Chapter 12

Words trembled in air, writings black and red, Names, that were Ashiym, Anas Mallorn, Ragisar, Malitarin ... villages, that were Emwy and Asmaddion, and sheep were there, but Anas Mallorn ruled the riverside—Owl flew above a parchment and faded land. Owl’s wings were barred and blunt and shadowed villages at a time. Owl, Tristen called to him, standing at some vantage he could not at the time understand. But Owl was on a mission, or hunting mice, and would not heed him.

Owl eluded him and kept flying, opening up more and more of the land to him, Names that writhed in red ink and fortresses in black.

Streams snaked under Owl’s broad wings to join the Len6alim, and all, all went under him.

“M’lord,” someone called to him. But he was losing Owl.

Owl, come back! he called, for it seemed to him that Owl would leave the edge and enter the dark. But the map kept widening, Words and Names and lands like Guelessar and Imor ... Marisal and Lanfarnesse ...

“M’lord.” Someone touched him, and he blinked, realizing it a gruff voice and perhaps one of the gate-guards, standing over him by dim candlelight.

It still might be, as he opened his eyes wide and gazed on a scarred and broad-nosed face, fair-haired, but gray and bald on the crown. He feared the man at first glance.

But it did not seem an unfriendly face.

“Uwen Lewen’s-son, m’lord. The captain sent me. He said I should wake ye. Sorry. But it are toward dawn. And ye’ll be ridin’ wi’ His Highness, so best ye be up and breakfasted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“M’lord, I ain’t sir yet, no wise. Uwen’s all. Servants is waiting wi’ a small breakfast, and I’ll fit ye for the ride, if ye please.”

“Thank you,” he said, if Uwen would not be called sir. Still—he was going out riding, Cefwyn had kept his promise, and for the first time in days he was glad to get up. He rolled out of bed and went immediately to wash and dress, while the servants were bringing breakfast in and lighting more candles in the early-morning darkness.

“Here’s a robe, m’lord,” Uwen said, flinging a robe about his shifted shoulders. “Ye have a bite, now. Ye’ll be regretting it halfway through the day, else ye do.”

He thought it sensible advice, and he sat down to a breakfast of hot bread and butter and honey, while Uwen was working with something of padded cloth and oil and metal, taking up laces, as it seemed.

He finished his breakfast more quickly than usual. He stood up, and Uwen gave him a padded undergarment, such as he had seen the soldiers wear about the barracks, such as, he thought, Uwen also wore under his mail and leather.

He was disturbed and fascinated at once, exchanging his robe for the soldier’s padding. Uwen snugged the laces tight around him, saying,

“Well, ye’re slighter ’n ye seem, m’lord. Breakfast an’ all. Does that seem fitted, here, m’lord?”

“Yes,” he said, and Uwen took up a mail shirt.

“Watch your hair, m’lord,” Uwen said, twisted his loose hair into a rope and helped him on with the shirt. The shining metal settled on and shaped itself about him like water, like-    His fingers traveled over the links, smooth going one way, rough-edged going the other, and as he breathed, he found the weight-like a Word, like a Name, settling about his shoulders and about his ribs and becoming part of his own substance—but he was not this Thing. He was not this Weight. He was Mauryl’s, not a soldier.., he was not this thing that enveloped him in steel.

“Ye’ll get used to it,” Uwen said. “Here’s rough land, m’lord. We got bandits, we got Elwynim, we got Amefin who could mistake ye for a target, silly lads. Here.”

Uwen had a coat in his hands, and Tristen put his arms in like a shirt.

Uwen buckled it on, then looped a belt around his waist and snugged it  tight.

“His Highness has got you a nice, quiet horse. She don’t do no nonsense. Ye ready, m’lord? Ye set fair?”

“I think I am.” The coat was red, like Cefwyn’s guard, and like what Uwen wore. He looked like another soldier, except the brown hose and brown boots where the soldiers wore black.

“Them are house boots,” Uwen said, following his downward glance.

“But the captain didn’t warn me ’a that. They’ll have to do, begging your pardon, m’lord, just stay t’ horseback and mind ye got light feet.”

“I will,” he said. Uwen certainly must have leave to speak to him.

Uwen chattered in a friendly way, in a manner of speech he found like singing to his ears, and when he went out, Uwen spoke in the same way to his guards, knowing them all, it seemed, laughing, clapping the one named Lusin on the shoulder as they left.

They walked down the shadowed hall to the stairs. The sun was just coming up. Servants were removing last night’s candles, hurrying about on early-morning errands, some bearing linens, some coming from the kitchens. Guards were changing watch downstairs, and a few early-morning clerks were on their way to archive.

Uwen led him down the outside steps, past guards who also knew Uwen, as it seemed, and down and around to the stable-court in the first light of dawn, where a troop of soldiers and another of stableboys were saddling horses, and pages were standing with banners and bringing other gear.

Uwen picked up weapons by the side of the stableyard, weapons which had a worn, well-used look; and Uwen buckled on a sword and a dagger as Tristen watched, queasy at his stomach and hoping no one expected him to go likewise armed.

The mail surrounded his breathing, reminding him constantly that there was danger as well as freedom in the outside. In Uwen’s close company he walked among the red-cloaked guard ... saw Cefwyn, who looked little different than his soldiers, with brown leather and a gold dragon, like that his guards wore, on his red coat. All, armor and arms alike, that distinguished him from the soldiers at all was the silver band on the plain steel helm.

“Tristen,” Cefwyn hailed him, and strode through the others to meet  him.

Idrys walked like a dark shadow at Cefwyn’s back, hand on hilt, where that hand always, even indoors, seemed most comfortable.

And at Cefwyn’s orders a man brought up a horse, red from crown to feet, with a clipped mane and a look of stolid patience. “She will bear you gently,” Cefwyn said. “Her name is Gery and the stablemaster swears she’s easy-gaited.”

Tristen took the reins in his own hand, rubbed the red, warm shoulder and threw the reins over, set foot in the stirrup and swung up as he had seen, dizzy for a moment at the mare’s shifting of weight—a haze of sensations, of smells, of sounds. He looked down at Cefwyn’s anxious face, at Idrys’ frowning one.

“Well enough,” Cefwyn said then, patting him on the boot, and patting Gery. Cefwyn turned away and a groom brought Cefwyn’s horse and held it as he swung up. It was dark—Bay—the Word came to him; it had black stockings and a black mane as bays did. Idrys mounted a big black; and Uwen another bay—it was a color common in the guard’s horses.

Idrys gave the order, the Zeide’s iron gates swung open, and horses grouped together, stringing out as they passed the narrow gate.

“Ride to the fore,” Idrys ordered, passing by him, and Tristen set himself as near Cefwyn as he could, almost at the head of the column, save that Idrys and a handful of the guard rode before him; but suddenly a number of men thundered past on either side and increased that number in front. Shod hooves echoed down the cobbles of the hill, disturbing the streets, where townsfolk early from their beds scurried from their path.

Shutters came open. It was strange to see the town from the height of a horse’s back, and to ride swiftly down the very street over which he had walked, sore-footed and hungry.

A child ran from their path and a woman cried out. Tristen took Gery aside with his knee and turned in the saddle to look back, frightened by that cry of alarm, but the child had made the curb safely. And in that glance back-  He saw Bones. Skulls—above the gate. The bones of men.