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were afraid of him and came only so far as they ever had. So he thought that Mauryl was right and that they expected harm of him, when he had never done any. He wondered why that was, and thought that Mauryl might be right about their character.
    He read his Book in the intervals of these matters, or at least he studied it. He grew angry sometimes that he could understand nothing of it. Sometimes he found little words that he thought he knew. Sometimes he made notes to himself in the dust with his fingers.
    And the silly pigeons came and walked on them, so they never lasted long.
    Pigeons had no respect for writing, nor for boys. They feared him not even when he swept them off. They thought of him, he began to think, not as a boy, but like the other pigeons, flapping their wings to secure a place. And his wing-flapping, like theirs, did nothing but overbalance a pigeon. It never drove one away for good, not so long as there was the chance of more bread crumbs.
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    â€” Mauryl , the Wind breathed .
    Mauryl stopped, seized up his staff and sprang up from the table in his tower room, parchments and codices tumbling in all directions .
    Laughter came from the empty air, more clearly than its wont .
    â€” You are weaker tonight , said the Wind. Mauryl, let me in .
    He banged his staff on the wooden floor, tapped the gold-shod heel of it against the sealed shutters. The seal remained firm .
    â€” Mauryl , the Wind said again. Mauryl Gestaurien. I saw him today. I did .
    He scorned to answer. To answer at all opened barriers. He leaned on his staff, eyes shut, remaking his inner defenses, while the sweat beaded cold on his forehead .
    â€” Once it was no trouble at all for you to keep me out. It must have been the Shaping that weakened you, Gestaurien. Do you think?—And was he worth the cost?
    â€” You cannot read him , Mauryl thought, not meaning that to be his answer, but the Wind heard, all the same. He clenched the next thought tightly in his defenses, wove it firmly and strongly inside, armored as his own memory. The sense of presence faded for a moment .
    â€” Come, let me in . The voice came from another direction, rich and soft and chilling. You are failing, Gestaurien. Harder and harder now for you to shut me out.—And what is he to do for you, this flesh-clothed Shaping of yours?
    Dangerous to answer. Think nothing, do nothing .
    â€” Ah, Gestaurien, Kingsbane,—What do you call him?
    Tristen, he thought, and wished in vain not to have made that slip .
    Laughter circled the tower room, rattling one shutter after another. Tristen, Tristen, Tristen. Is he a peril to me, Gestaurien? This puling innocent? I think not .
    â€” Begone, wretch!
    Shutters rattled, one after another. The wind chuckled, howled, roared, and stirred the shadows in the corners .
    â€” Ah, secrets . The Wind sniggered, a mild rattling at a window latch. Perhaps the great, the awesome secret is that you failed. So great a magic. So ambitious. And all so useless .
    â€” Begone, I say!
    The shadows flowed back. The wind fell suddenly. The shutters were quiet. It had ventured too arrogantly, too soon .
    Mauryl sank into his chair, bowed his head against trembling hands .
    And then upon a dreadful thought —
    â€”leapt to his feet, seized his staff in one hand, the candlestick in the other, tottering with the weakness in his knees. With his staff he ventured onto the creaking balconies, by flickering, precarious light that left the depths all dark.
    He took the stairs much too fast for a lame old man and came down, aching and short of breath, feeling about him constantly with his magic, as far as the next balcony, and to Tristen’s sealed door. He opened it and leaned against the door frame, breathless.
    The boy was safely asleep, his breathing gentle and undisturbed. He could have heard nothing. The shutters of this room had never rattled, never attracted the wind.
    With a shaking hand he set the candle down on