Darkthunder's Way (12 page)

She stopped him with a finger against his lips. “You talk too much, my Alec.”

“I—maybe I do.”

“There is a cure, you know.”

“Which is?”

A kiss gave him the answer.

*

It was full dark when Alec awoke. Stars still glittered in a black sky, and the fog in the field below his mountain aerie was even thicker, so that he seemed marooned in a sea of white. The fog was warm, too, and that was strange.

He was alone, lying on the terrace where he and Eva had—had
what?
He hardly remembered, hardly dared hope things had gone as they had—if they had. And that was also odd. He recalled the taste of her lips, though, and the warmth of her body against his, the feel of her hands in
places…
places hands had never been before, and never mind where he had put his hands, and then another, even more intimate thing.

But when had she left him? They had talked, he knew, and then had followed—what followed. Finally, still half-breathless, he had laid his head in her lap and droned on about who-knew-what. It had been so relaxing, so comforting. He must have dozed off. And she had left him.

“Eva?” he whispered, and sat up. “Eva? Are you still here?”

His right hand brushed something that rattled. He reached down, found a single sheet of thick bluish paper on which was written, visible in the bright starlight: “Thank you for your company, my Alec. You were sleeping so prettily I could not disturb you, but I had to be elsewhere. Meet me here in two days, same time.”

Two days,
Alec thought.
Two days!
He wondered if he could stand the waiting.

*

It was eleven o’clock by the digital clock in the Volvo’s dash when Alec finally eased it into the narrow driveway between the beds of ivy and surveyed the old home place. Usually his folks had turned in by now, but this time there were lights burning in the living room, and that was a bad sign—especially to someone with a guilty conscience. It was not the hour
per se
that was the problem, but the manner of his departure—and the vehicle. With considerable trepidation, he turned the knob, only to feel it twist further than he had intended as the door was pulled out of his grip and he found himself facing his father.

Doctor Gerald McLean was shorter than his son and built more like a fig than a fighter. Certainly he was bespectacled and balding. But none of these lessened the anger that burned in his eyes, the twitch of scarce-restrained rage that haunted the corners of his mouth.

“I see you’ve finally remembered where home is,” he said. “I think we need to have a discussion.”

Chapter VII: Sails

(Tir-Nan-Og—high summer
—
morning)

Morwyn looked up from her packing, suddenly wary. A noise had disturbed her. She dropped a scarlet velvet cloak onto the red carpeted floor and cocked her head. Footsteps approaching; probably Lugh. Good, she would be ready to depart as soon as she dealt with one remaining item, which was the whole vast chamber around her. The Room Made of Fire, it was, that portable place she carried with her which could fold in on itself and yet include all she could ever conceivably need. At the moment it occupied a space within Lugh’s twelve-towered palace that had heretofore been an empty chamber: white marbled outside, frozen flame within. Soon, though, she would say the Word and work the spell and—

A knock on the section of wall that masked her door and Lugh entered without waiting permission. That galled her a little. For an instant, she thought to rebuke him, crown or no. But then she saw the black mood that hung across his forehead like thunderclouds across a mountain.

“I am almost ready,” she ventured. “Have you procured the vessel?”

“Not yet,” Lugh spat, “but it no longer matters. You are not going.”

“Why, Lord?”

In reply Lugh simply reached inside his robe, drew out a plain disk of crystal bordered with gold, and flung it tinkling to the table. A Word, and the disk stood on end. Another Word, and it began to expand, until a moment later it was an arm span across. A final Sound, and images began to take form, and Morwyn saw, as the High King did, the one thing they both had most dreaded.

In the foreground was a strand: a strip of beach almost as white as the morning stars that still twinkled in the pearly, predawn sky; with a low, pillared pavilion stretching to the limits of sight on either side. The midground was a mass of foam: restless breakers cavorting and snapping at each other, then rising higher into dire waves whipped by no wind.

But the background—the whole top half of the image—was ships: ships as far as one could see from horizon to horizon. Low slung and narrow they were; black-hulled, and with sails the red of war. Dragons carved from night-colored wood rode the prows of those vessels, and also gryphons and wyvems amid other beasts of battle, even as fleshly crows and ravens scoured the skies above them, filling the air with strident, taunting cries. Oars rested in the water but did not move; and Morwyn knew that no one manned those oars, now or ever.

Yet men there were, thousands of them—or warriors of the Sidhe of Erenn, to call them right. They stood those decks in their endless files, dour and grim; with armor of black and cloaks the same red as the sails.

One of that number broke rank, strode to the prow of the largest ship, the one in the center. No sooner had he taken his place there, than the vessel began to glide forward among the breakers until the knife edge of its keel was almost in the sand—almost, but not quite touching dry land. That man drew himself to his full height, then, and flung back his cloak to stand revealed in armor that glittered like the newly-risen sun. His hair was black and
his
voice was fell. A quick flash of hand toward his waist and he had drawn his sword, which shone blackly in the ruddy light.

“Hear my words, Lugh Samildinach, Ard Rhi of the Daoine Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og,” that man cried, his voice harsh in the heavy air. “I am Finvarra, Ard Rhi of the Daoine Sidhe in Erenn. A message I have sent you, my princely brother, demanding that you surrender the Fireshaper Morwyn verch Morgan ap Gwyddion to me for judgment. And a reply I have received from you this hour: one I must reject, for it denies me what is mine by right. You have left me no choice now, if I am to be an honorable prince, which surely you know I am. My answer you see before you, but yet I would forestall this thing if I can. One final time, therefore, I ask you: Deliver Morwyn to me within seven cycles of the sun, or you will find me upon your borders with all my host coming after. The seas belong to us all, brother prince, and I do not yet offer you confrontation. But it is a little thing to land now. Do not force me. I will await your word.”

