Кэролайн Черри - Fortress in the Eye of Time

He hardly knew what he was thinking, then, in that stifling terror, except of the Book, Maurylʼs Book, that Mauryl had said was what he had to know, and he had to have — he snatched it from the table and thrust it into his shirt and grasped the door latch.

But after that nothing could stay the panic. He fled the room, sped down the balcony as the wooden supports quaked to the hammering at the doors — up, Mauryl had said, go upstairs, and his room was not safe. He ran the stairs that spiraled up and up past Maurylʼs balcony, as the whole structure of the balconies creaked and groaned — he raced up into the high, mad reach of braces and timbers, and the narrow, low-ceilinged stairs that led into the shadow of the loft.

He could scarcely get his breath. He went to the boarded division of the loft, seeking a place sheltered from the holes and gaps in the shingles, a hidden place, a stable place. He clambered out under the eaves, guarding his head from the rafters, an arm braced against the dust-silked wood. Cobwebs, the work of determined spiders, tangled across his face and hair; he brushed them away, while all about him the fortress resounded to the hammering and the air tingled and rumbled.

Came a moaning, then, as if the entire fortress were in pain — and a rising babble, like rain dancing into the cistern, he thought, and crept further into his nook, tucked up with his arms about him. He shivered, as pigeons fluttered in alarm and more and more of them took wing out the gaps in the boards of the loft.

The babbling swelled, sounding now like voices, as if — as if, he thought, trying to reason in himself what it was — the whole fortress were full of people, all trying to be heard. The hammering had stopped, and began again, a sharp sound, now, ringing off the walls — the sound of an axe, he thought, and at first was bewildered, then knew, like a Word, that it was the doors that sound threatened.

Then — then the howling began, the same horrid sound that had frightened him from his bed — and if it was from inside, Mauryl must have called it, he said to himself. He felt it drawing at him. He felt Maurylʼs presence tingling in the air around him. Wind swept in and scoured the straw from the floor; wind ripped holes in the shingles that patched the slates; wind sent a blast of straw out of the nests in the peak of the roof. He ducked and covered his eyes, and finally — finally in desperation locked his arms over his head and squeezed his eyes shut against the gale.

The howling hurt his ears, dust choked him — there were voices upon voices, rumbling, deep ones, and shrill and piercing: the stone faces everywhere about the keep, openmouthed, might have come alive — stones might scream like that. He might have. He shook. He clenched his arms and legs up close, as the howling and the shrieking and the rumbling quivered through the boards.

The birds must have fled. They had wings. He had none. He could only stop his ears with his hands and endure it as long as he could.

Then the light he could perceive began to fade. He squinted through the wind, fearing if the sun was going it might never come back. A gust in that moment ripped planks loose from the facing, planks that fell and let in the howling of a stronger wind.

He recoiled and caught hold of a rafter, blinded by the flying straw and grit and dust. He felt the Book slip from his shirt, reached for it, saw, with tears running on his face, its pages whipped open by the wind. A crack opened in the floor, the dusty planks separating as the stones had parted in his room, and the gap spread beside the Book as the pages flipped wildly toward the opening. The Book began to go over—

He let go the beam to seize it, bending pages haphazardly with his fingers. He held it against him as the very timbers of the loft creaked and moaned in the blasts.

“Mauryl!” he cried, having reached the end of his courage. “Mauryl! Help me!”

But no answer came.

There was no more strength. Mice perished, poor surrogate victims, sorry vengeance for Galasien. Birds flew in the high reaches of the tower and battered themselves against the stone, falling senseless and dying to the floor far below ….

The wind roared, and Mauryl shuddered at the chaos that poured through the rents in the walls .

— Gods , he murmured, gods, thou fool, Hasufin .

— The gods are gone , the Wind said. The first to flee us were all such gods as favored us, did you mark that, Gestaurien? But I may Summon thee back to my service. What do you think of that?

— Ludicrous , Mauryl said, and slipped, perilously so, toward the horror always thick about the fortress. The imprisoned spirits wailed, mindless in their despair, wailed and raveled in the winds, powerless now .

— So where is your Shaping, old Master? asked the Wind. Where is your defender, this champion of your poor crumbling hall? Cowering amongst the pigeons? Hiding from me?

— I thought you knew. Ask wiser questions. I wait to be astonished .

— Mock what you like. Banish me this time, old fool. Tell me this time whoʼs the greater .

— Time , Mauryl said, and drew a breath laden with dust. He cracked his staff against the stones, once, twice, three times, and the towers quaked, sifting down dust. Time is ripped loose, fool, it is undone: we exist, thou and I, only for what will be; we dream, you and I, we dream, but no hand have we on the world. All is done, Hasufin, all for us is past, and failed, our candle is out, and worms are the issue of our long contention. Have done, thou arrant, prating fool, and let it rest here .

The wind breathed in sudden hush between the gusts, sported about the courtyard, whirled among dead leaves that…for a moment…showed a dust-formed cloak and cowl .

— Destroy the Shaping , the man of dust said. Do that, my old mentor, and, aye, we might together sleep the sleep. Will that content thee? Come, take my hand, let us kiss like brothers. Destroy him. And we shall sleep in peace .

— Whoreson liar. Worms, I say, worms for your bed, Hasufin, thou braggart, thou frail, mistaken fool. I weary of the war .

— Lies for lies, thou lord of delusion .

The dust whipped away, stung the face, blinded the eyes. Mauryl flung it back, and Hasufin struck in kind .

The stones, the former inhabitants of Galasien, screamed with all their voices .

Chaos closed around. The thunder of the staff kept rolling, echoing, cracking stone .

Then came silence. Long silence .

Tristenʼs ears still rang. His flesh still was chilled by the wind. But the Shadow had gone, and broken straw prickled against his face and through his shirt and his breeches — prickled until he was, first, aware of lying on the dusty boards, and second, aware that one knee had gone through a second gap in the boards, and third, aware that he still held the Book safe beneath his body.

Holes were everywhere about the roof, letting in large, dusty shafts of sunlight. Pigeons murmured, a handful going about their ordinary business on the rafters and on the central beam which upheld the roof. A quiet breeze stirred through the loft.

The trouble was past, Tristen thought, and dragged himself from his precarious position, gathered his knees under him and sat up, holding the Book against him — Mauryl would be pleased that he had saved it. Mauryl would have sent the wind away. Mauryl would have held everything safe downstairs…