In a plume of sunlit dust the remaining scout from the south came riding up over the swell of land. “The Ivanim!” that man called out as he came near. “I saw their banners, and the sun on their helms!”

Even as that rider came, the sun was picking up color in the west, and they all could see a second plume of dust on that horizon, farther away, behind the first.

“That is Umanon,” Cefwyn speculated aloud, his heart lifting.

Idrys, quick as his own thought, pulled back in the column and gave orders, and two more scouts immediately rode away from the column and overland in that direction, this time to welcome the lostlings in.

“Thank the gods,” Cefwyn breathed, certain now that they had found at least two of their missing contingents.

Within the hour the riders from the south had crested the rise along the road, a rolling tide of the swift-moving Ivanim light horse, and behind them, their slower-moving allies of Imor, a dark mass of riders and warhorses at lead. The banners were plain in the sunset, and Tristen drew a deep, glad breath when he saw it.

“Two of them,” Cefwyn said in Tristen’s hearing. “Now, gods save us, if now Pelumer will come in ...”

Olmern had perhaps succeeded, Tristen thought when Cefwyn made that wish. He could in no wise tell for certain, but he felt none of the hostile influence to the northeast, and that said to him that their enemy had not gone that way. The way they had left open to As6yneddin had cost them dearly, those two bridges eastward of Emwy district, which Cefwyn had hoped would make an incursion from the forest-edged west the only answer if Aséyneddin wished to cross quickly into Amefel. Tasien was gone. The Elwynim had crossed and committed themselves. No second rebel force could threaten Henas’amef without coming by way of Emwy, and without passing them.

That portion of the plan was, he hoped, working. Cefwyn had designated reciprocal messengers that daily came to Henas’amef from the east reach of the river, upstream, and one would have reached Henas’amef last night. After that, Efanor should have sent the regular relay out north to the river and sent another courier west after them, bringing Cefwyn word of the riverside and Sovrag.

Cefwyn’s system of messengers, Tristen thought, was very well done; it had freed him personally of the necessity to try to reach Emuin, which was the most dangerous thing he could do short of speaking to Hasufin himself. Cefwyn’s couriers had gone out from the army directly north this morning, to reach Sovrag directly and to bear Ninévrisé’s second messages of reassurance and encouragement to the Amefin riverside villages, jointly with Cefwyn’s, to assure them they were not abandoned, that Sovrag was not a threat to them, and to urge the villages to report to them directly overland in the now remote chance Lord Aséyneddin should cross somehow—on that matter, the defense of the province might have turned.

But now the bonfires they had lit on the hills had brought them Cevulirn and Umanon, and that was another wonder of Cefwyn’s forethought: the simultaneous muster of the barons and their being able to join Cefwyn’s column on the move had all relied on measuring distances, which Cefwyn had done in advance, and knowing very accurately how fast the various forces could move, granted they saw the signal fires and moved at all.

If one had no way into the gray space, it was a very clever way of doing things. It was a way of getting around wizards—and it was important to know how that could be done. He marked it always to remember, and never to become complacent in what he saw.

And the gray place was constantly urging at him. It was full of shadows and lights and whispers. Now with the sun taking the light for the land and making the hills gold, and with their allies riding toward them, he felt that the missing pieces that had to exist had now come together.

But he did not have that feeling of inevitability about Pelumer that he had had all along about Cevulirn’s coming and Umanon’s. Marna’s dark edge was Pelumer’s route—and he had no wish to look deeply or long in that direction.

Cevulirn came riding up in the sunset with the White Horse flying, leading his own warhorse with him, as every man in his company had a remount with him and his lance and shield and a small amount of provisions packed on the warhorse’s saddle.

That was the way the southern horsemen had done forever, constantly changing from mount to mount. So Cefwyn advised him as the riders came, and it unfolded in Tristen’s thoughts that it had indeed been that way, that on their longest marches they had two and even three horses in their string. He saw it so vividly that a Name almost came to him, and he felt comfortable with the Ivanim, and knew their thinking, for reasons he did not clearly know.

Cefwyn told Cevulirn his place in line and his place in camp from memory—a precedence in line behind the Amefin, whose province it was, and ahead of Umanon, whom he had beaten in—Cefwyn told Cevulirn where his warhorses should be, and where his wagon was and where his tents would be, which they had brought for him.

“Your Majesty leaves no work for the scribes,” Cevulirn said with the mild lifting of a brow. It had seemed a point of amazement among the barons in all the preparations that Cefwyn did remember such things in very certain detail.

“Join us this evening!” Cefwyn wished him in sending him Off. “We’ll take a cup of wine together—and explain this haste!”

Umanon also came riding up, his men traveling in the same style as the Ivanim, leading a contingent of heavy horse. “Majesty!” Umanon called out. “A short stay at home. I’d scarcely built a fire in the hearth!”

“I shall explain tonight!” Cefwyn said. “But things are as well as they can be. Thank the gods for your meeting us. We’re in good order, with you here, Your Grace! See me when first you’ve set your tents!” And Cefwyn told Umanon the numbers and place of his camp as well, after which Umanon rode off to his assigned place in the order, and to claim his personal baggage.

The day had worn hard on Cefwyn. He had started the day as he had started yesterday, riding strongly, but now despite the good news of a moment ago, he seemed to Tristen to be clinging to his courage and to his composure even at Danvy’s sedate walk. Danvy had given a couple of quick steps as horses came up to him, and Cefwyn had corrected that, but at a price.

“Not far,” Tristen said to him, the only encouragement he could offer, for if there was one road in the world he knew it was this one and if there was one thing he could now sense like his own bonfire in this night, it was Althalen.

It was deepest dusk when they came to their projected camp, in that area of the road respecting Althalen’s perimeter and across the road from any accidental encroachment on what Cefwyn called the cursed precinct.

Tristen was very glad, himself, to get down. The wagons were yet to come and the least essential ones, with the units of horse that guarded them, would be arriving long into the night.

“Set the unit standards with their units,” Cefwyn called out, pointed warning against any such carryings-on as yesterday night. “Bid everyone keep their standards in good order. From this place on, there is danger of the enemy at any hour!”

Ninévrisé had not gotten off her horse, and Tristen walked over to see if she needed help; so did Cefwyn, at the same time.  “My lady?” Cefwyn said.

“My father’s grave is here,” she said. “I wish to ride just to the edge of the ruin, my lord, to stay only for a moment, if I can do it without endangering the camp. But I feel—I wish to, my lord.”

Tristen stood by, having been ready to offer Ninévrisé a hand down.

He knew that Cefwyn did not want to grant such a request, and that Cefwyn out of his willingness to please Ninévrisé would get back on Danvy and take a guard and go, though he was in pain. He would not send Ninévrisé only with an escort.