Fionavar 1 (22 page)

Shalhassan was troubled by dreams of red wardstones.

Turning his thoughts to his daughter, Shalhassan drank. He approved her headstrong nature, indeed he had nurtured it, for no weakling dared sit on the Ivory Throne. Tantrums, though, were irresponsible, and this latest. . . . Tearing apart her chambers and whipping her women were one thing; rooms could be restored and servants were servants. Devorsh was a different matter; he was a good soldier in a country with remarkably few, and Shalhassan was not pleased to hear that his

Captain of the Guard had just been garrotted by his daughter's mutes. Whatever the insult she might say he had given her, it was a rash and precipitate response.

He drained the blue cup and came to a decision.

She was growing too undisciplined; it was time to have her married. However strong a woman might be, she still needed a man by her side and in her bed. And the kingdom needed heirs. It was past time.

The wrestling had grown tedious. He gestured and the eidolath stopped the fight. The two slaves had been brave, though, he decided, and he freed them both. There was a polite murmur from the courtiers, an approving rustle of silk.

Turning away, he noticed that one of the wrestlers was a little tardy in his obeisance. The man may have been exhausted, or hurt, but the throne could not be compromised. At any time, in any way.

He gestured again.

There were appropriate uses for the mutes and their garrottes. Sharra would just have to learn to discriminate.

The knowledge of approaching death can come in many shapes, descending as a blessing or rearing up as an apparition of terror. It may sever like the sweep of a blade, or call as a perfect lover calls.

For Paul Schafer, who had chosen to be where he was for reasons deeper than loss and more oblique than empathy for an aged King, the growing awareness that his body could not survive the

Summer Tree came as a kind of relief: in this failure, at least, there could be no shame. There was
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no unworthiness in yielding to a god.

He was honest enough to realize that the exposure and the brutal heat, the thirst and immobility were themselves enough to kill him, and this he had known from the moment they bound him.

But the Summer Tree of Mörnirwood was more than all of these. Naked upon it in the blaze of day, Paul felt the ancient bark all along the planes of his body, and in that contact he apprehended power that made what strength he had its own. The Tree would not break him; instead he felt it reaching out, pulling him into itself, taking everything. Claiming him. He knew as well, somehow, that this was only the beginning, not even the second night. It was scarcely awake.

The God was coming, though. Paul could feel that slow approach along his flesh, in the running of his blood, and now there was thunder, too. Low yet, and muted, but there were two whole nights to come and all about him the Godwood vibrated soundlessly as it had not for years upon years, waiting, waiting for the God to come and claim his own, in darkness and forever, as was his due.

The genial proprietor of the Black Boar was in a mood that bade fair to shatter his public image entirely. Under the circumstances, however, it was not entirely surprising that his countenance should display a distinctly forbidding mien as he surveyed his demesne in the morning light.

It was a festival. People drank during festivals. There were visitors in town, visitors with dry throats from the drought and a little money saved for this time. Money that might-money that should-be his, by all the gods, if he hadn't been forced to close the Boar for the day to redress the damage of the night before. He worked them hard all day, even the ones with broken bones and bashed pates from the brawl, and he certainly wasted no sympathy on employees bemoaning hangovers or lack of sleep. There was money being lost every moment he stayed closed, every moment! And to add to the choler of his mood there was a vile, vile rumor running through the capital that bloody Gorlaes, the Chancellor, intended to slap a rationing law down on all liquids as soon as the fortnight's festival ended. Bloody drought. He attacked a pile of debris in a corner as if it were the offending Chancellor himself. Rationing, indeed! He'd like to see Gorlaes try to ration

Tegid's wine and ale, he'd like to see him try! Why, the fat one had likely poured a week's worth of beer over his posterior the night before.

At the recollection, the owner of the Black Boar succumbed to his first smile of the day, almost with relief. It was hard work being furious. Eyeing the room, hands on hips, he decided that they'd be able to open within an hour or so of sundown; the day wouldn't be a total loss.

So it was that as full dark cloaked the twisting lanes of the old town, and torches and candles gleamed through curtained windows, a bulky shadow moved ponderously towards the recently reopened door of his favorite tavern.

