Darkthunder's Way (8 page)

“—who happened to be littermates to the King of Erenn!”

Lugh shook his head. “That, I expect is but an excuse. Finvarra, I doubt it not, grows weary, as do I. The years weigh heavy when they have no end. Sometimes any change from boredom is sufficient.”

“What of the Lands of Men? Would it not profit both of you more to turn your attention there?
They
are a threat; the matter of myself a mere legal bother.”

Lugh sighed heavily. “In that you echo your one-time lord’s thinking but never mine. We could not win such a war and remain unchanged. I doubt we could win it at all.”

“Yet you have just spoken of change as a thing desired.”

“But there is change and change.”

“And none of this addresses your problem.”

“True, and I can find no simple solution. I have cast the Runes and read the Tracks, and all I have found is thunder. Even Oisin is baffled.”

Morwyn set down her goblet and folded her arms decisively. “We must therefore trust to our own devices! Well then, there are two things I have to tell you: One is that I would not bring war upon one who has given me succor and greatly honored my son—thus, if I can find a means to accomplish it, I
will
leave. But the other thing is more fell, which is that to which I alluded before: the reason we may already be too late.”

Lugh’s eyes narrowed abruptly. “I think it is time you told me.”

The Fireshaper took a deep breath. “There is a secret known to my people that I have learned by certain means that we employ, of which I should not speak lest it mark me a traitor…”

“I would not have you do
that
,” Lugh told her, “whatever may be your reason.”

“That is for
me
to decide, a matter between myself and my conscience. But the news I bear is this: For a very long time, Finvarra has been building a navy in secret. Human wrights he has employed, as well as the dwarf folk.”

“All this I have heard,” Lugh said. “Finvarra’s fondness for ships is widely known.”

“Ah yes, but what is
not
so widely known is that he has had other aid as well: the aid of my mother’s people.”

Lugh’s mouth became a thin, hard line.
“Powersmiths!”
he whispered. Then, louder, “What
kind
of aid?”

“With keel and prows, with sails and oars—and with Power—such Power, Lord, as will render the seas open at any season!”

Shocked silence was Lugh’s only response.

“What this means, of course,” Morwyn continued, “is that you may not have as much time to prepare as you had expected.
That
is why it may already be too late for me to leave your country.”

“I have ships as well,” Lugh said heavily.

“Ships swifter than the Winds Between the Worlds?”

“Far swifter, and also of Powersmith crafting. Who do you suppose built the airy navy that found you on the mountain in the Lands of Men?”

“But Finvarra’s ships are newer—and far, far faster!” Lugh gnawed his moustache thoughtfully. ‘This is all ill to speak of, Lady: yet there is one thing you may have forgotten, and it is a surprise to me that you have not yourself recalled it.”

Once more an eyebrow lifted. “And that is?”

“There is still one ship that should be faster than any of Finvarra’s.”

“What ship is that?”

“The one you gave a certain Mortal. I have heard Fionchadd speak of it often, how it uses all the subtlety of your people’s art—and all their latest delvings into Power. Surely that boat would easily outdistance any fleet of Finvarra’s.”

“It might, Lord, but it is no longer mine to offer.”

Lugh’s eyes glittered dangerously. “No, it was a gift given
freely,
I presume. Or was there, perhaps some
other
motivation? A desire to protect it, maybe? To hide its secrets from my druids?”

Morwyn smiled cryptically but did not reply.

“I am right then!” Lugh cried triumphantly. “I knew it, and curse you for screening your thoughts so that I might not see the truth.”

“Yet if I had that ship…”

“And I swore to keep my druids from it…”

“—I might slip away this very evening, and none the wiser.”

“You might even evade Finvarra…”

“One problem yet remains, though.”

“Besides retrieving the ship, I assume?”

“Aye. The vessel was made for speed only, not for confrontation. It is vulnerable to attack. Therefore I must leave as soon as possible, to minimize chance of engagement.”

“Will you see to it, then?”

Morwyn nodded, and stood. “I go to make myself ready. And by the way, have you seen my son?”

“Fionchadd?” Lugh asked, as he retrieved his goblet and joined her. “I believe he is somewhere with Nuada.”

Morwyn frowned. “And I have a notion where that might be.”

Chapter V: Odd Man Out

(Enotah County, Georgia
—
Friday, August 16—early evening)

Though he should have been flipping burgers, Alec McLean had been spending rather more time that hot August afternoon staring at his fingers. There was nothing remarkable about them, really; they were merely the hard, knobby digits due a moderately active seventeen-year-old boy—unless he rearranged them. He did it again: thumb and pinkie folded, the remaining three extended scouts-honor-wise.
Three,
he thought—until he shifted his index Anger sideways.
Two-and-one, now—except that all of a sudden it’s one-and-two,
whereupon the indexer rejoined the others, and the ring guy was on his own.

Back and forth; in and out:
three, two, one; one, two, three
…

“For heaven’s sake, Alec, pay attention!” his father called behind him. “That’s the third batch you’ve ruined today! I didn’t get you this job to burn up the profit!” He sounded more put-upon than exasperated.

“Huh? Oh—sorry, Dad!” Alec spun around and tried to salvage the six patties charring on the grill beside him.

Maybe the black wouldn’t show if he squirted on enough mustard and catsup.

Dr. McLean, a solid three inches shorter and a flabby forty pounds more portly than his only child, rolled his pale eyes toward his purple-and-gold Lions Club hat and pried the greasy flipper from his son’s nonciphering hand. “Just forget it, boy; these are goners anyway. You might as well go home, much good you’re doing here.”

