Free Fortress of Owls by C. J. Cherryh Page A

part of the oak in the last blink of their eyes. She had drawn her shawl over her gray head, but hanks of her hair flew in the gale and the driven snow. She had a necklace hung with smooth river stones and knots of straw. Her skirts were weighted with braided cords and coins, and the fringes of her shawl flew wild as the icy wind skirled up.
    â€œGods!” Crissand said a second time, with an anxious laugh, soothing his horse with his off hand. “You gave me a fright, mother. I don’t know you. Are you from Levey?”
    She was no stranger and no common woman, Tristen knew it, and held Gery still: Uwen had halted beside him. So had all the column behind halted, and the banner-bearers ahead had turned back to face the woman in dismay.
    â€œAuld Syes,” Tristen said, for to name a thing was to have some power to bid it. “What brings you so far from Emwy?”
    â€œWhy, I come to bring the lord of Amefel to his senses,” the old woman said, and pointed a bony bare arm from out of the clutch of flying fringes, stark and commanding as the wind continued to blow. “Lord of Amefel and the aetheling! Why do I find the twain of you riding west like common fools, when your road lies south? South for friends, lord of Amefel, north and east for foes, and blest the lord who knows one from the other! Mistake them not again, lord of Amefel!”
    North for enemies and south for friends was no news; but east was Guelessar, and the king … and many another enemy, the barons not least. Tristen doubted nothing, and listened with ears and heart. Auld Syes had told him truth before.
    And aetheling she said, the lord of Amefel and the aetheling, as if they were not the same thing … the twain of you , she said, lord and aetheling —which met his heart with a loud echo of all the wonderings he had had to himself. The guards who heard might not have heard that salutation in the same way: the common folk attributed both titles to him. Perhaps even Crissand failed to gather that implied duality.
    But he did, and sat staunchly holding the red mare still between his knees, resolved not to flinch no matter the news out of the east.
    â€œLord of Amefel I am now. What shall I do for you, lady of Emwy?”
    â€œCan truly you do aught, new lord? Have you true power, or is it only illusion you wield?”
    A second shot winged home with an accuracy that might miss all attention but Uwen’s: Illusion was one of the two words hammered in silver on the blade of the sword he bore at his side; Truth was written on the other, in bright letters of long ago, and of all men present, only Uwen knew what the writing on the blade signified: Uwen, and this old woman.
    Of a sudden he found himself afraid, trembling with the old woman’s challenge not in the gray space but on the earth and in it, and under his horse’s feet. The blade he had rarely drawn, that dark metal presence that generally lurked quiescent at his hearthside. Truth …and illusion. He was both, and would she show him the division in himself?
    â€œIf I have power to grant anything for you, lady, that will I.”
    â€œThe living king at last sits in judgment. South, south, lord of Amefel, fare south today. And when you find my sparrows, my little birds, lord of Amefel, warm them, feed them. The wind is too cold.”
    His bones shook. He could not obtain his next breath.
    â€œFind my sparrows!” Auld Syes cried, or the wind cried to him. “Find my sparrows when you have found your friends!” A brutal gust slammed into the banners, tilting them despite the struggles of the bearers, who swung them into the teeth of the gale. Horses shied up, some fighting to bolt, but battle-trained Gery danced in place, head up, ears flat. Auld Syes still stood at the center of the gale, her fringes and her necklaces flying about her as the winds circled round and round her, winding her strings of amulets and charms, tangling their