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Past
this
Shadows should not come. This was what they should agree on, this was what they should guard, one Line, one defense. He wished it so, and the ward flared behind him.

The Shadows just at arm's length writhed and seethed, imprisoned in the tangle of Lines that had been, and now so great a panicked number of them pressed against those old wards that one failed at last, as it might have failed under the enemy's assault. The breach let forth a great rush of them.

But they came up instead against the new Line, a moiling confusion that set his teeth on edge. They brought death, and cold, and anger, but his Line held.

He chose the broken Line and dispelled it, freeing more reticent spirits, as easy as a pass of his hand and a wish. He dispelled one misdrawn Line after another, until long-pent Shadows, rushing forward to freedom, found his Line, and knew their boundary, and found a straight path along it. They flowed along that perimeter, and rushed back and forth, back and forth, no few violently trying its strength. But without the crossed lines channeling their anger, those attacks came at random, in isolated areas along the line, and posed little threat. Some, finding order in their movement,
sang
to him, and made the Lines sing, the music of stone, the music of the Masons'

making.

Still he brandished the sword up and around until the blue fire of the ward flared along the walls, and up among the rafters, along the threatened roof and down again, past statues in their niches and down again to completion against the pavings.

And those Shadows older than Men, those filled with the greatest anger and contempt, cowered back from that fire, knowing well its potency, and listening to the music.

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One Shadow, one of the newest disturbances and blind to magic, challenged the barrier, and battered aside the weaker Shadows, and attempted harm; but it, too, could not break forth… a Shadow that held something vaguely of Cefwyn and of Efanor, a strong presence, full of powerful emotions.

Yet it was fear, not anger, that drove it to challenge the barrier.

It feared and fled something deeper and darker, something barriered in older Lines, far back across the floor that now was, that knew nothing of the music—but this Shadow, that had been a warrior and a soldier, and a king, knew the danger there, and tried to rally the others.

There was the real danger in this place. The tangle of Lines he had resolved, and freed the trapped spirits to an easier flow. But there was a reason, deep within, that the tormented Shadows had so persisted at the barrier, a deeper dark where something moved, or many things moved, like so many dark serpents, shapeless and powerful, and unwilling to be confined.

The collective presence in that depth, behind wards grown old and weak, had the coldness and the power of the stone faces, as adamant and as terrible, and what dwelt there was neither resigned to its prison, nor completely contained by the Lines that great Masons had drawn, even before later, lesser, masons had compromised those Lines.

Now, those ancient Lines far back, blue and red, grew weak and sickly at the points of its attacks, and the music faltered.

It did not augur well if that welter of dark breached the ancient barrier and assailed the new Line—if the Shadows of
that
darkness, full of malice, gained power such as the Shadows had at Althalen.

Armed men had fallen under the assault of the haunts at Althalen, finding no substance their swords might strike and no protection in their armor or their skill. Only Auld Syes moderated the anger of those spirits, and ruled them.

But she was not here. Only this one Shadow of a soldier. Such was the threat in that depth: all the spirits that Men feared fled it. It was not Sihhë, nor even of Ynefel's age… it was older, older, and echoed of his fears in Ynefel's loft, or that night on the stairs, when all Ynefel had creaked and tottered.

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And this danger lay in the heart of a sleeping town, at the heart of Cefwyn's kingdom. What precisely it was did not Unfold to him, but he knew it recognized him—he knew it wished him harm, but that thus far it could not press past the protections of his magic.

It hated him as it wished destruction of all that Men had built; and it hated him because he stood with Men, and wished them and their doings well.

It hated him as it had hated him at Ynefel and whispered outside his window.

It hated him as it had striven through Hasufin, but it was not Hasufin: it had possessed Hasufin, and diverted him from Mauryl's hands.

It hated him because it knew its destroyer had come. And having failed in direct assault, it sought a weakness, any weakness, or an ally that might serve it for an instant—as Hasufin had served, and served more than once.

