“I shall go with you,” Cefwyn said, with never a protest.

“My lord,” Tristen said. “My lord King, this is a place where I can see things others may not, and defend against things others cannot. I can take Uwen and my guards.”

Cefwyn looked at him, seemed to consider, and let weariness and gratitude touch his face. “Half yours,” he said. “Six of the Dragon Guard.

We’ve tents to raise. —And be careful. In this matter, I trust you as no other, but for the gods’ own sake, for the gods’ sake and on your oath to me, be careful.”

“Yes, sir.” He went to get Petelly and gave orders to Uwen, glad that Cefwyn had been reasonable—but most of all feeling now in his heart, as clearly as he saw the sun sinking, that Ninévrisé’s request was both urgent and advised.

He mounted up and by that time Uwen had collected the men Cefwyn lent him. They crossed the road, on which a seemingly endless line of riders and men afoot stretched on out of sight, and they entered the meadow on the other side, riding up through a screen of trees to another grassy stretch, farther and farther then, out of sight of their camp, and up into the area where they had met Uwen that dreadful night, in the rain, and with Caswyddian’s forces behind them.

Uwen grew anxious. So did the men with them. And perhaps, Tristen thought, he should be apprehensive himself, as he saw streaks of wind run through the grass, and one little one, following a thinner, very erratic course. He knew the child, saw her frolic without seeing her at all.

Ninévrisé said, “Something is there.”

“It is,” he said. “But don’t look too closely. She doesn’t like to be caught, Uwen, it’s the witch of Emwy’s child. She’s a little girl. I’m glad to see her. Her name is Seddiwy.”  “That old woman?”

“I don’t think the child died when Emwy burned. I think she might have died a long time ago. I don’t know why I think so, except the Emwy villagers are here, too, and they’re not so friendly, or so happy as she is.

—But they won’t harm us. She’s stronger than she seems.”

“Gods,” Uwen muttered, as four distinct marks flattened the grass ahead of them, leading where they had to go. “Is it those streaks in the grass?”

“Yes, those.”

“M’lord, I do hope you know where we’re going.”

The light was leaving them very fast, now, and none of the men looked confident—they were very tired, they had been two days now on the

 road, and they might, except for this venture, be sitting at the fires and drinking wine with their friends and waiting for their suppers; but on

Cefwyn’s orders they came, and fingered amulets more than weapons.

Petelly snorted and twitched his head up as the little spirit darted beneath him—and then right under a guardsman’s horse. It shied straight up, and the man, most anxious of their company, fought hard to hold it from bolting.

“Behave!” Tristen said sternly, and that stopped.

They were coming among saplings that had been all broken off halfway up their trunks. Rocks lay shattered in the grass.

Then one of the Dragon Guards reined aside from something lying in the grass, and said, not quite steadily, “Here’s a dead man, Lord Warden.”

“Caswyddian’s men,” Ninévrisé said calmly enough, though her voice was higher than its wont. “Are we in danger, Lord Tristen? Might their spirits harm us?”

It was to ask. But—”No, I don’t think so. The Emwy folk seem to hold this place to themselves.”

They came up that long, difficult ridge, where two men had fallen. The rains had not quite washed away the scars they had made on that climb.

They reached that place that overlooked the ruin, and it stretched very far under the cover of trees and brush and meadows. Despite the chill of the winds below, the air on this exposed ridge was quite still, even comfortable. There was a sense of peace here that had not existed before, tempting one who had the power to look in that different way—to stop and cast a look in this fading last moment of the light.

Ninévrisé said, in a shaken voice, “Father? Father, is that you?”

Then a change in that other Place caught Tristen’s attention, as certainly a presence would: and in that instant’s glance he saw pale blue, and soft gold. He risked a second look and saw the Lines of the ruin, the lines on the earth that had grown fainter and fainter in the hour of the Regent’s death now spreading out brightly far and wide. Brighter and brighter they shone in the dusk as the world’s light faded, until they blazed brightly into inner vision. Other lines glowed where those lines touched, and those touched other lines in their turn, like fire through tinder, blue and pale gold, each form in interlocking order, as far as the eye could make out, one square overlaying the other—all through the grass, and the thickets.

It was the old man’s handiwork, he thought, astonished and reassured.

Late as it was, the earth was still pouring out light. Shadows flowed along the walls, but respected the lines of those walls now. The men about him glowed like so many stars to his eyes; and then his worldly vision said it was not the men, but the amulets they wore, the blessed things, the things invested with their protection against harm—as Emuin’s amulet glowed on his own chest, in the midst of the light that was himself.

That glow seemed the old man’s doing, too—yet none of the men with them, not even Uwen, seemed to see all that had happened. Only Lady Ninévrisé gazed astonished over the land.

“Your father’s work!” he said. “Do you see, my lady? He is not lost!”

“I see it,” she said, holding her hands clasped at her lips. “I do see!”

“What, Lord Warden?” a guardsman asked; but Uwen said, quietly,

“What m’lord sees ain’t bad, whatever it is. Just wait. He’s workin’.”

“No,” Tristen said, for the men’s comfort. “It’s not bad. It’s safe. It’s very safe here.”

The Lines, as they had that night, showed him what Althalen had been, bright as a beacon, now, advising him here had been a street, here had stood walls, here was a way through the maze, though brush had grown up and choked the open ground.

And when he thought of that, a Name the old man had not been able to tell him seemed to sound in the air, unheard, that Question to which the old man had known the answer resounded through the grayness, and Lines on the earth rose into ghostly walls and arches, halls full of people who walked in beautiful garments, and ate delicate food, and laughed and moved in gardens and a river ran near that had boats sailing on it, boats with colored sails and with the figures of beasts and birds on their bows. He did not know whether he could say it as the old man did—but he had almost heard it ringing through the world.

Not Althalen, he thought, then, aware he was slipping very rapidly toward the gray space—but not—suddenly—at Althalen.

There was a murky river. He knew where that river ran—he was in sudden danger. He had risen into the gray space—and gone badly astray, trapped, by an enemy old and clever, and still able to have his way.

He met the attack. He set himself to the fore of Ninévrisé, approaching the enemy on his own, hut not taking the enemy’s vision-    When he thought that, immediately he found a vantage he knew, outside, on the parapet of Ynefel, in the sunset. He knew his loft, the high point of a vast hall across the courtyard, highest point in the keep.

He could see his own window, with the horn panes glowing with light in the twilight, as if he were there himself, reading by candlelight—but with the shutters inside open. That was wrong, and dangerous.

It was his window, and it was his home, and he knew the study below, in which he kept his books, many, many of them—not Mauryl’s books, but his own books. He was puzzled, and thought, That was never true.

The height of Ynefel rang with a Word, then, which he could hear, but not hear, in the curious barriers of this dream; and at that Word, all of this glorious building trembled and fell quiet.