It was dark, though, in the alleys, and he was impeded a trifle by the effects of his wars the night before, and so Tegid almost fell as he stumbled into a slight figure in the lane.

"By the horns of Cernan!" the great one spluttered. "Mind your path. Few obstruct Tegid without peril!"

"Your pardon," the wretched obstacle murmured, so low he was scarcely audible. "I fear I am in some difficulty, and I. . . ."

The figure wavered, and Tegid put out an instinctive hand of support. Then his bloodshot eyes finally adjusted to the shadows, and with a transcendent shock of awe, he saw the other speaker.

"Oh, Mörnir," Tegid whispered in disbelief, and then, for once, was speechless.

The slim figure before him nodded, with an effort. "Yes," he managed. "I am of the lios alfar.

I-,"

he gasped with pain, then resumed, "-I have tidings that must . . . must reach the palace, and I am sorely hurt."

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At which point, Tegid became aware that the hand he had laid upon the other's shoulder was sticky with fresh blood.

"Easy now," he said with clumsy tenderness. "Can you walk?"

"I have, so far, all day. But . . ." Brendel slipped to one knee, even as he spoke. "But as you see, I am. . . ."

There were tears in Tegid's eyes. "Come, then," he murmured, like a lover. And lifting the mangled body effortlessly, Tegid of Rhoden, named Breakwind, called the Boaster, cradled the lios alfar in his massive arms and bore him towards the brilliant glitter of the castle.

"I dreamt again," Kim said. "A swan." It was dark outside the cottage. She had been silent all day, had walked alone by the lake. Throwing pebbles.

"What color?" Ysanne asked, from the rocking chair by the hearth.

"Black."

"I dreamt her as well. It is a bad thing."

"What is it? Eilathen never showed me this." There were two candles in the room. They flickered and dwindled as Ysanne told her about Avaia and Lauriel the White. At intervals they heard thunder, far off.

It was still a festival, and though the King looked haggard and desiccated in his seat at the high table, the Great Hall gleamed richly by torchlight, festooned as it was with hangings of red and gold silk. Despite their morose King and his unwontedly bemused Chancellor, the court of Ailell was determined to enjoy itself. The players in the musicians' gallery overhead were in merry form, and even though dinner had not yet begun, the pages were being kept busy running back and forth with wine.

Kevin Laine, eschewing both his seat at the high table as a guest of honor and the not-very-subtle invitation of the Lady Rheva, had decided to ignore protocol by opting for a masculine enclave partway down one of the two tables that ran along the hall. Seated between Matt Sören and Diarmuid's big, broken-nosed lieutenant, Coll, he attempted to preserve a cheerful appearance, but the fact that no one had seen Paul Schafer since last night was building into a real source of anxiety.

Jennifer, too: where the hell was she?

On the other hand, there were still many people filing into the room, and Jen, he had cause to remember, was seldom on time for anything, let alone early. Kevin drained his wine goblet for the third time and decided that he was becoming altogether too much of a worrier.

At which point Matt Sören asked, "Have you seen Jennifer?" and Kevin abruptly changed his mind.

"No," he said. "I was at the Boar last night, and then seeing the barracks and the armory with Carde and Erron today. Why? Do you-?"

"She went riding with one of the ladies-in-waiting yesterday. Drance was with them."

"He's a good man," Coll said reassuringly, from the other side.

"Well, has anyone seen them? Was she in her room last night?" Kevin asked.

Coll grinned. "That wouldn't prove much, would it? A lot of us weren't in our beds last night."

He laughed and clapped Kevin on the shoulder. "Cheer up!'

Kevin shook his head. Dave. Paul. Now Jen.

"Riding, you said?" He turned to Matt. "Has anyone checked the stables? Are the horses back?"

Sören looked at him. "No," he said softly. "We haven't-but I think I want to now. Come on!" He was already pushing his chair back.

They rose together and so were on their feet when the sudden babble of sound came from the east doorway, and the courtiers and ladies gathered there moved aside for the torches to reveal the enormous figure with a bloodstained body in his arms.

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Everything stopped. In the silence Tegid moved slowly forward between the long tables to stand before Ailell.