Here was a battle to fight, within these walls, within the mews. He had a chance here. It was willing to face him here.

But if he failed to be at Ilefínian,
Cefwyn
would surely die. If he failed to be at Ilefínian
Hasufin
would prevail.

A sound disturbed him. He hurtled back to the world of Men, and the outer Lines, and stood by the altar rail, his hands and feet like ice.

Efanor had indeed come as quickly as he had asked, barefoot and wrapped in a sheet, and attended by two of the frightened priests.

"This place is in danger," Tristen said. "I need your help, Your Highness."

"What danger? From the enemy?"

He drew a breath, for there was so much to tell: "The Lord Commander brought Her Grace to Amefel. She's in Henas'amef, with Emuin; Idrys is going back to Cefwyn, in the north. All the south is crossing the river, coming north to Ilefínian, and Cefwyn is coming from the east… but so is Ryssand. Ryssand means to kill him. But worse, there's someone who's stopped the messengers reaching me, someone close to Cefwyn."

"A traitor!"

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"Idrys doesn't know who. But he's going back as fast as he can, and I'm going north, to deal with Tasmôrden." Owl swept down from some height among the rafters and he unthinkingly lifted his gloved hand to receive Owl's taloned feet. "We can deal with all that.

Hasufin is in this. He tried to take Tarien's baby, but we stopped him.

Now he's helping Tasmôrden, who's helping Ryssand, and if Cefwyn defeats them,
this
place offers Hasufin a chance to break through."

"
The Quinaltine
? This is holy ground!"

"Henas'amef has a place, a doorway that opens sometimes to a wish from outside. So does Althalen: the Lord Regent wards it, and so does Auld Syes, and I know nothing gets through there. Ilefínian has such a place; so does Ynefel; and this is one, an old place, I think, old as Galasien. Cefwyn says your
grandfather
is here… whoever it is, I think all the Shadows here fear what lies beneath this floor."

"Grandfather?" Efanor glanced wide-eyed at the shadows beyond the candles. "Grandfather never ran from anything."

"The wards were never right here. The Masons who raised this building made a mistake and I've set a new Line, but this is still where Hasufin may try to come." He dared no more detailed explanation: he saw the unease on Efanor's face. "I have to go to Cefwyn, to help him. Will
you
guard it?"

"Gods witness I'll guard it!" Efanor declared. "—But how do I do that?"

"You have the gift."

"Oh, no, not I!"

"It waked you from sleep, Your Highness. And you and the priests, gifted or not, must walk this Line, and wish it may hold, wish it with all your hearts and minds. Pray for it! Wish it strong. Let no Shadow break out here, not a single one, or the Line will break and terrible things will come. I've set the new Line on the pavings. Do you see?"

He marked it with his sword, and Efanor came, barefoot as he was, and looked along it, left and right, resolution and wariness in the lines of his face.

"It glows," Efanor said faintly, as if it were a fault to be mended, instead of an indication of its strength and health. "It
glows
."

"It must! Keep it glowing! Walk
here
, Your Highness. Walk this Line fortress of dragons.html

continually, and wish it strong, against all the ill it holds back." He sought for some reassurance to give Efanor that would keep Efanor's wits about him and remind him, come what might, of his sole, single-minded duty: and he found it in the little book he had brought, his proof to Efanor who he was, and that they still were friends. He gave Efanor his own gift back again and pressed his fingers about the beautiful little book, even as Owl fluttered up about his shoulders, urging him to leave. "Think on the good, never harm! Think only on the good, and on us living, and your brother being well, and walk the Line and wish it strong. Do you still see it?"

"I see it," Efanor breathed, looking along it.

"Do that for me," Tristen said, "and for your brother." He was sure now that he had made himself understood. He had faith in Efanor, as in no one else in the Quinaltine, and knew Efanor could command the priests as no other in the court could do. And now he felt the place beginning to fade about him. "
Pray
, Your Highness!" That was the magic Efanor knew how to work, and it would have to serve. "Pray and bless the place and think only of good and life! Walk the Line, and make it strong!"

