Free Fortress in the Eye of Time by C. J. Cherryh Page A

heavy. He heard Mauryl leave, heard the door shut and heard the tap of Mauryl’s staff against the door.
    After that was the drip of the rain off the eaves, the soft groanings of the timbers of the keep as Mauryl climbed the stairs and walked the floor above.
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    It was back, and stronger .
    Much stronger, Mauryl thought to himself, feeling chill in the moist air of the night .
    There was no immediate touch. He waited, still weak from the latest encounter. Anger welled up in him. But he gave it no foothold. Anger, too, became a weakness .
    â€” Your Shaping is helpless , the Wind whispered, nudging the shutter .
    â€” Of course he is, Mauryl said to the Wind. Are you ever wrong?
    â€” Wasted, Gestaurien, all your years were wasted. This Shaping is not enough. You work and you work; you mend your poor failed mannequin, but to what advantage? Where is your vaunted magic, now? All spent. All squandered. What a threat you pose me!
    â€” Come ahead, then. Do your fingers still sting?—But there are no fingers, are there? No fingers, no heart,…no manhood. Mere food for carnal worms, a repast for maggots. A beetle has his home in your skull. He has your eyes for windows…A fat, well-fed beetle, a fine, upstanding fellow. I like him much better .
    â€” The end of your strength, Gestaurien. Words, words, words, all vacuous breath. Shall I be wounded? Shall I flee in terror? I think not.—I see a loose latch. I do …
    Bang! went the shutter, and kept rattling .
    â€” Tristen, is it? Tristen. A boy. And careless, in the way of boys. He might forget a latch, the way you forgot his cup—and the shutter—tonight. Was that accident? Do you suppose it was accident?
    The air seemed close, full of menace. The shutter rattled perilously. Mauryl rose up, seized his staff, and it stopped .
    Thump, went the next shutter, making his heart jump .
    â€” Worried? asked the Wind .
    â€” Come ahead, I say. Why don’t you? How many years did it take you to recover the last time you misjudged me? Twenty? More than twenty? Intrude into my keep again. Come, try again, thou nest for worms. You might be lucky. Or not .
    It made no reply. It rolled in on itself with none of its accustomed mockery. It nursed secrets, tonight. It restrained something it by no means wanted to say .
    Mauryl bowed his head against his staff and put forth all his guard, wary of a sudden reversal. But nothing came. He reached not a breath, not a whisper of presence .
    He sent his thoughts further still, around the rock of the fortress, and through its cracks and crevices .
    But no further than that. He found limits to his will that had never been there, perhaps the limits of his own defenses—or perhaps not his construction at all, but a prisoning so subtly constructed he had had no suspicion of it until now .
    Sweat stood on his brow with the effort to catch the wind in his nets. But there was, no matter how fine he made them, not a breath within his reach .
    He might believe, then, that the prison was illusory, that, as in the long, long past, he still found no limit but himself. But he feared not. He feared, that was the difficulty. Fear slipped so easily toward doubt—and doubt to the suspicion that his old enemy had no wish for encounter, not on his terms .
    He would not be so fortunate, this time, in choosing the moment .
    He had known as much, in his heart of hearts. His old student knew it, and sought as yet no direct contest .

CHAPTER 5
    H e could see Mauryl in the silver reflection, standing behind his shoulder. Mauryl waited, expecting him to cut himself, Tristen was well certain— believing he would cut himself. Mauryl had warned him the blade was sharp and showed him how to hold it.
    He might grow a beard, Mauryl said, except Mauryl said that beards were for priests and wizards, that he was neither, and that, besides, it would not suit him. So Mauryl had given him the very sharp blade, a whetstone and,