"Look!" he cried, grief raw in his voice. "My lord King, here is one of the lios alfar, and see what they have done to him!"

The King was ashen. Trembling, he rose. "Na-Brendel?" he croaked. "Oh, Mörnir. Is he . . . ?"

"No," a faint, clear voice replied. "I am not dead, though I might yet wish to be. Let me stand to give my tidings."

Gently, Tegid lowered the lios to stand on the mosaic-inlaid floor, and then, kneeling awkwardly, he offered his shoulder for support.

Brendel closed his eyes and drew a breath. And when he spoke again his voice, by some act of pure will, rang out strong and clear beneath the windows of Delevan.

"Treachery, High King. Treachery and death I bring you, and tidings of the Dark. We spoke, you and I, four nights past, of svart alfar outside Pendaran Wood. High King, there have been svarts outside your walls this day, and wolves with them. We were attacked before dawn and all my people are slain!"

He stopped. A sound like the moaning of wind before a storm ran through the hall.

Ailell has sunk back into his chair, his eyes bleak and hollow. Brendel lifted his head and looked at him. "There is an empty seat at your table, High King. I must tell you that it stands empty for a traitor. Look to your own hearth, Ailell! Metran, your First Mage, is allied with the Dark. He has deceived you all!" There were cries at that, of anger and dismay.

"Hold!" It was Diarmuid, on his feet and facing the lios. His eyes flashed, but his voice was under tight control. "You said the Dark. Who?"

Once more the silence stretched. Then Brendel spoke. "I would not have ever wanted to bear this tale to the world. I spoke of svart alfar and wolves attacking us. We would not have died had it been only them. There was something else. A giant wolf, with silver on his head like a brand against the black. Then I saw him after with Metran and I knew him, for he had taken back his true form. I must tell you that the Wolflord of the andain has come among us again: Galadan has returned."

"Accursed be his name!" someone cried, and Kevin saw that it was Matt. "How can this be? He died at Andarien a thousand years ago."

"So thought we all," said Brendel, turning to the Dwarf. "But I saw him today, and this wound is his." He touched his torn shoulder. Then, "There is more. Something else came today and spoke with both of them."

Once more Brendel hesitated. And this time his eyes, dark-hued, went to Kevin's face.

"It was the black swan," he said, and a stillness fell upon stillness. "Avaia. She carried away Jennifer, your friend, the golden one. They had come for her, why I know not, but we were too few, too few against the Wolflord, and so my brethren are all dead, and she is gone. And the Dark is abroad in the world again."

Kevin, white with dread, looked at the maimed figure of the lios. "Where?" he gasped, in a voice that shocked him.

Brendel shook his head wearily. "I could not hear their words. Black Avaia took her north.

Could I

have stayed her flight, I would have died to do so. Oh, believe me," the lios alfar's voice faltered.

"Your grief is mine, and mine may tear the fabric of my soul apart. Twenty of my people have died, and it is in my heart that they are not the last. We are the Children of Light, and the Dark is rising. I

must return to Daniloth. But," and now his voice grew strong again, "an oath I will swear before you now. She was in my care. I shall find her, or avenge her, or die in the attempt." And Brendel
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cried then, so that the Great Hall echoed to the sound: "We shall fight them as we did before! As we always have!"

The words rang among them like a stern bell of defiance, and in Kevin Laine they lit a fire he did not know lay within him.

"Not alone!" he cried, his own voice pitched to carry. "If you share my grief, I will share yours.

And others here will, too, I think."

"Aye!" boomed Matt Sören beside him.

"All of us!" cried Diarmuid, Prince of Brennin. "When the lios are slain in Brennin, the High Kingdom goes to war!"

A mighty roar exploded at those words. Building and building in a wave of fury it climbed to the highest windows of Delevan and resounded through the hall.

It drowned, quite completely, the despairing words of the High King.

"Oh, Mörnir," whispered Ailell, clutching his hands together in his lap. "What have I done?

Where is Loren? What have I done?"

There had been light, now there was not. One measured time in such ways. There were stars in the space above the trees; no moon yet, and only a thin one later, for tomorrow would be the night of the new moon.