Fortress in the Eye of Time

by C. J. Cherryh

  But he could not go visit her. Propriety did not allow that: he was a man, and she was the King’s betrothed; and that was the way things would be—men could not, apparently, be alone with the lady. Even Cefwyn could not be, until they were married; and after that, he was not certain. She would always be Cefwyn’s: that was the way of men and women getting together— natural men, he said to himself with a wounded feeling of which he could not rid himself. Natural men—not, as Sulriggan had said, grave-dust and cobwebs.

  And what could Ninévrisë or anyone really see in him but that? What could anyone see, who did not, for reasons of what he knew, like Cefwyn, or for reasons of being ordered to attend him, like Uwen, forgive what he was first off? Those who knew him long enough seemed to get over their fear; but all men were afraid of him. Ninévrisë had been afraid at first.

  And once she was with Cefwyn—Cefwyn had so little time, he would surely give a great deal of it to her. So possibly he would lose both of them—or at least they would have very little time to spare. So Cefwyn was giving him gifts and making it possible for him to be on his own.

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  It was good that he would have Uwen. But did everybody go away, always, in an abundance of gifts, just when things seemed most settled and happy?

  Maybe it was the morose and distracting character of that thought, maybe it was just general distraction, but something was nagging at him as he tried to read, and he could not make up his mind what it was.

  It did not feel quite like Ninévrisë. He feared it was something much more to do with Ynefel and Althalen, and he tried on that account to ignore it—although—if he could judge at all, it came from the east rather than the west, where Althalen was: it felt easterly the way Emuin had always seemed to have direction in his thoughts.

  Then—quite a sharp hurt pierced his skull, right at the base of his neck, and he clapped a hand there, jolted forward against the table-edge by what became a sickening pain. He had never felt anything quite the like. He felt ill, and smelled candle-wax, as if candles had spilled over. He felt hazed, and scarcely able to breathe.

  There was stone. Gray stone. A silver eight-pointed star.

  — Master Emuin, he asked, daring the gray space, for it was not ordinary, what was happening to him, and it involved candles.

  He seemed to hear voices echoing. He saw blue lights fixed at intervals. He saw the Sihhë star blaze with a white, ominous light, and he heard footsteps echoing in some stairwell.

  He caught breath enough to stand, steadied himself against the table, and went out to the other room, past the startled servants, and to the foyer. Uwen had gone down to the kitchens, the guards said, when he went outside and inquired.

  “Is something wrong, m’lord?” one asked.

  “I don’t know. Do you know where master Emuin is?”

  “He hain’t been by here, m’lord. The brothers was about, but they went back downstairs and he wasn’t with ’em.”

  Emuin had no constant guard, such as he and Cefwyn did.

  Emuin’s rooms were just down the hall, under at least the watch of the guards at his and Cefwyn’s doors, and he went 646

  and rattled the latch, hoping the old man was all right, perhaps only having a bad dream. But no one came to the door, and he opened it, his own guard quickly getting before him to make a quick search of the premises.

  “Ain’t no sign of ’im, m’lord,” the guard said.

  By then he was very concerned. “I think we should set the downstairs staff to looking.”

  “Is summat wrong, m’lord?”

  “A pain. A hurt.—A place with candles, many candles.”

  “A shrine,” one said, which was perfectly reasonable. “We can send down to the Teranthines, m’lord.”

  “Do,” he said. “Ask the brothers. They might know.”

  The brothers did not know. The Teranthines in the courtyard shrine didn’t know. By the time the guards had come back with that upsetting report he had long since asked the guards at Cefwyn’s door what they had seen, and, none of them wishing to rouse Cefwyn from his scant rest, one of them had gone to Lord Captain Kerdin, who set a more general search underway, and who came to ask questions of him as to what he had seen or heard or what reason he had to fear for Emuin’s well-being.

  The pain in his head was constant, and disturbing. So was the smell of candles and damp, where it was not the surroundings about him.

  Then Idrys came upstairs, and heard what was happening.

  “The Bryalt shrine,” Idrys said the instant he heard the word candles, and sent one of Cefwyn’s guards, Denyn, running downstairs and out in that direction.

