck and wondered if the horses thought at all about danger: it seemed to him, one of those things he knew along with riding, that he might rely on Gery’s sense of things, and on all the horses to be on the watch for danger of a sort horses understood.

In late afternoon they had woods in sight on their left hand, and the land grew rougher, less of meadows and more of stony heights, on which forest grew.

They traveled until forest stretched across their path. The woods was not Marna, Tristen judged: it was green. But it was very likely part of that forest that lay on Amefel’s side of the Lenfialim, a thick and deep looking forest all the same, reminding him of hunger and long walking.

The men talked about the river lying close.

“Is it the Lenfialim?” he asked Uwen.

“Aye,” Uwen said. “And Emwys-brook. And Lewen-brook’s not far.

Not a good place we’ve brushed by, the last hour and more, m’lord.”

“Because of the woods? Or because of the Elwynim?”

Uwen did not answer him at once. “Ghosts,” Uwen said finally, which was a Word of death and grief and anger. It disturbed him. He looked at the trees on either hand as they rode into that green shade, and so did the men, who said very little, and seemed anxious.

But he looked to the green branches, even hoping to see a feathery brown lump somewhere perched on a limb. Since their excursion planned to stay a night near this wooded place, he even hoped for Owl to find him—if Owl would haunt any place outside Marna, such a place as this seemed exactly what Owl would favor. The whispering leaves sounded of home to him. It made him think of standing on the parapet at Ynefel and listening to the trees in the wind. And he thought it would be a very good thing if he could find Owl and bring him back to

Henas’amef. But the men around him looked not to be comforted at all by what they saw or heard.

“It’s not so dark as Marna,” he said, to make Uwen feel safer.     “Few places would be,” Uwen said, and made a sign folk made when they grew frightened. So he did not think he dared say more than that.

But in a little more riding, the track they followed, leaf-strewn and hardly more substantial than the Road he had followed through Marna, brought them through a thinning screen of trees and brush, into yet another broad valley, with fair grasslands and fields and hills open to the afternoon sun.

“This is Arys-Emwy,” Uwen said. “They’re mostly shepherd-folk.”

So they were still in Amefel, Tristen decided. He remembered the pale lines on the map. He saw the Name in his memory. Sheep had left their tracks about the meadow and on the road, although they saw none grazing.

They came on stone-fenced fields beyond the next hill, and crops growing, and further on they could see the thatched roofs of a village—Emwy village, Uwen said, which seemed a pleasant place. It had no outer walls, just a collection of tow stone fences. The buildings were gray stone, two with slate roofs and a number with thatch. Shutters were open in most of the houses, and many of the doors likewise were open. Men and women were working in the fields closest to the village, and thin white smoke was going up from a few of the chimneys.

Folk stopped work as they saw what was riding down their road, folk came in from the fields, and dogs ran and barked alongside the horses, as slowly the people gathered.

“Hold,” Cefwyn said, and the column halted; he gave some order to Idrys about searching the houses, and Idrys and the men around him, with none of the banner-carriers, went riding off quickly into the single street of the village.

“Where are the young men?” Cefwyn asked of the silent villagers, who leaned on hoes and gathered behind their stone fences.  And they were all old, or young women or children.

“Answer the Prince!” a man of the guard said, and lowered his spear toward the people.

“Off wi’ they sheep,” an old man said. “Off seekin’ after they sheep, m’lord.”

“Who is the head man, here?”

“Auld Syes. She is, m’lords.” The man nodded toward the village, and all the people pointed the same way.

Cefwyn drew his horse about and bade them ride on toward the village itself, where Idrys and his men going in advance of them had turned out a number of villagers from their houses, a number of children, Tristen saw. Dogs were barking.

“This ain’t good,” Uwen said. “If village lads is off searching for any sheep, they should have the dogs along. They’re lyin’, m’lord.”

What Uwen said to him echoed in Tristen’s head as they rode up on the village and into its street. There were two girls—a number of children, many very young. There were old folk. Cefwyn’s men, those afoot, who had been searching, and others sitting on their horses, were looking this way and that, hands on weapons. Idrys came riding slowly closer to  them.

“Not a one of the youths on the rolls,” Idrys said, out of some far distance. “So much for Heryn’s law-keeping.”