Alec frowned. “Sorry, I…I guess I’m just not with it today.”

“I guess you’re not. But do try to be tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s David’s uncle’s party!”

“Not in the
morning,
it isn’t! Or at night.”

“Da-aad!”

“I signed you up for thirty hours in here, and thirty you’re gonna do! Now scat! I can get by till Gary comes on board—assuming he’s on time.”

It was Alec’s turn to roll his eyes. “What would you do without the MacTyrie gang as slave labor?” he wondered aloud, as he untangled himself from his stained white apron and sidestepped his father on his way to the concession stand’s flimsy wooden door.

Dr. McLean applied himself to methodically dismembering an onion. “Darrell’s picking you up, right?”

“Yeah,” Alec replied offhandedly. “I still say it’d be easier if you let me drive.”

Dr. McLean’s round face furrowed in resignation. “That’ll be enough of that. That part comes in, you can drive your car. Mine stays home where it’s safe. No way I’d let my new Swedish baby in this traffic.”

“Which reduces you to bumming rides with my buddies.”

“Which
means,
my son, that I’ve an excellent feel for both irony and convenience.”

“Gaaaa! Not English again!” Alec shrieked as he leapt down the steps. “You really are trying to get rid of me!”

“Tell your mom I’ll—”

“Yeah, I know: You’ll catch a ride with G-Man later this evening.”

“You got it.”

“Carry on.”

“You got it.”

*

You son-of-a-bitchin’ child!
Alec
was railing at himself as he shuffled through the late-afternoon crowd on his way out of the fairgrounds. Once more he recalled the image that had soured the whole half-day and made him burn more than that last half-dozen burgers in the process. It hadn’t been much, really, certainly nothing to justify such an overblown reaction—just a thing he had seen a thousand times before: David’s head bobbing away in a crowd. Except that this time that head had bent close to a copper-red one only a little shorter, and that made all the difference, because it reminded him yet again (as if he needed reminding) of exactly how much David’s friendship priorities had shifted. He hated it, too; and hated himself for that hating.
Two-and-one; one-and-two; son-of-a-bitchin’ child, for sure!

He just shouldn’t
feel
that way, dammit! David was his friend, practically his brother. So why should it bother him that his best friend was apparently happier than he’d ever been?

It wasn’t like he wasn’t partly to blame, either. Hadn’t he been pushing David toward Liz all summer? He’d sure given him a lot of grief about her while they were down in Valdosta, and more upon their return. But that had all been rather abstract; more McLeanian vicarious living. It was real now; and he was having trouble adapting to True-Love-Meets-Mad-Davy-Sullivan.

Love!
Ha! That was a giggle!

One definition of it, he had heard, was supposed to be when someone else’s happiness was more important than your own. Which meant that if he loved David, which he did, platonically; and if David was happy by virtue of being in love; then he should himself be happier still. Only somehow it didn’t work out that way. Nor did it tell him what to do about Alec. Poor, odd-finger-out Alec McLean.

Abruptly he stumbled, bounced off an unyielding sur
face, then a considerably softer, though more vocal one.

“Hey, watch where yer goin’, boy!”

Alec froze, looked up, and realized he’d not been paying the slightest attention to where his feet were taking
him
. He’d simply been plodding along with his hands in his pockets, scruffing his B.K.’s through the ubiquitous midway sawdust, and feeling sorry for himself.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to his victim—a fat, sweaty man in Bermuda shorts and a hat: Floridian, without a doubt.

The man scowled, grunted an obscenity, and turned away.

Alec did too, biting back a flash of anger that his logical part knew all too well was a function of his preoccupation. But so quickly did he spin around that before he could stop himself, he slammed into someone else and tumbled backward to the ground. Blushing furiously, he picked himself up, still seeing stars—and came face-to-face with the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

She was as tall as he was and black-haired, with skin like ivory and a touch of strangeness to her bone structure, the cant of her eyes and brows: Mexican, maybe, or Indian, or even Oriental. Except that her eyes were dark blue, wide and frank, yet shy in their appraisal. He found himself staring straight into them, only half aware of her smile as she met his gaze and gave it back. For a moment the stars returned, and he looked away, but not before he had glimpsed her clothing: white linen blouse and a long fringed skirt of obviously foreign manufacture. The body beneath was slim yet well developed; maybe she was some sort of athlete or one of the carny women out for a lark. “S-sorry,” he managed, and could not resist another glance at her face.

“No damage done,” the girl replied. She had an accent, though he couldn’t place it except that he knew he’d heard it before. “I should have been more careful,” she continued.

“But I really
am
sorry,” Alec stammered. “I don’t usually make a habit of running into b—” He stopped himself a bare syllable short of saying
beautiful women,
and colored again. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t like he’d never seen a pretty girl before. Except, he realized he hadn’t—not like this one, anyway. And she was
so…
so
approachable,
he supposed; not like the spiteful, self-centered airheads at school, who he was convinced carried a gene for bitchiness along with the ones for blond hair, perfect skin and great bods. Liz was the only truly pretty girl he knew who wasn’t stuck-up about it—and she was taken.

The girl blinked, as if waiting for him to complete his sentence. “I don’t usually run into people,” he finished lamely. “I’m usually more together than that.”

“Apology accepted!”

“Uh…
anything I can do to make amends?” Alec blurted before he was truly aware of what he was saying. “Buy you a Coke, or something?”

Again that smile: red lips above perfect teeth; and God, didn’t she have nice eyes? “I’m not hungry now. But maybe—sometime.”

“Sometime?”