  Idrys went down the stairs more deliberately, and Tristen tagged him, his skull aching with that stabbing pain. He was beginning to be very afraid, in a way he could not explain to Idrys, who had never been over-patient with vagueness and bad dreams; but Idrys was at least heeding him, and led the way down the east main stairs, and down again to a door he had not found in all his early explorations. It led down two 647

  turns and outside to a little courtyard that must be almost within the shadow of the—he had been told—unused East Gate.

  Inside that courtyard was a very old building, modest and plain: the granary and warehouses he had once visited towered over its courtyard wall.

  They entered a cool, dank interior, with voices echoing in just such a tone as he had heard. “This is the place,” Tristen said,

  “this is where,” as a handful of Bryaltine monks came hurrying along a columned aisle that disappeared down a narrow, dimly lit stairs.

  “You!” Idrys said sharply, and the monks flinched and bowed, their faces largely hidden by their hoods.

  “Lord Commander,” one such shadow-faced monk said, opening hands in entreaty. “Master Emuin—he’s slipped and hurt his head. Please. One of your men—”

  Idrys was past them before the man finished. Tristen followed him, down and down the stone steps, where the smell of damp and candles matched exactly what he had been smelling. The pain in his head was acute, all but debilitating, so that he had to follow the wall with his hand to know where he was. He could scarcely see, at the bottom of the steps, where Emuin lay in the arms of a Bryaltine monk—awake, he thought, but there was a great deal of blood about, and blood down the shoulder of Emuin’s robe, blood all over the monk and the guard—the guard Idrys had sent was there, trying to help.

  “Master Emuin.” Tristen dropped to his knees and touched Emuin’s hand, saying, in both worlds at once, “Sir. Do you

  hear me? ”

  The Shadows were close about, dangerous and wicked. Emuin was trying very hard to tell him something. He gripped Emuin’s hand, and it seemed very cold in the world of substance, hard to feel in that of Shadows.

  “Tristen,” Emuin said faintly. “The Shadows. A

  wicked—wicked—thing—”

  Idrys knelt, seized Emuin’s shoulder and turned him to see the back of his head, moving the bloody hair and a wad of blood-soaked cloth out of the way. What he saw made 648

  him grimace. “Get the surgeon. Damn it, fool—run!”

  The guard ran. There was so much blood. There was so very much blood.

  — We have sent for help, Tristen said, holding to Emuin in the gray place. Master Emuin, be brave. Stay with me. Stay.

  I shall not let you go.

  In that place Emuin was listening to him. Emuin said, I saw

  it coming. I was trying to find a way—trying to find what

  his attachment is—he has a Place. He’s found his open

  door. Be careful, be careful.

  He would not let Emuin die. He had lost the lord Regent. This time he recognized that black brink and the threads of darkness for death itself, and he fought with all that was in him.

  Men came and men went, and finally Uwen shook at him, saying he had to let go of master Emuin because the surgeon had come and had to sew the wound.

  He let go. He had difficulty even yet
seeing through the murk.

  The little chamber with all its candles seemed unnaturally darkened. Candle flames burned with all ordinary vigor and yet did not shed light onto the stone around him. When they went outside Uwen kept hold of his arm. When they took Emuin into the Zeide and upstairs he walked behind. When the surgeon worked, he sat outside and tried to think of Emuin being well, that being all that he could do.

  Emuin never quite lost awareness, but it was very low. When the surgeon let them all come in, Emuin looked so very pale, so very weak. He had a bandage around his head. The surgeon talked to Idrys in quiet tones and said the bone was broken and most such did not heal.

  But Emuin was listening, lying in his bed, and looked very weak, and very pale. Tristen paid no attention to the surgeon and Idrys. He went to the bedside. Emuin was distraught—afraid, he was aware of that, and kept reciting poetry, or some such thing.

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  — Prayers, Emuin gave him to understand, then, and there was something bitter and something frightened about him at the same time. I gave up wizardry. I gave it up to find another

  way. And I’ve grown old in the world. I let myself grow

  old to find some sort of holiness, and I’m not what I was.