Tristen drew a sharp, keen breath, feeling a shiver in the air. Dust moved aloud the street as a stray gust of wind blew toward them. The gust gathered bits of straw, whipped a frame of dyed yarn standing by a doorway, and one woman, one old woman was in that doorway.  “Are you Auld Syes?” the sergeant asked.

“I am,” the old woman said, and lifted a bony arm, pointing straight at Cefwyn. “Marhanen! Bloody Marhanen! I see blood on the earth!

Blood to cleanse the land!” The wind danced around her rough-spun skirts, it skirled through the tassels of her gray shawl and the knots of her grayer hair. She wore necklaces not of jewels but of plain brown stones and knots of straw. She wore bracelets of knotted leather. Tristen looked at this woman, and the woman looked at him. She feared him. He knew that look. She stretched out her arm at him and pointed a finger, and cried a Word without a sound; and now in dreadful slowness Cefwyn’s men were making a hedge of their weapons.

The wind wrapped around and around the old woman, winding her skirts and shawl about her until she was a brown and gray bundle in the midst of the dust.

The Word was still there. He couldn’t hear it. People were screaming and running and Gery was plunging and snorting under him, crazed, as the wind whipped away from them, taking straw and dust with it, still blowing in and out among the houses, still whipping at the skeins of yarn. The frame fell over on the woman, covering her in hanks of yarn.

Dogs were growling and barking, but some had run away. A handful of old men and women and a boy with one foot all stood where they had, and Cefwyn was shouting at the riders—”Up the lane! Catch one!”

–Mauryl’s damnable tinkering, the Wind was saying, with a hundred voices. Mauryl’s meddling with the elements. Unwise. He would never take advice.

–Who are you? Tristen asked it, and thought of Emuin—it was like that gray place. But Gery was with him, Gery refused to go further, shied back and turned.

“Tristen!” Cefwyn was shouting at him, and the wind whipped about, blinded him with bits of straw that flew and stung. Gery jolted so strongly forward he hit the cantle, and he fought to hold her as old women hauled the sputtering woman out from under the hanks of yarn and young women bolted down the lane between the houses and fled.

“She—” Tristen began, but had no words to say what the wind had said to him—it was all fading in his mind the way dreams faded, except it had spoken of Mauryl, and home.

“M’lord Prince,” Idrys said, sword in hand, “this is no longer a ride for pleasure. Take an escort. Ride out. Now!”

Cefwyn was incensed. “Damn it! I’ll not be chased by a pot-wizard and a gust of wind!” Cefwyn’s horse was fighting the rein and he brought the animal full about in the midst of them. “She’s a foolish old woman!”

“Lost sheep be damned,” Idrys shouted at him. “It was a lure, m’lord Prince! They wished nothing but to draw you here. Your life is in danger.

No one dragged their sons across the river. They’ve gone, they’ve taken to your enemies. —No, Your Highness!” Cefwyn had gone aside from the road, and Idrys went so far as to ride in front of his horse. “Go up in those hills and you’ll be feathered like a goose. That’s their purpose.

That’s what they want!”

“Do not you dispute my decisions, sir! The women know where to go!”

“Straight to their brothers and husbands!” Idrys said. “Give over, m’lord Prince. This profits no one but your enemies! If there’s aught to learn, the patrol I’ve sent will find it!”

The wind came near them. The air seemed to buzz and hum like insects on a lazy day. Uwen caught Gery’s rein, and Cefwyn was still disputing Idrys, but Idrys seemed then to prevail.

Two riders who had left them were still chasing across the fields, jumping fences, but the banner-bearers and the rest of the troop gathered around Cefwyn.

They were alone in the village, then, with the old villagers and the lame boy and the dazed old woman staring at them.

“Where are your men?” Cefwyn asked again, and had a confused babble of pointing, and swearing, oh, indeed they were up with the sheep.

“The lost sheep?” Cefwyn shouted at them. “The sheep that strayed, that you complained of? Or was I ever to see that message? Was it to Heryn Aswydd you sent? And what was it to say to him? Treason? Do we speak of Elwynim, and not of sheep at all?”

