The Other Wind Read Online Free PDF Page B

mender, not a breaker. I don’t think he can break that link.”
    “If he made it he can break it,” the Summoner said.
    “Did he make it?”
    “I have no such art, my lord,” Alder said, so frightened by what they were saying that he spoke angrily.
    “Then I must go down among them,” said the Summoner.
    “No, my friend,” said the Doorkeeper, and the old Herbal said, “You last of us all.”
    “But this is my art.”
    “And ours.”
    “Who then?”
    The Doorkeeper said, “It seems Alder is our guide. Having come to us for help, maybe he can help us. Let us all go with him in his vision—to the wall, though not across it.”
    So that night, when late and fearfully Alder let sleep overcome him, and found himself on the grey hill, the others were with him: the Herbal, a warm presence in the chill; the Doorkeeper, elusive and silvery as starlight; and the massive Summoner, the bear, a dark strength.
    This time they were standing not where the hill ran down into the dark, but on the near slope, looking up to the top. The wall in this place ran along the crest of the hill and was low, little more than knee height. Above it the sky with its few small stars was perfectly black.
    Nothing moved.
    It would be hard to walk uphill to the wall, Alder thought. Always before it had been below him.
    But if he could go to it maybe Lily would be there, as she had been the first time. Maybe he could take her hand, and the mages would bring her back with him. Or he could step over the wall where it was so low and come to her.
    He began to walk up the hill. It was easy, it was no trouble, he was almost there.
    “Hara!”
    The Summoner’s deep voice called him back like a noose round his neck, a jerked leash. He stumbled, staggered forward one step more, almost at the wall, dropped to his knees and reached out to the stones. He was crying, “Save me!” but to whom? To the mages, or to the shadows beyond the wall?
    Then hands were on his shoulders, living hands, strong and warm, and he was in his room, with the healer’s hands indeed on his shoulders, and the werelight burning white around them. And there were four men in the room with him, not three.
    The old Herbal sat down on the bed with him and soothed him a while, for he was shaking, shuddering, sobbing. “I can’t do it,” he kept saying, but still he did not know if he was talking to the mages or to the dead.
    When the fear and pain began to lessen, he felt tired beyond bearing, and looked almost without interest at the man who had come into the room. His eyes were the color of ice, his hair and skin were white. A far Northerner, from Enwas or Bereswek, Alder thought him.
    This man said to the mages, “What are you doing, my friends?”
    “Taking risks, Azver,” said the old Herbal.
    “Trouble at the border, Patterner,” said the Summoner.
    Alder could feel the respect they had for this man, their relief that he was there, as they told him briefly what the trouble was.
    “If he’ll come with me, will you let him go?” the Patterner asked when they were done, and turning to Alder, “You need not fear your dreams in the Immanent Grove. And so we need not fear your dreams.”
    They all assented. The Patterner nodded and vanished. He was not there.
    He had not been there; he had been a sending, a presentment. It was the first time Alder had seen the great powers of these masters made manifest, and it would have unnerved him if he had not been past amazement and fear.
    He followed the Doorkeeper out into the night, through the streets, past the walls of the School, across fields under a high round hill, and along a stream singing its water music softly in the darkness of its banks. Ahead of them was a high wood, the trees crowned with grey starlight.
    The Master Patterner came along the path to meet them, looking just as he had in the room. He and the Doorkeeper spoke for a minute, and then Alder followed the Patterner into the Grove.
    “The trees are dark,”