But that he did not know, and had not known in a timely way indicated more than the reason Uwen gave; wizardry had not provided him the answer in a timely way, and Words had not unfolded to him. The blind, trusting way in which he had ridden off to Althalen, expecting things to become clear, had not worked, with devastating implication that they might not work in future. He felt betrayed, in some measure, betrayed and not knowing what else might fall out from under him.

But, moved to fling the Book with violence onto the table—he did not.

He laid it down carefully. “I must take this. Above all, Uwen. Don’t let me leave it behind. I give nothing for my ability to remember anything.”

His hands were trembling. He rested the one on the table, hoping Uwen failed to notice. “I have let slip very important things. Or important things have escaped me.”

“Fact is,” Uwen said, “we’re mostly ready, m’lord. I don’t deny I’m a little surprised. I expected a few more days, perhaps, but not beyond. And you watch: we’ll get up there and we’ll sit and wait. I’ve seen the like of this before. —Ye could do with a cup of tea, maybe.”

“I might,” he said, and Uwen went over, poked up the embers, and swung the kettle over.

But while he was doing it, the servants let in one of Cefwyn’s young pages, a grave-faced boy with a sealed note for him.

It said, in a hasty hand, My dear friend, we are going. Wagons move tonight. The signal fires are lit, on your advisement. Do not hesitate to give me further thoughts you may have. I should have heeded your warning in council. Do not think that I shall fail to heed another one. Advise your household. In the second watch, be prepared to bring baggage down to the wagon at the west doors.

My Household, he thought—like a Word showing itself in all its shapes. His Household was Uwen, and the servants, all of whom had declared they would go into the field with him; and the guards of several watches, that were assigned to him. There were the horses and their accouterments, and the staff that managed all that. Master Peygan’s boys had brought his armor and shield and Uwen’s to the apartment a day ago as they had brought all the lords’ gear to have it handled by the lords’ own staffs; and they were supposed to have sent all horse-gear down to Aswys this afternoon, to store in the pasture-stables’ armory, where there was more room than up on the citadel; but the citadel armory kept the lances and other such in its adjacent buildings. There had to be one wagon, he had discovered, only to carry his servants, his tent, his equipment, and there had to be drivers, which Uwen had added only yesterday, whose names he did not even know; and besides all that, besides the horses they would ride, and their gear, and Dys and Cass, that Aswys cared for—there were water-buckets and grain for the horses, including the horses to pull the wagon, and everything sufficient for the number of days it took to send and resupply them from Henas’amef—the whole tally was enormous. He knew all the pieces of it.

Except finding a standard-bearer. And the standard was important, even if he had only seventeen soldiers, counting Uwen, in all his company, who needed to find it on the field. He knew Cefwyn intended it be carried conspicuously, because of what it was—and someone had to carry it, which was not far different from a death sentence. Asayneddin would want to bring it down early.

“The standard,” he said on a deep breath. And Uwen said, with his ordinary calm, “Not your trouble, m’lord. We’ll find somebody. Is that the order?”

“We are going, my lord?” Tassand asked—the servants had come into the bedchamber doorway, following the page, and stood there, four solemn faces, as gentle, as modest, as kind-hearted a set of men as he had ever dealt with. “Is it now?”

“Yes,” he said. It seemed that the floor dropped away from under him, as, with that one word—he ordered everything into motion, and every choice that he had, or imagined he had had—was gone.  Or begun. He was not certain.

“No sleep for us tonight,” Uwen said cheerfully. “Doze in the wagon, we will, or ahorse, or wherever, tomorrow. I’ll tell Lusin he can go down in the cold and the wind and rouse out the drivers. This damn little courtyard, we’ll have wagons atop each other if we don’t move fast. Tassand, let’s get it moving. —Lad,” he said to the page, who still waited, “I don’t think m’lord has a reply, except he’s ready and we’re going.”

The fires are lit, the note had said, because Idrys had told Cefwyn his fears regarding Orien—and on that surmise the message to summon the lords and the villages was flaring across the land not as quickly as wizards could warn one another, but still as fast as men could light fires, and as fast as the lords could turn around and come back again, only scarcely arrived and with no time to prepare—but this time traveling without wagons.

At least, he said to himself, at least and in spite of his tardiness even to think what assumptions must change once he knew what Orien had done—Cefwyn had implicitly believed him. But wizardry had failed him, or he had failed, perhaps because of failing with the Book, perhaps simply that the wizardry working against them was stronger, he had no idea.

Chapter 32  

It was a night impossible to sleep, the courtyard rumbling with heavy wheels—and on a short and fitful rest, Tristen rose well before daylight, with the whole Zeide awake at that unaccustomed hour. He took a cold breakfast while the servants gathered up the leather bag of armor, which he would not have to wear until things were more dangerous than Henas’amef’s streets. A wagon was supposedly in the courtyard, at the west stairs, and it and three others made such trips with whatever of the lords’ baggage had to be gotten down the hill in the dark. His servants and his guards took turn about carrying items down the stairs: one of the guards already on horseback and Tassand, who did read, at least as far as lists, would ride the wagon down and check everything against the tally-tablet, being sure the men helping loaded it off into the right wagon in the line.

It was their last load, his personal equipment and Uwen’s. He put on his mail, and a padded black coat, new, since the night at Althalen-gathered up his Book with the mirror tucked into it, put it where he reckoned it most safe, next his belt, and laced up the coat. He took the sword from beside the fireplace, where it had rested since he had brought it home, except Uwen had taken its measure and the armory had sent a sheath for it, with a good leather belt, which he buckled on.

Last of all he slung a heavy cloak about his shoulders, and put on his riding-gloves, of which Uwen had said he would be very glad in the chill air.

There was nothing to do, then, but to watch the servants put out all the candles and put out the fire, and for all of them to take a last look at a home no one knew if they would see again, in a gathering that might never come together again.

Then it was down the stairs amongst the servants with Uwen and Lusin, one of the guards who had been with him longest, to the courtyard, where they were bringing horses up, by precedence.

Outside the town walls, on the lords’ former campground, was where their personal wagon and their drivers would be waiting, also in their order of precedence—a long line, since the Guelen guard and the Amefin contingent had not only their own baggage, but also the baggage train of the absent lords and their armies under their escort.

Their wagon was already loaded with the gear and trappings from the pasture-stable, which Aswys himself had accounted for, and seen loaded—at least that was the prearrangement, if Aswys had been able to get to the wagon.

“He’ll be there,” Uwen said. “He’s a King’s man. They’ll let him through. Hain’t no trouble at all, m’lord, compared with the ranks tryin’ to find their gear in a thunderstorm.”