The villagers were afraid. Tristen was afraid. The air still seemed to him to be alive with threat. The elderly villagers kept protesting their innocence. But the air tingled. The light was strange.

“Uwen Lewen’s-son,” Cefwyn said then, “take your charge and ride as fast as the horses can bear. Tell them at Henas’amef we’ve stayed in this village asking questions, and we’ll hold these people under guard until the patrol comes back with you. —Take Tristen with you!”

“Aye, Your Highness.” Uwen turned his horse, reached out, leaning for Gery’s rein, and drew Gery about with him perforce.  “No!” Tristen said, fighting him for the rein.

“M’lord,” Uwen said, and would not give the rein up as Gery jerked and shook her head, hurt, Tristen saw, and abandoned his attempt to hold her back. “We’re ridin’ for help for the prince, m’lord! His Highness don’t need no argument. Come on!”

Gery went, fighting a step more, and then Uwen let go the rein and expected him to follow. He knew that Uwen had no time to spare for his fear. He steered Gery with his knee as Gery joined Uwen’s horse in a brisk gait, back along the road.

“Prince Cefwyn will manage,” Uwen said. “Unarmed and unschooled ye ain’t much help, m’lord. We’re bound to do what we’re told, ride to the other side of that damned woods, and fast back as we can.”  “What are they looking for?”

“Just you leave the village to His Highness!”‘ Uwen said to him. “An’ stay wi’ me, m’lord. We got to get us past them trees. If we start summat from cover up there in the rocks, that woods is all one woods, clear to the other end of Lanfarnesse, and full of trails. —Can ye stay a fast  ride?”

“Yes,” Tristen answered. His breath was coming hard. Idrys had spoken of enemies, and that word he did know—Mauryl had had enemies.

The Shadows were enemies, and the forest seemed the most apt place for them to hide. He rode with Uwen, and glanced back as two more of the guard came riding breakneck down the road and their own horses picked up pace to match.

“Hawith, Jeony,” Uwen said, waving his arm toward the road and the woods ahead. “Get yerself out to the fore of us, we got a m’lord to get through here.” He took off his helm as they jounced knee to knee and offered it to Tristen across the gap. “Put that on, m’lord. No disputing me on this.”

Tristen settled Uwen’s helm, warm and damp with Uwen’s sweat, on his head, and made Uwen no more trouble. They were coming to the woods, with the danger of some sort to pass, he understood well enough, trouble which might try to stop them. He understood the concern to know where the village men were, if they were supposed to be in the fields, but some of Cefwyn’s men had gone up in the hillside meadows chasing those who had run—and what they thought those fugitive women had done or might do, he did not understand. Their own course seemed the most dangerous, a road winding past gray rocky knolls and through thick forest shadow, and as they approached the forest, with the horses already tiring, Uwen reined back, jogging a little distance, letting the horses take their breath.

“We’ll ride hard through,” Uwen said. “Fast as we can. Ain’t no deceiving anybody. If they come on us, if happen I don’t come through, ye ride straight on for town, hear me? Woods or fields, overland, wherever ye can find a way, ye get to the Zeide gate and tell the Lord Captain of the Watch—his name is Kerdin, he’s always on duty at night, and he’ll get us help. Mind the village is Emwy, and ye don’t talk to no Amefin officers, ye hear me, young m’lord?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. They were passing into the green shade, and Uwen took a faster pace. The men, Hawith and Jeony, had vanished ahead of them through intermittent shafts of light that hazed the way ahead.

Their own horses’ hoofbeats sounded lonely on the earth. Sounds began to come strangely, and the sunlight seemed brighter, the edges of things unnaturally sharp and clear. Gery caught-step under him and threw her head, and that sharp-edged clarity was all around them, making things dangerous.

“Uwen!” he said, caught in strangling fear.

He reined back in fright, heard a hiss—before or after his hand had moved. Something hit his side in a whistling flight of missiles and Gery jolted forward, crashed through brush and under a branch.

He spun over the cantle sideways and crashed down into brush on his back as he held tight to Gery’s reins. Men were shouting, rushing downhill, motley clothed and motley armed. Stones whisked through the leaves, cracked against trees. Arrows hissed and one thumped and sang near him.

