Fortress of Owls

Tristen listened, hands braced before his lips, eyes fixed on a canvas land that became visible to him with Aeself’s telling, and a fair telling it seemed to be. He had come to Emuin in fear, he had come from Emuin in hope, and now he saw the quandary laid before him… bad news regarding the forces at Ilefínian, bad news regarding Her Grace’s loyal forces in the country, and a bad outlook for the eastern bridges where Cefwyn proposed to force a crossing, but Cefwyn had foreseen that would happen, and had good maps… had taken the best maps, as he knew, out of Amefel, leaving him older, less reliable ones. He had brought two good ones with him out of Guelessar, but they informed him no better about the height of hills or the difficulty of a given road.

Aeself might. Aeself, however, was all but spent, and had grown more pale and more unsteady as a fair-sized supper and the ale combined with the volley of questions. Now he looked torn between desire to be believed and the exhaustion that was near to claiming him. Tristen set a hand on Aeself’s arm, and said, “Will you go back to your friends, sir? Or rest in the Zeide tonight?”

“At my lord’s will. But I’d rather go to my comrades.”

“Go,” he said. “Tawwys will escort you down.” He reached into the gray space as he said it, and gathered nothing of presence there, as he had not for these men from the time they had met.

But within that space he could do some things he could not do in the world of Men. He brought out a little of the brightness of the gray space, and encouraged the life in Aeself: he snared a little of that silvery force and lent it to Aeself, so a ring on his wounded hand flared with an i

“My blessing on you,” Tristen said. He had gathered that word with difficulty out of Efanor’s little book and Uwen’s anxious seeking; but now, faced with pain, he knew the use of it, and he saw the ease come on Aeself’s face, and the light into his eyes.

“My lord,” Aeself said, all open to him, utterly, so that what Aeself knew he was sure he knew, and it was not great. A second time he touched Aeself, this time on the hand.

“Go. Rest. Take the little basket with you.”

Emuin had sent down a collection of simples during their supper, odorous little pots, wizard-blessed and potent, Tristen was well sure, salves and pungent smokes that would cure horses and men alike. And Aeself understood him, and the need for silence: Aeself saw how authority sat in this small council, and that he met as a man among men with these friendly lords, needing no kneeling or other signs of respect. M’lord he was. He made that enough.

“Go,” Tristen said again. “M’lord,” Aeself said, and taking the basket, took his leave.

His guests, still standing about the table and the maps, had no awareness that something had transpired in that last moment. Durell was contentedly diminishing the quantity of wine remaining.

Crissand, however, sent a thoughtful look at Aeself’s back, a look not completely pleased.

“You find something amiss,” Tristen said quietly, between the two of them.

“No, my lord.”

He caught Crissand’s eye by accident and the gray space gaped around them, not of his own will.

He was amazed. To assail him in the gray space was temerity on Crissand’s part, a rash venture at meeting him in wizardry, on his own ground.

The gray place exposed hearts without mercy, and that exposure Crissand might not have realized until it was too late… for Crissand whipped away from him, angry and ashamed, and the gray winds swirled and darkened steadily.

—That he has sworn to me? Tristen wondered, and would not let Crissand go or break back into the world of Men. Are you jealous? Why?

Crissand was snared, and could not escape. And shame burned deep in Crissand’s heart.

In the world, he bowed his head. “My lord,” Crissand said, red-faced, and all the while Durell sipped his wine. So with Azant.

But he looked straight at Crissand, in whom, more than any other, of all the earls, he saw a love, not of what he was, but of him.

But what Crissand wanted he wanted with a great, a heartbending passion, exclusive of others. It had become a stronger and stronger one, his rebellion just now an assault of love and need, desperate, and now confounding both of them in its sudden, disastrous misdirection.

—Have I offended you? Tristen asked.

There was a stilling of the clouds then, a great heartbroken calm.

—The wrong isn’t in you, but in me. I’m Astvydd, doesn’t that say it? The flaw is in the blood. I was not with you. For all of this, I haven’t been with you, and now you have an army without us…

—You’ve found this place. Who told you?

—I followed you, my lord.

Followed him, indeed. Friendship, love, jealousy, all had broken down the walls. And Crissand had perhaps done it before, but at distance, and learned what could set him in danger.

—Being here is easy once you find the way, Tristen said. Isn’t it? That’s the very easiest thing. You believed me when you swore. Believe me now. Jealousy moved you.

—Truth, Crissand said, downcast, then, fiercely: But we are your people, my lord. We were first.

He weighed that, and a sudden sureness made him shake his head.

—For now. But there’ll be a day I’ll only have you for my friend. You’ll sit where I do. You’ll be the aetheling. So Auld Syes said. Have you forgotten that? Or didn’t you hear?

—Never in your place, my lord!

—Never separate from me, Tristen said, oddly assured and at peace in his own heart. But not lord of Amefel. Lord of Althalen and Ynefel. Cefwyn was right, was he not?

“My lord,” Crissand said aloud, shaken, and pale of face.

“Go home,” Tristen said, then, to all the company, and Crissand, too, bowed and went his way, downcast and ashamed.

He went with Uwen and his guard.

But he was with Crissand while Crissand walked the hall, and while he gathered up his guard near the doors.

He was aware when Crissand walked out and down the stable-court steps, in fearful thought.

He was aware and while he himself walked upstairs and Crissand walked, farther and farther away, across the muddy cobbles of the stable-court, seeking the West Gate, and his own house.

He left Crissand standing confused on the damp cobbles outside the gate. “ My lord?” Crissand’s guard asked him, finding his young earl lost in thought.

But Tristen did not approach him further, only left him to think his thoughts, and to reach his conclusions, inevitable as they must be.

Aetheling. Ruler of Amefel.

He went into his apartments, into the care of his staff. He suspected that, in the stir the two of them had made in the gray space with their quarrel, Emuin had been aware, and that Emuin at least did not disapprove his action—or his warning to Crissand.

He gave his cloak to Tassand, his gloves to another servant, let a third remove his belt, and set his sword in its accustomed place, by the fireside.

Illusionwas the writing on one side of his sword, and Truthwas written on the other.

And he had learned the edge was the answer.

Finding Crissand’s edge was no simple matter. Crissand he feared would cause him pain, as he had caused Cefwyn pain.

They were models, one of the other. Cefwyn had doggedly followed Emuin’s advice, regarding him; now he must do the same for Cefwyn—and for Crissand.

He took up his pen, dipped it in ink, wrote on clean paper what he dared not say openly, but what he hoped Cefwyn would understand obliquely… truth, and illusion, trusting Cefwyn again to find the useful edge.