Fionavar 1 (21 page)

They won't follow in any case. Enough of them have died; they wouldn't risk more for a human.

She is ours, more easily than we might have hoped. It is rare indeed that we receive aid from Daniloth." And he laughed again, maliciously amused.

"Where is she?"

"Inside."

The door was flung open, letting in a dazzling shaft of sunlight. Momentarily blinded, Jennifer was dragged into the clearing.

"A prize, wouldn't you say?" Galadan murmured.

"Perhaps," the other one said. "Depending on what she tells us about why they are here."

Jennifer turned towards the voice, her eyes adjusting, and as they did, she found herself face to face with Metran, First Mage to the High King of Brennin.

No longer was he the shuffling old man she'd seen that first night or watched as he cowered from

Jaelle in the Great Hall. Metran stood straight and tall, his eyes bright with malice.

"You traitor!" Jennifer burst out.

He gestured, and she screamed as her nipples were squeezed viciously. No one had touched her; he had done it himself without moving.

"Carefully, my dear lady," Metran said, all solicitude, as she writhed in pain. "You must be careful of what you say to me. I have the power to do whatever I want with you." He nodded towards his source, Denbarra, who stood close by.

"Not quite," the other voice demurred. "Let her go." The tone was very quiet, but the pain stopped instantly. Jennifer turned, wiping tears from her face.

Galadan was not tall, but there was a sinuous strength to him, a sheathed intimation of very great power. Cold eyes fixed her from a scarred, aristocratic face under the thatch of silver hair-like Brendel's, she thought, with another sort of pain.

He bowed to her, courtly and graceful, and with a veiled amusement. Then that was gone as he turned to Metran.

"She goes north for questioning," he said. "Unharmed."

"Are you telling me what to do?" Metran said on a rising note, and Jennifer saw Denbarra stiffen.

"Actually, yes, if you put it that way." There was mockery in his voice. "Are you going to fight me over it, mageling?"

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"I could kill you, Galadan," Metran hissed.

The one named Galadan smiled again, but not with his eyes. "Then try. But I tell you now, you will fail. I am outside your taught magic, mageling. You have some power, I know, and have been given more, and may indeed have greater yet to come, but I will still be outside you, Metran. I always will be. And if you test it, I shall have your heart out for my friends."

In the silence that followed this, Jennifer became conscious of the ring of wolves surrounding them.

There were svart alfar as well, but the giant red-eyed wolf was gone.

Metran was breathing hard. "You are not above me, Galadan. I was promised this."

At that, Galadan threw back his fierce, scarred head, and a burst of genuine laughter rang through the clearing.

"Promised, were you? Ah well, then, I must apologize!" His laughter stopped. "She is still to go north. If it were not so, I might take her for myself. But look!"

Jennifer, turning skyward to where Galadan was pointing, saw a creature so beautiful it lifted her heart in reflexive hope.

A black swan came swooping down from the high reaches of the sky, glorious against the sun, the great wings widespread, feathered with jet plumage, the long neck gracefully extended.

Then it landed, and Jennifer realized that the true horror had only begun, for the swan had unnatural razored teeth, and claws, and about it, for all the stunning beauty, there clung an odor of putrescent corruption.

Then the swan spoke, in a voice like slithering darkness in a pit. "I have come," she said. "Give her to me."

Far away yet, terribly far away, Loren Silvercloak was driving his horse back south, cursing his own folly in all the tongues he knew.

"She is yours, Avaia," said Galadan, unsmiling. "Is she not, Metran?"

"Of course," said the mage. He had moved upwind of the swan. "I will naturally be anxious to know what she has to say. It is vital for me in my place of watch."

"No longer," the black swan said, ruffling her feathers. "I have tidings for you. The Cauldron is ours, I am to say. You go now to the place of spiraling, for the time is upon us."

Across the face of Metran there spread then a smile of such cruel triumph that Jennifer turned away from it. "It has come then," the mage exulted. "The day of my revenge. Oh, Garmisch, my dead

King, I shall break the usurper into pieces on his throne, and make drinking cups of the bones of the

House of Ailell!"

