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

shoulder and saw it still shut. It might be the wind keening through some board up in the towers—if there were a wind, which there was not. He looked about again just as a stone left the railing ahead of him and dropped from the Road, for no cause that he could tell. It splashed into the water, making a plume, and it was gone, as he himself might be, without a trace, should the road give way.
    He hurried feverishly, then, holding to the stones, and heard another fall of stones behind him: one, two, three splashes. He dared not waste a moment to look. It was the solid ground ahead that beckoned him, a shadowed shore where the Road went over safe earth, under deep-rooted trees, and his feet were very glad to feel that solidity under them as he left the bridge behind.
    The moaning came to the trees then, making them toss their heads and whisper around him in a rush of sound he had never heard the forest make even in storm. Chill came with that wind, as leaves and fine grit went flying around him, stinging his eyes. The wind shouted around him, until twigsand then small branches flew like leaves. The whole forest seemed to shiver, and then—
    Then it grew very quiet, no leaf stirring—a dank and breathless air as frightening in its lifelessness as all the previous fury of the wind. He hesitated to move at all, and when he hesitated, it seemed more difficult than before simply to move, or breathe, as if some soundless Word bade him stand still, and wait, and wait.
    But, heart in his throat, he obeyed Mauryl. It seemed more important than ever to honor Mauryl’s instruction, in the failing of all substantial refuges he knew. Dark was gathering in this dank hush, a convocation of Shadows that as yet had done him no harm, but he had no defense against them here, no stone to shelter him, no Mauryl to send them away, no light against the coming dark.
    â€” Tristen , the Shadows mocked him, calling his name in tones that Mauryl might use. But Mauryl had never trusted them and he refused. He walked not because he knew where he was going but because that was what Mauryl had said to do. No harm had yet come to him doing what Mauryl said.
    A shape glided after him, dark and silent. He felt it pass near. But when he looked straight at it, he saw nothing.
    Shadows were like that, treacherous and evasive of the eye. But there was no Mauryl tonight to set a seal on his sleep, and no door, and no bed, no supper, no cup, and no means of having one—forever, so far as he knew.
    The Road appeared and disappeared by turns in the dark. It seemed to meander aimlessly, but, Tristen thought, he had nowhere to go, except as his Road led him; it seemed to have no reason for itself, but then, he had none, so that seemed apt. If he had the wish of his heart all through the weary night it would be only to go back to Mauryl, and to have his room and his supper and to do forever what Mauryl told him—but it was not his wishes things obeyed, it was Mauryl’s; and without Mauryl, he had to take what came to him and do as wisely as he could.
    If, he thought, if he could have read the Book Mauryl hadgiven him, he might have prevented the ruin that had taken Mauryl from him. But he had not been able. Mauryl had known his inability. He was certain now that Mauryl had always known that he would fail in that most important task, and he was certain that that had always been Mauryl’s unhappiness with him—for Mauryl had been unhappy. He had sensed, quite strongly at times, Mauryl’s unhappiness and dissatisfaction in his mistakes, and, latest of all, Mauryl’s despair and Mauryl’s acceptance of his shortcomings. He should have been more able, he should have been quicker to understand, he should have understood Mauryl’s lessons and done better. But he had not been good enough.
    Follow the Road, Mauryl had said.
    But Mauryl had also warned him to be under stone when the sun set, and as this one set and the world