“Sir,” he said. “Did you want more candles in here, or what can I do?”

“I want the brothers to light the candles,” Emuin said, and confided to him then so faintly he could hardly hear: “to get them out of here before I go mad. Is it dawn?”  “Not yet.”

“Do you feel it—no! don’t look there. Stay out of that Place. Something’s prowling about. It’s here. Gods, it’s here.”

“I feel something dreadfully wrong. The air is wrong, sir.” He went down to his knees and caught Emuin’s cold hand in his—but Emuin did not move his head at all from where it rested, and seemed in great pain, perhaps not hearing him, as no one else ever had heard him when he tried to say the most desperate dangers. “It doesn’t ever stop, sir. It’s getting worse. I had my window rattling. And one of my birds killed itself.”

“He’s reaching out,” Emuin whispered, so faintly he might not have heard if he had not had his ear close. “He wants me. He wants me to die, apostate from the order—he wants me very badly. He wants me to die here, in this place—and damned to hell. Useful to him. Another steppingstone.”

“Mauryl used to speak Words, and the tower would feel safer, at least.

Do you know any of those Words, sir?”

“I haven’t the strength right now to think of them. Let me rest awhile.

Let me rest. My head hurts so.”

He brushed his fingers across Emuin’s brow, ever so gently, wishing the pain to stop. But it was impudent even to try with a wizard such as Emuin was. “If my wishes help at all, sir, you have them.”

“They are potent,” the whisper came, but Emuin’s head did not move, nor his eyes open. “They are more potent than you know, young lord.

Potent enough I could not die. Damn you!”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and took it for an old man at the edge of sleep, and in pain.

“Cefwyn,” Emuin said then, seeming agitated. “Watch Cefwyn.

Young fool.”

He did not know which of them Emuin thought the fool, but he said,

“Yes, sir,” and got up and left for Cefwyn’s room.

But the guards, very quiet and very correct since Idrys had had private words with them, said only that the King was in some pain, and that Idrys had said he might come in whenever he wanted.

He thought that he might visit Cefwyn, but there was a sense of ill everywhere alike, that same sense that he had had before, and he seemed to bring it with him.

There was a commotion on the stairs then, a number of men—Dragon Guard—came up the steps and kept going, to the next floor, as Cefwyn’s guards and everyone else looked anxiously in that direction.

But not just men of the Guard. Efanor. The priest, all with very determined mien. Lord Commander Gwywyn. Why to that floor? was Tristen’s first thought, and then: Ninévrisé.

Efanor had objected to her presence. The priest disliked Elwynim.

Gwywyn had begun with his loyalty to Inereddrin. “Uwen!” Tristen called out, and to the guards:

“Tell Idrys. Efanor is going against the lady. With Gwywyn. Quickly.”

He ran for the stairs, following the guards, who reached Ninévrisé’s floor just ahead of him. He hurried along behind them, overtaking Efanor and the priest, who were among the last, along with other priests, some carrying candles and some silver and gold vessels.

“Lord Prince,” Tristen said. “What is the matter?”

“Sorcery,” Efanor said, and a disturbed look came over him. “But you would know.”

“Yes, m’lord, I would. And there is no need to disturb the lady.” He saw the Dragon Guardsmen, with Gwywyn, sweep the mere sergeant of the Prince’s Guard aside from Ninévrisé’s door, along with the rest of the guards. They were going inside, and Tristen went to prevent harm to the lady, as, past the invaded foyer, a handful of frightened Amefin servants were trying to stand between Ninévrisé and a Guelen prince, armed soldiery and a priest of the Quinalt.

“There she is!” the priest called out from among the hindmost. “There is the evil! There is the sorceress!”

“No, sir!” Tristen said, and pushed his way past the soldiers and the Lord Commander. “This is wrong, sir!” he said to Lord Gwywyn. “No.

I’ve called Idrys. He’s coming. Wait for him.”

“Idrys is bewitched the same as the King!” the priest cried, “and this is a Sihhé—don’t look him in the eyes! Arrest him! Arrest the lot of them!”

Gwywyn’s face betrayed deep doubt. Tristen looked straight at him, but the priest was pressing forward and flung ashes at him, which stung his eyes, and the guards went past him, as the servants cried out in alarm.

“What is this?” That was Idrys’ voice, and of a sudden something thumped heavily against the wall and clattered down it—a guard in Idrys’ path. “You! Out! The rest of you get out of here! Good loving gods, have you lost your senses?”

“You have clearly lost yours, Lord Commander!” Efanor shouted at him.

“I hold you accountable—I hold you accountable for my brother’s life!”

Idrys shouted back. “The King is not dead—damn it, put those weapons away!”

“No!” the priest said. “You have brought the King under unholy influences, Lord Commander, among them this man’s! Arrest them, and the women!”

Idrys moved, spun about and set his back to the wall and his side to Tristen, and that quickly a dagger was in his hand. Tristen did not want to draw. It seemed to him once that happened there was no reason, and he only moved to prevent the guardsmen getting past him, men who showed no disposition to want to lay hands on him. The men of the Prince’s Guard that Idrys had brought were pushing and shoving those of the Dragon Guard who had come with Efanor and Gwywyn. On Idrys’ side was Uwen, who shoved his way through and stood with a drawn sword facing Gwywyn and his men, followed in rapid succession by Erion Netha and Denyn Kei’s-son—armorless, wild-haired, with shirts unfastened, both carrying swords unsheathed. They and men behind them, all of the Prince’s Guard, looked as if they had just waked and seized up weapons as they could.

“Hold, all!” Idrys said. “Damned fools! Your Highness, His Majesty is well enough. And he will have you to ask, sir, whence you made this illadvised assault. This is utter foolishness! Put the swords away, I say! Put them away!”

“I do not take your orders, sir!” Efanor said. “Until I hear the King’s word and see his eyes, I do not believe you—and I will have the physician, not a horse-surgeon, attend His Majesty, and other matters I shall set right, beginning with the inquiry into why an accident in the Bryalt shrine, and why the fire, and why His Majesty my brother is lying in peril of his life within hours after a betrothal that gave away far too much to an Elwynim witch!”

“Accuse me of sorcery?” Ninévrisé cried. “Oh, very well, dear sir!”

She snatched up a small book from off the sideboard and held it aloft. “I have your gift, my lord brother-in-law, I am reading your gift in search of your truth and your faith! I had not known it came with such other behavior!”

“Don’t listen to her!” the priest was shouting, and Ninévrisé:

“Oh, well, and am I so dangerous? I have dismissed all my men! I have trusted you! I have His Majesty’s sworn word for my safety and his personal grant of these premises for my privacy!”

“This is enough!” Gwywyn was saying, appealing for reason and truth, but the words were starting to echo, with the priest shouting, and Ninévrisé shouting, and of a sudden men were shoving one another again, and steel rang on steel, as came a stabbing pain at the base of his skull, Emuin’s presence.., drawing him in, warning him.., such as he could hear ...

Small and angry, something in the east.., close at hand. Deadly dangerous. A step in the dark, a burning of candles, candle-flames, not orange of fire, not blue of amulets, but smoldering black, with a thin halo of burning white, smoke going up in thin plumes above them ... above a fluttering of wings .... shadows and wings ...