  I can’t fight your enemy. Forgive me, boy. All that’s left

  now is to step off that brink and hope there’s something

  there.

  — No! he said angrily. No, master Emuin. I need you.

  — You’ve no damned right to need me! To hell with it, to

  hell with it. I grow so weary—so very tired—

  “Ask him,” a cold voice said—Idrys, he thought—“ask him if

  he fell, or if it was an accident.”

  — Was it an accident, master Emuin? he asked faithfully, and:

  — Hell if I know. That’s just like the man. Master crow,

  always picking bones, looking for trouble. Cefwyn and

  Efanor. Clever boys. Both—very clever lads…damned brats.

  Did you know they loosed three sheep in the great hall?

  “He doesn’t know what happened,” Tristen said quietly to Idrys, unable to see him, but knowing he was there. He grew afraid, and squeezed Emuin’s hand until he feared it hurt, but the brink seemed nearer to both of them. You’re too close, sir.

  Please come back.

  — It’s my peace, damn you! I’ve earned it. Let me go.

  — No, sir. No! Cefwyn needs you. Listen to me.

  — I am, I confess it, are you satisfied? a very bad wizard.

  I’m old, I’m out of practice, out of patience, I can’t do these

  things any more, that is my dreadful secret. No, the worse

  one is, I never was any good. Mauryl knew it. Don’t look

  to me. I’ve one chance—one chance, that the gods do exist,

  that salvation is there, and it’s my only hope, boy, it’s the

  only hope I have left. You heard them. By nature, I shan’t

  get well from this. If I heal myself, I can only do it by wiz-

  ardry—and I should be damned. I’ve done murder, and

  I’m old. I shall be damned.

  He knew nothing of damnation. He saw Death coming, a 650

  black edge Emuin was willfully seeking, and he would not have it. You will get well, sir. You are the only one. I tried to

  help Cefwyn. I could do nothing! I could never—

  There was a tumult somewhere outside. He could not tell what it was. He ignored it until he saw, in the world of substance, Emuin look toward the door or attempt to. “Fire,”

  someone was crying, and Idrys was on his feet. “Fire, captain, there’s smoke all through the hall!”

  “Damn,” he heard from Emuin, an exhalation of breath as much as a word. The next was stronger. “Cefwyn?”

  There was a smell of smoke, however faint, that he had taken for a draft from the fireplace. He heard doors open and close.

  He saw Idrys leave in haste. He felt disturbance from master Emuin and even through the closed doors heard Idrys shouting at someone in the hall. Emuin was afraid. Emuin was aware, through him, if no other way.

  He left Emuin’s side and went out through the several doors to the hall, where Uwen was. Servants were standing up and down the hall, all looking anxiously toward the endmost, servants’ stairs, where smoke was billowing up. The kitchens, it might be: that was where most chance of fire was, down below and on that face of the building.

  “M’lord,” Uwen said, looking, it seemed, for orders, but he had no idea what to do. It was too much disaster at once. They perhaps should move Emuin and Cefwyn to safety—but Emuin could scarcely bear more jostling about; and he had no idea which direction was safe.

  “Where is it?” he asked, and no one seemed to know. He headed for the main stairs, which were still free of smoke. Uwen wanted to come with him, but he said, “Stay above. Don’t let the servants leave. We may have to carry Emuin and Cefwyn downstairs. I’ll find out.”

  He hurried alone for the central stairs, those past Cefwyn’s room, supposed Cefwyn’s guards, absent from their posts, were inside with him, perhaps preparing to take him to safety, and he was halfway down the steps when he heard Cefwyn call out to him from above.

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  “Tristen! What’s burning?”

  Cefwyn, without his guards, was standing in a dressing-robe, holding to the newel at the landing. He began to answer, but all of a sudden Cefwyn just—fell down, and his hand slipped on the steps, and he kept falling.

  Tristen raced up the steps and stopped Cefwyn in his arms, but there was blood on the steps and blood on him, and Cefwyn had fainted.

  Booted feet came running down the steps from above him.

  “M’lord,—” Uwen began, bending to offer help.

  “Where are his guards?”