He got up again—found the stirrup and hauled himself, winded as he was, to Gery’s back. He reached the road, ducked low and hung on as Gery ran.

He heard nothing of the hoofbeats. He was in that bright light, that grayness, he and Gery both, though brush stung his face and raked over his shoulders. He had lost Uwen. He had lost the other men. Gery broke out of the woods and he saw not the road home, but the village where Cefwyn and the others were.

He had gone the wrong way. But there was no choice, now. He rode up at all Gery’s speed, and Idrys’ men swept him up with them, in what he only then realized was safety.

“They Shot the men.” He could scarcely speak. He was trembling. So was Gery. But no one had followed him. There were no arrows here.

“Uwen might have gotten away,” he said, teeth chattering as with chill.

“I don’t know, sirs. I’m sorry.”

“Damn them,” Cefwyn said.

“Overland,” Idrys said. “We go overland. I know the map, m’lord. We can make it through. Damn the village and their witch! They’ll wait for night.”

Cefwyn was not pleased. Cefwyn was taut-lipped and furious.

“Call the searchers back!” he said, and a man lifted a horn to his lips and sounded a quick series of notes that echoed off the hills.

He hoped Uwen was alive. He had heard the sound of arrows: he would never forget it in all his life. He shivered still, held Gery as quiet as she would stand and felt her shiver, too. Breezes brushed against his face, and he felt it chill, but that was only fear, not—not the stifling foreboding he had felt in the woods.

The men Idrys had sent out came back over the hills, down the lane beside the orchard, six men filling out their number again, on tired horses.

“Overland,” Cefwyn said. “As best we can. Idrys! Take the lead.”

It had not been the outcome Cefwyn had wished. They had not gained anything. The old woman, tottering on her feet, still disheveled, came out from among the others and down the street, calling out,

“The King, he come again, he come again, Marhanen lord, ye mark me well! The King, he come again!”

“One should silence that crone,” Idrys said. Tristen caught his breath up to plead otherwise, that the woman was old and she was afraid and she sent only a little presence into the air.

But Cefwyn said, “Let be,” and that stopped it. Idrys took the lead in leaving the road, back down the lane that led downhill past the village and toward a meadow pasturage.

The banner-bearers followed. Cefwyn led the rest of them, down this lane that sheep recently had used.

He thought he should have tried to help Uwen, but he had thought he was doing what Uwen said.

He had made a mistake, a foolish, foolish mistake, when, after getting back in Gery’s saddle, he had turned back instead toward Cefwyn, blinded by fear, mistaking his direction. Fool, Mauryl would say.

Deservedly.

Chapter 13

One of the men said he knew the way, and that he had ridden patrol here, so, he said, he could lead them around the woods and they would come to the road again before it entered the trees.

“We’ll have our reinforcements,” Cefwyn said to Idrys, “by morning.

No use our riding south to the road and back again. We’ll have these horses staggering under us, riding there. Make camp!”

“We are not armored against arrows or shepherd Slings, m’lord Prince. I want you safe away. We’ll fire the haystacks. That will keep these people busy: you ride out of here, m’lord Prince! If Lewen’s-son fell, we’ve no one in Henas’amef to ask our whereabouts until tomorrow late. We do not know their numbers—but I can busy them and ride clear.”  “Then we both can!”

“No, my lord Prince! Do not be risking the King’s heir after some ragtag troop of women in a sheep pasture! There are battles worth a prince and there are those not, and this is not, m’lord. I pray you use the sense your uncle had not, and live long enough to reign!”

There was silence for a time. Uwen might have made it through, Tristen thought. There might be help coming. But it would still be late.

And Idrys and the prince stared at each other, glowering.

Finally Cefwyn said, “I’11 not draw off men you may need. We’ll go by the eastern valley. I can find that in the dark. You overtake us on the road. That is an order, sir. No lingering. I need you. I’ll take Tristen, and two men beside.”

“The wizardling is not a man, not in wit, not in experience—he’s a risk, m’lord. A maid ten years old would do more than fly back down the road for rescue! A blushing maid might have stayed with her escort!”

“Sir, —” Tristen said, stung.

“Tristen,” Cefwyn said. “Nydas. Lefhwyn. That is my word, Idrys.”

