Fortress in the Eye of Time

The youth stumbled off the middle step, fell on the bottom one and picked himself up, staring at the face—retreated farther and farther across the stones, carrying the Book as he fled.

Came a strangely human sound, that began like the wind and ended in the choked sobs of someone in grief, but distant, as if cast up and echoed from some deep. It might have been in the real world. It might have been the youth making that sound. It might have been himself.

—Tristen, the Wind said to him, Ynefel is your proper place, this is your home, Sihhé soul, and I am your own kind—well, let us be honest: at least more hospitable than Men. The world outside offers nothing worth the baying—not for the likes of us. Be reasonable. Save this young man the bother—and the grief. Would you look ahead? Ahead might persuade you.

—I am not your kind, Tristen returned angrily—and yet the niggling doubt was there, the doubt that wondered—But what else am I? And what shall I be?

—A weapon. That’s all. That’s all you ever were, my prince. Mauryl used you. Men use you, and unwisely, at that. You always had questions. Ask me. I’ll answer. Or change things. With the Book, if you take it up, you can do that. You can be anywhere you’ve ever been. Only the future changes. Would you free Mauryl? You can. I’m certain I don’t care, if he’ll mend his ma

He saw light.., light as he had seen at the begi

The other side of that light was Mauryl’s fireside. He could step right through the firelight. He would be there, that first of the safest nights, most kindly nights of his life, welcomed by Mauryl’s voice and warmed by Mauryl’s cloak.

He would be there. Mauryl would be alive again, Summoning him out of the fire.

He could think of the library, the warm colors of faded tapestry, the many wooden balconies and the scaffolding. He could think of Mauryl’s wrinkled face and white beard.

He could think of Mauryl at his ciphering, the tip of the quill working and the dry scratch of Mauryl’s pen on parchment, as real as if he stood there at Mauryl’s shoulder. He could step through. He could stand in the study. He could be at that very moment Mauryl Called him. He saw the firelight like a curtain before him. He could all but hear Mauryl’s voice.

It was that moment. He could have it all again.  Forever.

—You see? said the Wind. Seemings are all alterable. Restore what was? You are of the West, not the East. Never fear what you were. Glory in it. Look to the dawn of reason. Look to the dawn of our kind. Your name—

“My name,” he shouted at it, “is Tristen, Tristen, Tristen!”

Wings—he was certain it was Owl—clove the air in front of him. And he—he moved them all through Time, following Owl, chasing Owl back to where Owl belonged.

He heard his horse’s hoofbeats. He felt Dys striding under him. He saw Owl flying ahead of him, black against the heart of that white luminance in the very moment it came down on him. There was no feeling out, no conativeattack this time. The Wind enveloped him with cold and sound.

—Barrakkêth! it wailed. Barrakkêth, Kingbreaker, listen to me, only listen—I know you now! Deathmaker, you are far too great to be Mauryl’s toy—listen to met

He fought to hold the sword, but he gripped its mortal weight, swung it into the heart of the light—the sword met insubstance, clove it, echoing, shrieking into dark as the silver burned and seared his hand.

The cold poured over him as Dys and Owl and he lost each other then.

He spun through dark, nowhere, formless and cold. He had no will to move, to think, even to dream, nor wanted any.

“M’lord. Tristen, lad. Tristen!”

A horse gave a snort. He was aware of dark huge feet near his head.

Of something trailing across his face, a horse’s breath in his eyes. Of the world from an unaccustomed angle.

Of silence.

“M’lord.” Another snort. A thump and clatter of armor nearby.

He saw a shadow, felt the touch of a hand on his face, a hat burned his cheek, it was so very warm.

Then strong arms seized him and tried to lift him. “M’lord, h, here. Come on, ye said ye’ll heed me. Come on. Come back t m’lord. Don’t lie to me.”

It was Uwen’s distant voice, Uwen wanted help for something, andobliged to try, he drew a deep breath and tried to do what Uwen wanted, which required listening, and moving, and hurting.

He saw Uwen’s face, grimed and bloody, with trails of moisture C his cheeks, shadowed against a pearl gray sky. The air about them was quiet, so very, very quiet he could hear Dys and Cass as they moved.

He could hear the wind in the leaves. The world. had such a web of textures, of colors, sights, shapes, sounds, substance, it all came pouring in, and the breath hurt his chest as he tried to drink it all.

“Oh, m’lord,” Uwen said. “I was sure ye was dead. I looked an, looked.” He stripped the wreckage of the shield from his left arm; moved the fingers of his right hand and realized that he still held sword. The blade was scored and bright along one edge as if some fire had burned it away. The silver circlet was fused to the quillons and the hilt, the leather wrappings hung loose and silver writing was burned bright along its center. He tried to loose his fingers and much of th, gauntlet came away as if rotten with age. The skin there peeled away, leaving new, raw flesh.

He struggled to rise, with the other hand using the sword to lean on, and Uwen took it from him and helped him to stand.

All the field was leveled where they stood. There were only bodies of men and horses, and themselves.

“We won,” Uwen said. “Gods know how, —we won, m’lord. Umanon and Cevulirn took the hills and kept the ambush off our backs. Then the Amefin foot come in, Lanfarnesse showed up late, and the lady’s coming with the baggage. It was you we couldn’t find.”  “Is Cefwyn safe?”

“Aye, m’lord.” Uwen lifted the hand that held his sword. “See, His Majesty’s ba

Tristen let go his breath, stumbled as he tried to walk toward that place shining in sunlight—the gray clouds were over them, but it was brilliant color, that ba

“Don’t you try,” Uwen said, pulling at him as he tried to walk. “Easy, m’lord. Easy. Ye daren’t walk this field, m’lord. Let me get you up on your horse. I can do it.”

He nodded numbly, and let Uwen turn him toward Dys, who, exhausted, gave little difficulty about being caught. Uwen made a stirrup of his hands and gave him a lift, enough to qk~% b2xx’ix~e~to the saddle.

When Uwen ttta~.%e~ %~)climb onto Cass with a grunt and a groan, and landed across the saddle until he could sort himself into it: Tristen waited, and Dys started to move, on his own, as Cass did, slowly.

Around them, from that vantage, the field showed littered with dead, until it reached the place where he had lain; and after that the ground was almost clear.

“It stopped?” he asked Uwen. “The Wind stopped here?”

“Aye, m’lord, the instant it veered off and took you, it stopped. Just one great shriek and it were gone, taking some of its own wi’ it. And some of ours, gods help ’em. Andas is gone. So’s Lusin. I thought you was gone for good, m’lord. I thought I was goin’. I thought that thing was coming right over us. But Cass was off like a fool, and I come back again and searched, and I guess I just mistook the ground, ’cause there ye was, this time, plain as plain, and Dys4ad standing over ye, having a bite of grass.”

He looked up at the pallid, clouded, ordinary sky.

“What were that thing, m’lord?”

He shook his head slowly. For what it was, he had no Word, nor would Uwen. He turned Dys toward the place where Cefwyn’s red ba