"It's to do with calamity," Emuin said. "Mind, no such chart is infallible. It marks opportunities, moments of vulnerability, moments of power, and, the Nineteen witness! the Sihhë can create their own moments outside of wizardry and throw all our meticulous plans and times askew—gods, but you can, young lord! But I suspect even you find magic easier at certain times and in certain places—or that what you loose flows more readily in certain directions than in others: the river finds the lowest, easiest course, does it not?"

He understood how it explained the twisted course certain of his wishes took, or why he saw some things as easy and direct and some things not.

But he was not diverted by any sleight of hand, not now. His thoughts ceased to skip and turn, and went straight to a single question. He did not even ask it aloud. He wishedan answer, and Emuin's chin went up, and he frowned, opposing Emuin's will.

"Forgive me," Tristen said. "I wish to know, and not to oppose you… not at all to oppose you. I know how hard you've tried to keep all your plans in shape around me, no matter how often I cast them all down. But now I want the truth, master Emuin, with all good will. Inform me, and perhaps you'll have less patching to do. I mightagree."

Emuin let out a slow breath. "Cefwyn proposes to set out this spring against Tasmôrden. Before the trees break their buds, there is ^an hour, a day, on which what Men call luck will more than ebb: it will turn utterly against him. That is written in the events he himself set in motion, and written in the stars."

"Then I should be with him!" Tristen said.

"Or—perhaps you shouldn't. Perhaps you can do more from a Distance, where you have a better view of what's happening, and where you can lay hands on the very things that threaten him. Possibly you're doing exactly what you should do. Before the trees break their buds, too, that child will be born, here, in Amefel."

He had thought only of weapons. What Emuin said appalled him.

"The child."

"Here, I say, the child will be born."

"And I brought her here!"

"Perhaps it was the best of intentions. She's not in a worse place. Parsynan isn't in charge here, Cuthan's not here to help Orien, and Tasmôrden's men aren't pouring across the border to raise the whole province in rebellion. All the things you've done have put her in your hands, not the other way about. I don't say this child's the only danger. What Cefwyn may do when once he hears the news: that is a danger. What Her Grace may do is likewise a danger, and what her people may do is a danger, all approaching that moment Cefwyn's luck—luck! so men call it, and nothing further from the truth—his luck will turn. The flow will all go against him, for a certain number of hours. I confess that all along, I've thought constantly of the battle with Tasmôrden, and that manner of threat. But again, the river may have taken the easiest course. It was natural these women come to their home, to their people. They say the nuns didn't know. And there's a fifth possible agent of the situation at Anwyfar… you, young lord."

"I would never wish what happened!"

"But you know that you have effect."

"I know that I do, sir."

"We aren't masters of howa thing happens. So likewise we must be careful how our letters will inform Cefwyn andHer Grace, and do it well. You're quite right to come to me. You're quite right to approach this with caution."

"You know how to tell him. You see the danger. Twice over, it should be you that writes that letter."

Emuin's brows lowered. "Oh, I know these things, I know them too well. Mauryl called on meto kill a young prince in his sleep. And I did, young lord, and have bad dreams all my life. Now I see that dream one more time."

"Hasufin Heltain." Tristen drew a great breath, knowing well how their enemy—Mauryl's enemy—had entered a dead babe in Althalen, King Elfwyn's son… and nothing might have prevented him, except he had grown too sure of himself, too early… a boy's faults of haste, betraying a very, very dangerous spirit to the only wizard capable of dealing with him… of killing him, before his adulthood.

"He's dead," Emuin said. "But he was deadbefore he fought you at Lewenbrook. That's only mild inconvenience to him. A woman dabbles in sorcery, far past her knowledge. A foolish woman lets down the wards, in all senses, and bargains for power… and what better chance has a wandering spirit? You caught Orien at her sorcery once. We don't know how often and to what ends she opened that window in your apartments. We know Hasufin used Aséyneddin on the battlefield, but that was the right hand of his effort, and it fell too quickly, far too quickly. I suspect this babe for the left, his second and surer gateway, one he already knew he had, and which he didn't risk at Lewenbrook. That babe is half-Aswydd and half-Marhanen… wizard-gift matched with all the Marhanen faults—and strengths."

"I hear the child in the gray space. Surely you do."

"I hear him. A son, I do agree with all you said, below in the hall, though I'm a little less reckless in inquiring."

"There seems no harm in him."

"Oh, indeed there isn't. Right now he's Tarien's child… an innocent. What better way to breach our defenses? What better way to gain entry to this warded fortress? What better way to defend himself, than by our virtue, and our scruples, and our reluctance to do harm to innocence? If we harm him… we damn the virtue that's in us, and we turn ourselves down a bloody dark path. If we kill this child.— Hush, boy!" It was Paisi he meant, for a startled shiver had leapt into the gray space, and Ernuin whirled about and seized Paisi by the shoulder.

"We ain't to kill it!" Paisi cried, wincing from Emuin's grip, and the danger of flying into the gray space with Orien and Tarien only a few stone barriers away from them brought Tristen's sharp no! and with it he imposed a hush so deep Paisi struggled for his next breath, mouth open, eyes wide.

"Be calm," Tristen said, and made his wish gentler, so the boy could get his wind. "Be calm. You mustn't go therewith what we say here. Be very quiet. Listen to what Emuin's saying to us. Listen. Understand him."

"I brung Gran Sedlyn up th' hill, an' she had a look at the lady, an' she says it's an Aswydd babby an' a wizard. But she ain't sayin' it's evil!"

'Gran Sedlyn is the midwife," Emuin reminded him. "And canny as they come. No, boy—" This, to Paisi, whose eyes were round as moons. "—we haven't any ill intent: that's the point. Wizardry. Wizardry, lad, is a matter of seasons and timing, and this… this one event is set. That child will be born in his time, and as much as Gran Sedlyn can assure it, it will be the child's time, not Tarien Aswydd's wishing. It won't please her, but it pleases me, and it gives the child his best chance."

Tristen had misgivings of his own, but none that he chose to discuss in Paisi's hearing. He laid his hand on Paisi's other shoulder, wishing him calm and steady and confident. "Trust Emuin," he said to Paisi. "And don't talk about this. Don't think it in the gray space where the Aswydds might hear you."

"Oh, gods," Paisi said, and his eyes rolled toward the west wing, where the women were.

"Do you understand your lord?" Emuin said sternly, drawing his attention back. "Look at me, boy! Think of filching apples."

"Apples, sir?"

"I'm sure you've stolen apples in the market. In fact I know you have."