“And Brogi,” Idrys said. “At least three men, m’lord Prince. And six more, for safety.”

Tristen bit his lip, unable to protest. Cefwyn said, shortly, “Later, master crow,” and put his horse to a quicker pace as Idrys and others dropped back to ride back to the village.

But six more than two men followed them; Tristen followed, not wanting to leave Idrys’ assessment of him unchallenged, but not having any argument against it, either. He had not done well, losing his way in the woods. He had fallen into that gray place, and he had thought he was facing the right direction, and he had ridden out in the wrong one. He did not know now whether he had turned face about in that Place, or had simply lost his sense of which side of the road Gery had gone to, and gotten turned wrong in the terror of the moment. He felt the fool—as Idrys had clearly said he was. But he had resources he had not used. He might call to Emuin, if things were going wrong.

But Emuin was very far away, and could send them no soldiers, nor any other help that he knew. Emuin had said the gray place was a dangerous place to linger. He wondered if Cefwyn knew of it, or if Cefwyn could go there, or if any of the other men could; he wondered whether he should tell Cefwyn that possibility or whether Cefwyn was privy to Emuin’s doings with him, or should be.

Meanwhile their case was not desperate: ground flew under them, green grass and gray stone and black earth, over meadowland interspersed with rocky knolls perhaps too small to have names. The map still echoed Words to him, Words running in red and black and brown, with fine lines that blurred and ran and tried to find accordance with the land.

Wrong, something said to him. Wrong, wrong, this map; but he had been wrong once about directions: Idrys had said he was a fool and a difficulty to whatever party included him. And he had no way to say Idrys was wrong.

The horses could not long sustain the hard pace Cefwyn had set riding clear of the village and its stone pens. It was across the fields and pastures they went, away from the rocky hills to the north, and Cefwyn set a slower pace, still in no good humor, speaking to the men Idrys had sent only to indicate direction and prospects of reaching the point they sought, using a certain hill as a landmark. The man who claimed to know this land maintained that the road by which they had come lay due south of that mark.

That was wrong: it was south after some long distance east, Tristen thought: but he found it prudent still to hold his peace. Cefwyn was not in a pleasant mood, and south would do for a while, at least to get them toward the road.

They rode/:or a long while, until they had come where they thought they should find the hill, and failed to see it; and the man was begging Cefwyn’s pardon just as they actually came in sight of it, and became sure where they were.

I know, Tristen thought. Owl’s flight over the map in his dream had shown him all this place. It had shown him where hills should be, and the brooks that emptied into each other until they met on Lewen plain, somewhere the other side of the village, if they were going as far as the river.

Which they were not. They were still going directly south, which would lead them into rough land, Tristen thought. It would not be quicker. But no one asked his opinion, and Cefwyn was still short-tempered. He thought Cefwyn had a very good reason to be, counting the men lost and his argument with Idrys.

He was thinking about that, and they were passing quite close to the hill in question, a hill remarkable for a treeless top capped with stone—a bald hill, the men called it, and had a name for it: Raven’s Knob—when they rode across a dark trail in the grass, left to right across their path. He saw it, wondered about it, as the only feature of disturbance in grasstops otherwise as smooth as velvet, a track such as their own horses made.

Someone, Tristen thought, had made a recent passage through the meadow and away from the track they took. The trail they had left went up around the shoulder of Raven’s Knob.

Cefwyn saw it too, and while they proceeded, one of the lead men rode out for some distance off their course and looked closely at that trail before he rode back again and rejoined them on their way.

“One rider,” the man—Brogi—said. “Maybe two, Your Highness.

Light horse, gone over the Knob and down the other side, by what I mark. I’d not be disturbin’ things further without your order, Your Highness. That’s a lookout over all the valley, that place is.”

It was not good news, a fool could gather that much, too. Cefwyn frowned more darkly than he had, since, surely, Tristen thought, men on horses no matter what their business ought properly to be on the roads and not following sheep-paths across the land, unless they were trying to avoid something, as they were.

There had been no horsemen in the village. But he could not say whether there had been in the woods.

“It were made a few hour back,” Brogi said, further. “I’d take oath on that, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps it was Uwen,” Tristen ventured in a quiet voice. “He said leave the road if need be.”