  “I don’t know, m’lord, Idrys—”

  “Find Idrys!” Too much was going wrong. He feared to take Cefwyn downstairs, exposed to a confusion without guards, without the protections that hourly surrounded him. “Wherever the fire is—Idrys will be there. Find where it’s burning. I can carry him. Hurry! ”

  “Aye, m’lord!” Uwen said, and ran past him down the stairs.

  He tried to pick Cefwyn up. He almost could manage it, though Cefwyn was utterly limp, and the wrong way about on the stairs. But by then Cefwyn’s guards had come running down the steps from above, and helped shift Cefwyn head-upward so he could get his knee and his arms under him and rise on the steps.

  He carried Cefwyn up the steps as the guards attempted to help, white-faced and trying to express their contrition, to him, since Cefwyn heard nothing, but he turned his shoulder and went past them, fearing that his carrying Cefwyn might hurt the leg further. Cefwyn was a still, loose weight, hard to keep safe as he maneuvered through the doors of Cefwyn’s apartment.

  His boot slipped a little on the floor and he realized it was blood that made his foot skid. He maintained his hold on Cefwyn’s yielding weight, the air hazing dark about him, maneuvered him through more doors, into his bedroom and with a last, difficult balance and rending effort, laid Cefwyn down carefully on the bed.

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  At that moment Annas appeared, took one look and began calling out rapid orders to pages to bring water and linens, while the guards attempted to explain to Annas they had been trying to assess the danger from the smoke coming up the other stairs, that they had believed Cefwyn asleep, that they never otherwise would have left.

  Pages came running with towels. Then Idrys arrived on the run, smelling of smoke, his face streaked with soot. He had a quick look at Cefwyn’s leg, and ordered tight bandages.

  “The physician is on his way,” Idrys said.

  “He fell on the stairs,” Tristen said, still out of breath. “He heard the alarm—”

  “Where in hell were the guards?” Idrys demanded, pressing a linen wad against the wound, and the guards again attempted to explain—but Efanor came through
the doors, cursing the guards and demanding to know what was happening.

  “The kitchen’s afire,” Idrys said shortly.

  “—Happening to my brother, sir!”

  “Stupidity!” Idrys said. “Damn it, where is the man? Annas!

  I need linens!—He fell on the stairs, my lord Prince. We’ve sent for the surgeon. If you would help His Majesty, Your Highness, see if you can stir the surgeon out of hiding. He only lately attended master Emuin, of another fall on the stairs—he’s probably in his residence. He wasn’t at the fire.”

  Efanor, without another word, turned and left.

  “We’ll have the damned priest in here next,” Idrys said. He had a pad of linen pressed to Cefwyn’s wound. Blood soaked the sheets. The endmost stitches had burst. It was not all red blood that came out. “Damn it! Lord Tristen! Go out into the hall, set a guard over Emuin, Prince Efanor, and the lady Regent—gods know, it may rain frogs next.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristen said, and went out and caught one and another servant of his own and had them find out what was happening downstairs. He sent one of Cefwyn’s distraught guards upstairs to order the guards watching over the lady to be alert and to make no such mistakes—he thought that the 653

  guard might be especially passionate in urging the point. He had one of his guards to fill out the number at Cefwyn’s door and sent another to put extra guards with Efanor, who was searching, he hoped, for the physician.

  Rain frogs. Idrys meant ills of every improbable sort. It was too much calamity. He tried to reach Emuin. He called to him, in that gray place, from where he stood; but Emuin was waging his own struggle—and when he would have joined it, Uwen came up to him in midhall. “His Majesty’s come awake,” Uwen said. “But he’s not well, m’lord, he’s not real well. The captain said you might ought to come quick.”

  He all but ran to Cefwyn’s apartment, and Idrys was still at Cefwyn’s bedside. Cefwyn was absolutely white, but his eyes were open. The physician had arrived, the same that had stitched up Emuin.

  “Tristen.” Cefwyn reached out his hand and Tristen took it, wishing the pain to stop and for the wound to be well, but clearly it did no good. Cefwyn’s mouth made a thin line and sweat broke out on Cefwyn’s white face.