“Late,” Tristen said. “We dare not wait for him. We must not, sir.”

“Sorcery,” Cefwyn said, and said to himself he had no knowledge. “If he’s met ambush of some kind—Lord Tristen might say.”

“I cannot see through it,” Tristen said.

“What,” asked Umanon. “Through Marna?”

“I dare not,” Tristen said, “reach toward it. But Asdyneddin will face us. Tomorrow. And all Hasufin’s wizardry aims at that. These men will move because Hasufin wills them to move. They will not do as men might do otherwise.”

“We,” Cefwyn said quickly, before Tristen could say more to terrify sane men, “we found treason, sirs. And sorcery. Orien Aswydd betrayed our plans, so we made new ones.”

Suddenly Tristen stood up, staring elsewhere, toward the northeast, though the blank walls of the tent were all anyone could see.

“For the gods’ sake,” Umanon said, and even Cevulirn looked alarmed. Cefwyn quickly rose and took Tristen’s arm.

“Tristen. Sit down. Is something amiss? Is there something you should say?”

“No,” Tristen said shortly. And without leave or courtesy he drew aside and left the tent.

Uwen looked distressed, gathered up his sword and Tristen’s, and rushed after him. The servants stood confused, with dishes in hand.

Cefwyn rose, and went to the door of the tent.

“My lord King.” Idrys met him outside, and was in clear disapproval of such mad behavior, but he had done nothing to prevent him. Tristen was beside the fire, calling for his horse, in the aisle of the camp, then running past the tents, toward the northern end. Uwen had overtaken him—trying to press weapons on him, to no avail.

“The man’s quite mad,” Umanon said, behind Cefwyn’s shoulder.

“Idrys,” Cefwyn said, “for the gods’ sake stop him.” But then he knew in what bloody fashion Idrys might prevent an act that endangered him or the army, and caught Idrys’ arm before he could move. “No. Get my horse and the guard.”

“No, my lord King. You should not!”

“I said fetch my horse, damn it!”

He went back inside, limping, swearing as he struggled back into his armor while the guard and the horses were on their way; Erion Netha helped him, doing Idrys’ ordinary service, for Idrys was ordering the guard, and Cefwyn endured the mistakes of unfamiliarity with impatience; but Umanon and Cevulirn, who had not entirely disarmed before arriving for supper, were on their way after Tristen. Ninévrisé was directing the anxious pages to take sensible action to save the supper—practical, in a descent into chaos: whatever fell out, men who had run off to what might be another hard ride would come back wanting something in their bellies.

He is not mad, Cefwyn said to himself, sick at heart. He is not mad, and all that he does has our interests at heart. He could break Amefel out of the army if he wished. He could be king of Elwynor tomorrow if he wished.

But sometimes his wits go muddled. Damn him!

But he had no sooner come out the door of the tent than a Guelen man came running up, saying, “My lord King!”

At the same moment he saw riders coming down the dark aisle of the camp, and Tristen returning with them—”My lord,” said Erion, but Cefwyn could see from where he stood that there was no use chasing out into the dark, now, as sore as he was, after all the trouble of arming. Tristen, and Uwen, Cevulirn and Umanon all were riding back with several other men in accompaniment.

“What is it?” Ninévrisé asked, peering past him into the dark. Then:

“Oh, merciful gods,” she said, and went past him, running, while, in a sore-legged and kingly dignity, he could only watch and ask himself what in the good gods’ name they had found.

But Ninévrisé’s recognition of someone in the company could tell him something, if it was not some wizardly notion of hers to do with Tristen or her father’s grave—and he thought not, for her concern was for one rider in the company, a man whose horse was walking, head hanging, coughing. A crowd had started about the rider and the company, men rising from their campfires and gathering in the aisle. In the next moment it was a matter not only of escorting a stranger in, but of clearing the man’s and Ninévrisé’s path. Tristen led them through—a messenger, it seemed certain now, and a leaden foreboding had settled into Cefwyn’s heart even before they brought the procession to a halt in front of his tent.

The rider slid down, but his legs would not bear him. Guards, Uwen among them, caught him and carried him, and Ninévrisé came with him, trying to help, and finding no means.

“Lord Tasien,” the man began his account, straining to see Nin6vrise.

“My lady, —Lord Tasien is dead—they are all dead—the winds—the dark—came over the river—”

Uwen slung off his own cloak and put it about the man, who shivered and could scarcely, but for his and other help, stand on his feet.

“The rebels,” the man said, shaking as if in the grip of fever. “My lady, my lady, I was to ride—ride for help—for m’lord—when it began—the winds—”

“Inside. Inside,” Cefwyn said, conscious of the men gathered about, common soldiers who had heard enough to send fear into the army. Gossip was inevitable. The men had to know and it was going to run through the camp on the fastest legs. “Deal with the matter!” he said to Gwywyn. “We know the message already. We are marching early to meet it. —Damn it!”

They had borne the young man into the tent, into light and warmth, and set him at Tristen’s bidding into Tristen’s own chair. Annas gave the man a cup of wine to drink, and Tristen steadied the man’s hands, while Ninévrisé, all dignity aside, knelt down and had her hand on the man’s knee. “Palisan,” Ninévrisé said. “Are they across? Have they crossed the river? Have any lived?”

“They—” The man lifted his head and stared in fear into Tristen’s eyes, and went on gazing, Tristen’s hands holding both his hands on the cup. He had a gulp of wine at Tristen’s urging, and only then seemed to catch his breath.

“Sorcery,” he said. “I saw this camp—I was not certain—I was not sure it was friendly.”

“What did you see?” Cefwyn asked. “Speak it plain, man. Your lady is listening.”

“I—grew lost. I didn’t know which way about on the road I was. I couldn’t tell east from west, though the sun was up. —I lost the sun, my lady. It changed.” The man struggled to speak amid his shivering, and he took a third gulp. “It was noon. And the sun was dark. And they were coming across. And the winds were blowing. M’lord can’t have held them. They were so many—”

“When did you leave the battle?” Idrys asked coldly.

The Elwynim turned a frightened glance on him, and began to shiver so his teeth chattered, and Tristen set his hand on his shoulders.  “Where did you ride?” Tristen asked him.

“My lady.” The Elwynim looked to Nin6vris& And she drew back.

“My lady—”

“You could not have come so far so fast,” Ninévrisé said, “without help.”

“He had help,” Tristen said.

“What help?” Cefwyn asked. A King should not be caught between.

His men ought to inform him. “Damn it, what do you know? —Tristen.

What more?”

Tristen walked away from him and stood looking at the canvas side of the tent.

“Answer the King,” Idrys said, “lord of the Sihhé. You swear yourself his friend. What are you talking about?”  “A Shadow.”

“It’s another of his fits,” Uwen said in anguish. “M’lords, it’s another one. He had one out there, and they pass.”

The messenger cried out, and the wine cup left his hand, sending a red trail across the carpets that floored the tent. He fell, sprawled on the stain. And he had wounds—many wounds.

“Gods!” a page whimpered. “Oh, blessed gods.”

“Sorcery,” Umanon muttered, and others present, even servants, were making signs against evil. Ninévrisé’s face was white.

“Tristen,” Cefwyn said. “What’s happening? Tell me what you see!