But making camp and lingering seemed the worst of all choices—sitting where their enemies could come up on them in the dark. He was glad at least Cefwyn was of a mind to go somewhere, if he would not go back to walls and doors they could lock.

Besides, he did not know that he was right; his notions were often right—but Names and impressions were coming to him now from moment to moment: bits and fragments of the map, details of land and cover shaping themselves from what he saw as if of a sudden the land around them had become that map of Cefwyn’s, and he could see beyond the hills, guessing which way villages lay, and where the river was.

Cefwyn’s men were still not exactly right about the direction, but the way they were going seemed the shortest they could manage without going through the low hills to the west, closer to the deadly woods: Cefwyn kept them proceeding as quickly as the horses could carry them, over ground stonier and less easy as the shadows lengthened.

And at deep dusk, the sheep-track on which the man had guided them played out at a brook with a high rocky shelf on the other side, so they had to ride along the lower bank and then cross and climb steeply up a sheep-path among the trees.

But that brought them up where there was rapidly no through track at all, only a tumbled lot of stone that nature had not made, with a scattering of trees. It was not the woods they had met before, only a copse of willows that gave way to stone and brush.

An old wall showed through the brush. Paving stones were all along the ground, like the Road, but pale gold. Some stones along the base of the wall were carved with leaves, and some with birds and some with circles. Some had faces, one with pointed teeth peering out from the leaves as if it lurked there in ambush.

The air tingled. That gray place of Emuin’s was so easy from here; it rippled along just under the air, and it frightened him. The soldiers made signs against harm and Cefwyn wore a hard and unhappy face. The way became overgrown, steep and stony, and they had to find their own way through a tangle of half-buried stone in the gathering night.

But it was more directly toward the road they were going now. Tristen was certain of it. “I think this is right,” he said. “The road is straight on from here.”

“Damn the luck,” Cefwyn said, refusing to be reassured. “This is not at all where I’d intended to go. We should bear more easterly and get out of this warren.”

Immediately after, they found the walls of a building, which had not at all a good feeling. Soot stained the vacant windows and doors, as if the place had burned.

“Althalen,” he heard one of the men say. “This is Althalen, gods save us.”

It was a Name. Not a troubling one. But it seemed so to everyone else.

“They’re stones,” Cefwyn said sharply. “Dead stones. They harm no one. Look sharp for ambush. That’s the danger here.”

The light had all but gone. Shadows established their hold on the ruins and crept out of holes where they lurked by bright day. I dislike this, Tristen thought, and would have said so, if he had thought anyone would listen, or if it would have done anyone any good, but it was like the time before: all along, they were doing the best they knew to do, going generally south before they could turn east, and they were far enough along their track now that there seemed no choice, or only worse choices left.

Idrys might miss them on the road, Tristen thought. He hoped that Idrys might come after them. The ruins were all around them, and more and taller ruins lay stark on a hill above. The place felt worse and worse.

The sky was the color of dirty water. The air turned dank and chill as light left the land.

And throughout, Shadows ran along between the stones, leaving their lairs in the deep vacancies of broken masonry.

Lines upon the earth, Mauryl had said. Secrets known to masons and stoneworkers. But what restrained a Shadow once the building was overthrown and once horses and men rode where doors and windows had not been? Surely such a calamity weakened their magic.

Wind blasted up, out of nothing. The horses whinnied and fought the bits, wanting to run.

Something was following them. He felt it. The horses felt it. He cast a look back, feeling terror gathering thick about the stones, a sense of presence the like of which he had felt once before in the forest, that time that something had passed him on the Road in Marna. But no more than then did he see anything substantial. Gery’s skin twitched against his knee as Cefwyn led the way down an eroded slope. They passed into a dark, tree-arched gap between the lines of overthrown masonry and fire-stained ruin.

Wind blasted suddenly at their faces, skirling through the trees, sighing with a voice of leaves. A horse whinnied from far away. Tristen smelled smoke and heard voices raised in alarm, faint and far, but many, many of them. He thought of what Idrys said about burning the haystacks.

“Something is burning,” he said.

“Nothing’s there,” Cefwyn said, sharply. “Stay with me.”

A well-worn path went along the foundations of another set of walls.