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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.
    “Lord of Amefel I am now. What shall I do for you, lady of Emwy?”
    “Can 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 Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
    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?
    “If I have power to grant anything for you, lady, that will I.”
    “The 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.
    “Find 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 Fortress of Owls - C.J. Cherryh - Fortress 03
    charms, tangling their yarns. Streaks appeared in the snow around her, short, broad gouges that kicked up new-fallen snow, passing around and around her like the skips of dancers.
    Whatever veil Auld Syes had parted to reach into the world was closing with a vengeance, and other spirits flowed along the edges of her power, spirits more dangerous and less wise.
    “Lad!” Uwen cried in alarm, and the wind dislodged snow from the oak above them, a thicker and thicker curtain of white that hid the old woman in its heart, a gray shadow.
    “Auld Syes!” Tristen shouted, disturbed by this talk of sparrows, friends, and kings. “Auld Syes, I am not done with questions for you! May I hold you?”
    “Bid me under your roof, lord of Amefel!” The voice was fading now, obscured in the wind. “Dare you do so?”
    “Come at your will, Auld Syes!”
    “Gods,” someone breathed. It might have been Crissand. It might have been Uwen. He himself invoked no more power than already roared about them as the veil of snow collapsed.
    Then the wind slacked enough to clear the air, and to their eyes there was no woman, only tear-shaped streaks in a great broad ring, around and around where she had stood. Of Syes’ feet there was no track at all: pure and undisturbed, the snow lay in the center of that ring, and the snow that fell now in fat clumps plopped down onto the stacked stones. A plain clay bowl,