The gray wind whirled about him again, cold this time, and violent.

Sounds howled past him, and the gray place darkened around him as Owl flew ahead of him.

Then even Owl seemed uncertain, and took a new direction, and then a third.

Angry Shadows loomed up, old Shadows, those older than Men and resentful of those usurpers, and these Shadows seemed to track him with mindful attention. The dark was their weapon, and they wielded it with a lash of wind to make it more bitter and more biting. They wished to sweep him back again and, by defeating him, to breach the Line he had made, but it was no longer
his
fight, that within the Quinaltine, where Quinaltine prayers went up. The soft tread of feet along the Line resounded among these Shadows like a single repeated chord, over and over, the same thing, endlessly the same thing—yet he could not tell from what quarter. He had lost his way for a heartbeat, he had lost Owl—then thought he saw a light.

He turned that way, then stopped and lost ground, belatedly aware of yet another hostile Shadow, a threat that prowled that region ahead, fortress of dragons.html

not behind.

He dared not even think, here. He dared not move. The enemy came as the Wind, both wary and angry, and the Wind blew and whispered to him.

—
Ah, well, here you are
.

He turned away from that Voice. He refused to be afraid, refused to
run, but he would not deal with it, either, not now, not yet.

—
Mauryl's mistake walks on two feet. Mauryl's undoing… all his
efforts wasted in you
.

It could not tempt him to argument. He was concerned only with the
way out, and he searched for it.

But the Wind came near him, tugged at his cloak and his hair.

—
I banished Mauryl as he banished the lords of Galasien. Was that
not justice
?

Questions. He would not answer, would not look, but his heart
seemed apt to burst. He ran the loft stairs, he hid in the dark, and the
Wind came and scattered his birds.

—
Banished him, and I shall banish you. Make your wards. Seal your
gates. I know the way to your heart, Barrakketh. I know your name
and you know mine. Say it. Say it, and summon me. Do you dare face
me
?

—
Nothing at your word, Tristen said, and caught after a thickness in
the air of the gray space. It was Owl, who settled to his hand, and
fought, rowing with his wings, for purchase there against the gale.

Nothing ever at your order.

—
Ah! Can you name me? So short a step! Declare my name, and let
us deal together
—
let us bargain, you and I
.

—
I have nothing to do with you
.

—
Nothing? Not even hate? There is a darkness in you, there is an
anger and I know the key to unlock it. I know what lies beneath the
wards in that place as I know what lies behind the gates of your
anger, Sihhë-lord
!

—
Leave me! Leave this place
!

—
Ah, but do you rule here? Threaten as you will, Shadow of
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Barrakketh, the hour will come… your hour, and mine
.

—
Not this day
.

—
I know a secret. Do you wish to know? Does curiosity move you?

Ask. Ask the question
.

Curiosity was his besetting weakness, and his prevailing strength.

Curiosity had led him to good and to had and guided him through the
dark.

But this question was no question. It led him to harm: he was sure of
it.

Yet curiosity drew his gaze, even knowing better, and in the heart of
the Wind he saw plains made desolate and homes laid waste… he
saw battlefields and armies striving on them in the sunset, and above
all the banner, the Tower and the Star.

So he stood bespelled for the space of a heartbeat, and felt the
desolation of that sight creeping into his soul. This, this was his work,
and the Wind beat his back like the buffet of vast wings. Owl fought
to stay with him, but began to lose his footing: a presence clawed at
Owl from the other side, a Shadow hating and hateful, resentful for
her lost life.

But subtle as a sunrise, a presence crept up on him, a presence
stealthy and persistent and suddenly headlong, an attack against the
Wind.

It had opposed the Wind before, that presence. Something of Mauryl
was in the heart of it, and something of Cefwyn, and something of
Efanor and even of himself
—
old teacher, old master of unwilling
students, old man curbing young mischief and directing eyes always
to the sunrise, not the sunset
.