He lowered his sword, then; and the shouts of his men were drowned by the rumble of drums.

Morwyn looked at Lugh, and her face was grim. “And your answer
is…?”

“The one I have already given.”

Chapter VIII:
Company

(Sullivan Cove, Georgia
—
Saturday, August 17—morning)

“Yeah, but look, Liz,” David was whispering into the telephone, “are you
sure
you can’t get here any earlier?” He shifted his weight and scratched his bare midriff absently, then glanced down and noted that a sneaker was untied. A monstrous yawn was token of the hour: 6:30
A.M.

“I’m sure,” a sleepy-sounding Liz replied. “I told you: today’s the only time Dad’s got to help me move. I’ve still got some packing to do, and it’s gonna take all afternoon to lug my stuff down to Gainesville. I’m lucky I can come back at all.”

“See? See?”
David chided. “That’s what you get for moving away from me: just a bunch of hassle.”

“What I get, David Sullivan, is a better education!”

“Maybe too good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” David could practically see Liz’s eyes narrow and her fist smack on her hip in indignation.

“What do you think?” He chuckled.

“I’m not gonna be going out with other boys, if that’s what’s bothering you!”

“It wasn’t.”

“
Wasn’t
it?”

Another yawn. “Uh, well
maybe…
But look, try to get back as soon as you
can—I’ll…
well, it just won’t be the same without you. Even Uncle Dale said that. He’s looking forward to seeing you too.”

“That’s guilt-tripping, David.”

“Just the facts, ma’am. Shoot, I wouldn’t be surprised if you two weren’t—”

“What?”

Another chuckle. “Oh, never mind. But look, I really do need to talk to you—about Brother Alec for one thing,
and…”

“You already told me that.”

“Oh, right. Anyway, gotta go.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

David hung up the receiver and yawned again. God, he was tired. Yesterday’s exertions had apparently taken more out of him than he thought, as had been evidenced the night before when he’d dozed off in the middle of a conversation with Calvin. He’d awakened in the empty den sometime past eleven and stumbled off to bed, only to be roused again far too soon after by the relentless chiming of the alarm summoning him to what he knew would be a morning of last-minute cleaning.

But at least the kitchen was done—which was a miracle considering the cooking that had been going on for days. Still, one’s favorite great-uncle didn’t turn seventy but once, as Uncle Dick and crew were driving up from Tampa to attest. Nobody knew when they were arriving, though: which was one reason he’d had to resort to such an early hour for his call. Once Big Billy’s youngest surviving brother arrived with his pushy wife and his hellion kids, there’d be no privacy at all. Worse yet, their very presence made for a degree of domestic chaos he could barely stomach, and he was grateful for Calvin’s offer of help with the chores, because it really would take a lot of the load off him. They were going running, too—as soon as the Indian got there; but in the meantime, there was still one piece of unfi
ni
shed business.

He dialed another number.

“Hello?” a groggy voice answered.

“Uh, hi, Alec: how’s it goin?”

“Fine, except, of course that it’s six thirty-five in the morning and I’m grounded. Beyond that I’m as good as I can be, considering…”

“Grounded?”

“Tell you later. Walls have ears, y’know.”

David frowned. It was hard to tell from Alec’s tone whether he was merely sleepy or being sarcastic. He sounded a little reticent and David wondered if his best friend might not be in some kind of trouble. Come to think of it, he’d been driving the new Volvo yesterday. That almost certainly explained it.

“Uh, yeah, well, sorry ’bout the time, man,” he hedged. “But look, I just wanted to apologize for last night, but—well, Calvin just kinda showed up. Hadn’t been there even an hour before you came over. But I mean if you’d had something you really wanted to talk
about…?”

“No problem.”

“You sure? You were in pretty bad shape when you left.”

“I’m
okay,
David.”

“I tried to call you a couple of times.”

“I was out.”

“M. Gang honor?”

A pause, then: “Word of honor.”

“Sorry, man; I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine.”

“Look, are you still coming to the party? I really want you there.”

“Well, as I said, I’m kinda on my dad’s shitlist right now, and I’ve gotta work morning and night at the bloody concession stand. But I think I can make the afternoon.”

“Good job! Maybe we can slip off and talk some of this out before—”

“Before what?”

“Before Liz gets there. She’s gotta move a bunch of stuff down to Gainesville today and won’t be in till late afternoon, so we’ve got till then.”

“You sure?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What about—oh, never mind.”

“Calvin? Well, he’s gonna be there, but he’s not my shadow or anything; he’s a free and independent person. I mean I like him, and all; but you’ve got nothing to worry about—if you were worrying.”

“Yeah, well—”

“You were, weren’t you?”

“I can’t
help
it,” Alec blurted.

“We’ll talk, then. But look, I see Ma coming this way with a broom in her hand, so I better run or I’ll get put to work. So we’ll see you later?”

“You got it.”

“Catch you then, bro. Gotta—”

“Boogie?” came another voice, as footsteps pounded on the porch and Calvin bounced into the room.

“You got it!” David repeated, grinning as he surveyed Calvin’s attire: green jogging shorts, Nike running shoes, the freshly washed falcon T-shirt and a much smaller pack. “We’d better be at it, too,” he added, dragging Calvin back outside.

“Not till you finish the chores,” Big Billy drawled cheerfully from the yard beside them.

“So who is this uncle of yours we’re going to see?” Calvin asked an hour later. He and David had finally finished the morning routine: milking and feeding the livestock, which Calvin had virtually taken over. David had contented himself with emptying every trash can in sight. They’d all been full, too, what with his mother’s incessant baking. She was in a state bordering on panic.