The swan showed her unnatural teeth. "I will take pleasure in the sight," she hissed.

"No doubt," said Galadan wryly. "Is there word for me?"

"North," the swan replied. "You are asked to go north with your friends. Make haste. There is little time."

"It is well," said Galadan. "I have one task left here, then I follow."

"Make haste," Avaia said again. "And now I go."

"No!" Jennifer screamed, as cold svart hands grabbed for her. Her cries cut the air of the clearing and fell into nothingness. She was bound across the back of the giant swan and the dense, putrefying smell of it overwhelmed her. She could not breathe; when she opened her mouth, the thick black feathers choked her, and as they left the earth for the blazing sky, Jennifer fainted for the first time in her life, and so could not have known the glorious curving arc she and the swan made, cutting across the sky.

The figures in the clearing watched Avaia bear the girl away until they were lost in the shimmering of the white sky.

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Metran turned to the others, exultation still in his eyes. "You heard? The Cauldron is mine!"

"So it seems," Galadan agreed. "You are away across the water, then?"

"Immediately. It will not be long before you see what I do with it."

Galadan nodded, then a thought seemed to strike him. "I wonder, does Denbarra understand what all this means?" He turned to the source. "Tell me, my friend, do you know what this Cauldron is all about?"

Denbarra shifted uneasily under the weight of that gaze. "I understand what is needful for me to know," he said sturdily. "I understand that with its aid, the House of Garantae will rule again in Brennin."

Galadan regarded him a moment longer, then his glance flicked away dismissively. "He is worthy of his destiny," he said to Metran. "A thick-witted source is an advantage for you, I suppose. I should get dreadfully bored, myself."

Denbarra flushed, but Metran was unmoved by the gibe this time. "My sister-son is loyal. It is a virtue," he said, unconscious of the irony. "What about you? You mentioned a task to be done.

Should I know?"

"You should, but evidently you don't. Give thanks that I am less careless. There is a death to be consummated."

Metran's mouth twitched at the insult, but he did not respond. "Then go your way," he said. "We may not meet for some time."

"Alas!" said Galadan.

The mage raised a hand. "You mock me," he said with intensity. "You mock us all, andain. But I tell you this: with the Cauldron of Khath Meigol in my hands, I will wield a power even you dare not scorn. And with it I shall wreak such a vengeance here in Brennin that the memory of it will never die."

Galadan lifted his scarred head and regarded the mage. "Perhaps," he said finally, and very, very softly. "Unless the memory of it dies because everything has died. Which, as you know, is the wish of my heart."

On the last words, he made a subtle gesture over his breast, and a moment later a coal-black wolf with a splash of silver on its head ran swiftly westward from the clearing.

Had he entered the forest farther south, a great deal of what ensued might have been very different.

At the southern edge of the woodcutter's clearing a figure lay, hidden among the trees, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Behind him on the trail through the forest the last two lios alfar lay dead.

And ten wolves.

And in the heart of Na-Brendel of the Kestrel Mark lay a grief and a rage that, more than anything else, had kept him alive so far. In the sunlight his eyes were black as night.

He watched Metran and his source mount horses and swing away northwest, and he saw the svarts and wolves leave together for the north. Only when the clearing stood utterly silent did he rise, with difficulty, and begin his own journey back to Paras Derval. He limped badly, from a wound in the thigh, and he was weak unto death from loss of blood; but he was not going to let himself fall or fail, for he was of the lios alfar, and the last of his company, and with his own eyes he had seen a gathering of the Dark that day.

It was a long way, though, and he was badly, badly hurt, so he was still a league from Paras Derval when twilight fell.

During the day there were rumblings of thunder in the west. A number of the merchants in the city came to their doorways to look at the heavens, more out of habit than out of hope. The killing sun burned in a bare sky.

On the green at the end of Anvil Lane, Leila had gathered the children again for the ta'kiena.

One or two had refused out of boredom, but she was insistent, and the others acceded to her
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wishes, which, with Leila, was always the best thing to do.

