And at deep dusk, the sheep-track on which the man had guided them played out at a brook with a high rocky shelf on the other side, so they had to ride along the lower bank and then cross and climb steeply up a sheep-path among the trees.

But that brought them up where there was rapidly no through track at all, only a tumbled lot of stone that nature had not made, with a scattering of trees. It was not the woods they had met before, only a copse of willows that gave way to stone and brush.

An old wall showed through the brush. Paving stones were all along the ground, like the Road, but pale gold. Some stones along the base of the wall were carved with leaves, and some with birds and some with circles. Some had faces, one with pointed teeth peering out from the leaves as if it lurked there in ambush.

The air tingled. That gray place of Emuin’s was so easy from here; it rippled along just under the air, and it frightened him. The soldiers made signs against harm and Cefwyn wore a hard and unhappy face. The way became overgrown, steep and stony, and they had to find their own way through a tangle of half-buried stone in the gathering night.

But it was more directly toward the road they were going now. Tristen was certain of it. “I think this is right,” he said. “The road is straight on from here.”

“Damn the luck,” Cefwyn said, refusing to be reassured. “This is not at all where I’d intended to go. We should bear more easterly and get out of this warren.”

Immediately after, they found the walls of a building, which had not at all a good feeling. Soot stained the vacant windows and doors, as if the place had burned.

“Althalen,” he heard one of the men say. “This is Althalen, gods save us.”

It was a Name. Not a troubling one. But it seemed so to everyone else.

“They’re stones,” Cefwyn said sharply. “Dead stones. They harm no one. Look sharp for ambush. That’s the danger here.”

The light had all but gone. Shadows established their hold on the ruins and crept out of holes where they lurked by bright day. I dislike this, Tristen thought, and would have said so, if he had thought anyone would listen, or if it would have done anyone any good, but it was like the time before: all along, they were doing the best they knew to do, going generally south before they could turn east, and they were far enough along their track now that there seemed no choice, or only worse choices left.

Idrys might miss them on the road, Tristen thought. He hoped that Idrys might come after them. The ruins were all around them, and more and taller ruins lay stark on a hill above. The place felt worse and worse.

The sky was the color of dirty water. The air turned dank and chill as light left the land.

And throughout, Shadows ran along between the stones, leaving their lairs in the deep vacancies of broken masonry.

Lines upon the earth, Mauryl had said. Secrets known to masons and stoneworkers. But what restrained a Shadow once the building was overthrown and once horses and men rode where doors and windows had not been? Surely such a calamity weakened their magic.

Wind blasted up, out of nothing. The horses whinnied and fought the bits, wanting to run.

Something was following them. He felt it. The horses felt it. He cast a look back, feeling terror gathering thick about the stones, a sense of presence the like of which he had felt once before in the forest, that time that something had passed him on the Road in Marna. But no more than then did he see anything substantial. Gery’s skin twitched against his knee as Cefwyn led the way down an eroded slope. They passed into a dark, tree-arched gap between the lines of overthrown masonry and fire-stained ruin.

Wind blasted suddenly at their faces, skirling through the trees, sighing with a voice of leaves. A horse whinnied from far away. Tristen smelled smoke and heard voices raised in alarm, faint and far, but many, many of them. He thought of what Idrys said about burning the haystacks.

“Something is burning,” he said.

“Nothing’s there,” Cefwyn said, sharply. “Stay with me.”

A well-worn path went along the foundations of another set of walls.

The smell of burning was overwhelming. It clung to them as they went, the horses all panting with the pace Cefwyn set, white froth flying from the bits in the gathering dark.

“I surely wisht I had me a bow,” said one of the soldiers.

“Keep ahorse,” breathed another. “Ain’t no arrows to touch the cursed dead.”

“Quiet,” Cefwyn hissed.

“Fire,” Tristen insisted.

The air seemed gray, then, and he knew he had slipped again into that dangerous place. Worse, it had become full of Shadows.

He saw fire spreading through the shadow-woods, pale and dimmed, sickly orange in a white and gray landscape of shadows, and he could no longer find Cefwyn nor the men with him as he rode.

—Stay, a voice said to him. Stay, fledgling. Feel your feathers singed, do you? The fire will not touch you. I would not let it touch you. Believe me. Trust me. Follow me. I’ll lead you safely borne.

—Emuin? he called out. Emuin, are you there?

“Stop him!” voices cried.

Hands reached, Shadows rippled and rushed through the gray and the smoke and the pale, pale glow of fire against the pearl-colored sky.

He saw a gulf of darkness ahead of him and sent Gery flying across it, riding for the only gap in the fire be saw.

He struck a level plane where Gery fairly flew, away from the fire, away from the flames, away from the voices and the Shadows that reached for him.

But Gery and he went soaring through empty air, and a way loomed in front of him through breaking branches, a way of escape with fire on either band, a path that went on and on, into the pearl-gray air.

Darkness loomed up; the bodies of horses checked Gery’s forward rush. Catch the reins! he heard one shout, and hands dragged at Gery, hands dragged at him, too, until Gery stumbled and slogged to a stop.

The gray was no longer clear but charged with man-shaped shadows, full of harsh voices and reaching hands ...

“Stay,” Idrys advised in a voice hardly recognizable for its rawness.

“Stay, damn you! Enough! M’lord Prince!”

Other shadows came up behind him. He was still on Gery’s back. The whole sky spun and wove with lesser Shadows, the sort that men made: pale gray, not the deadly black of the true ones. The air echoed with voices reporting riders in the hills.

“Cursed ground,” someone said, and: “They’re Sihh8 dead,” which was a Name potent with their fear. “What’s it to him?” another asked. And another: “He’s right with ’em all. He’d have led us to very hell!”

“He led us to the road,” a louder voice said. “Shut your damned mouths.”

And amid all those voices he heard Cefwyn ask, “How did you chance here?” and heard Idrys answer: “The woods and damned good fortune.

There was manure that no sheep nor goat made, m’lord Prince, horse manure spread about Emwy’s orchard, bold as you please. I fired the hay, sent ten men after you overland and took the short way after—four good Guelen men, m’lord Prince, four good men lost on this cursed venture not counting Lewen’s-son!”

He was no longer holding Gery’s reins. Gery moved, and he swayed and Gery moved out from under him as someone called out warning, but he found nothing at all to hold—he was drifting in that gray place, and a hand pushed him until he was straight in the saddle and Gery moved back under him.

More men came riding up, enemies, some thought, but they were not.

He knew them, not their names, but he felt their presence and knew them for Cefwyn’s men. They were men Idrys had sent to track them through the countryside, and they complained of ghosts, and haunts, and swore they had smelled smoke, too, that it clung to their clothes. That they had heard voices and children screaming.