So she was blindfolded again, and she made them do it double so she truly could not see. Then she began the calling, and went through the first three almost indifferently because they didn't matter, they were only a game. When she came to the last one, though, to the Road, she felt the now familiar stillness come over her again, and she closed her eyes behind the two blindfolds.

Then her

mouth went dry and the difficult twisting flowered inside her. Only when the rushing sound began, like waves, did she start the chant, and as she sang the last word everything stopped.

She removed the blindfolds and, blinking in the brightness, saw with no surprise at all that it was Finn again. As if from far away she heard the voices of the adults watching them, and further still she heard a roll of thunder, but she looked only at Finn. He seemed more alone every time. She would have been sad, but it seemed so destined that sadness didn't fit, nor any sense of surprise.

She didn't know what the Longest Road was, or where it led, but she knew it was Finn's, and that she was calling him to it.

Later that afternoon, though, something did surprise her. Ordinary people never went to the sanctuary of the Mother, certainly not at the direct request of the High Priestess herself. She combed her hair and wore her only gown; her mother made her.

When Sharra dreamed now of the falcon, it was no longer alone in the sky over Larai Rigal.

Memory burned in her like a fire under stars.

She was her father's daughter, though, heir to the Ivory Throne, and so there was a matter to be looked into, regardless of fires in her heart or falcons overhead.

Devorsh, Captain of the Guard, knocked in response to her summons, and the mutes admitted him.

Her ladies murmured behind fluttering fans as the tall Captain made obeisance and gave homage in his unmistakable voice. She dismissed the women, enjoying their chagrin, and bade him sit in a low chair by the window.

"Captain," she began, without preamble, "certain documents have come to my attention raising a matter I think we must address."

"Highness?" He was handsome, she conceded, but not a candle, not a candle. He would not understand why she was smiling; not that it mattered.

"It seems that the archival records make mention of stone handholds cut many years ago in the cliff above Saeren due north of us."

"Above the river, Highness? In the cliff?" Polite incredulity infused the gravelly voice.

"I think I said that, yes." He flushed at the rebuke; she paused to let it register. "If those handholds exist, they are a danger and we should know about them. I want you to take two men you trust and see if this is true. For obvious reasons"-though she knew of none-"this is to be kept very quiet."

"Yes, Highness. When shall I-"

"Now, of course." She rose, and so, of necessity, did he.

"My lady's will." He made obeisance and turned to go.

And because of the falcons, the moon-touched memory, she called him back. "Devorsh, one thing more. I heard footsteps in the garden the night before last. Did you notice anything by the walls?"

His face showed real concern. "Highness, I went off duty at sundown. Bashrai took command from me. I will speak to him of this without delay."

"Off duty?"

"Yes, Highness. We take turns, Bashrai and myself, in leading the night watch. He is most competent, I suggest, but if-"

"How many men patrol the walls at night?" She leaned on the back of a chair for support; there
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was a pressure behind her eyes.

"Twelve, Highness, in peacetime."

"And the dogs?"

He coughed. "Ah, no, my lady. Not of late. It was felt unnecessary. They have been used on the hunt this spring and summer. Your father knows about this, of course." His face was animated by unconcealed curiosity. "If my lady feels they should-"

"No!" It was intolerable that he be in the room another moment, that he continue to look at her like this, his eyes widening in appraisal. "I will discuss this with Bashrai. Go now and do as I have told you. And quickly, Devorsh, very quickly."

"I go, my lady," he said in the distinctive voice, and went. After, she bit her tongue, tasting blood, so as not to scream.

Shalhassan of Cathal was reclining on a couch, watching two slaves wrestling, when word was brought to him. His court, hedonistic and overbred, was enjoying the sight of the oiled bodies writhing naked on the floor in the presence chamber, but the King watched the fight, as he heard the news, expressionlessly.

Raziel appeared just then in the archway behind the throne with the cup in his hand. It was mid-afternoon then and, taking the drink, Shalhassan saw that the jewelled goblet was blue. Which meant that the northerner's stone still shone as it should. He nodded to Raziel, who withdrew, their private ritual observed, as every day it was. It would never, ever do for the court to find out that