Fionavar 1 (7 page)

"Ah!" exclaimed Tegid, as he eased himself onto a long bench. "I'm dry as Jaelle's heart. To the King!" he cried, raising his own flask, "and to his glorious heir, Prince Diarmuid, and to our noble and distinguished guests, and to. . . ." The rest of the peroration was lost in the sound of wine voluminously pouring into his mouth. At length the flow ceased. Tegid surfaced, belched, and looked around. "I've a mighty thirst in me tonight," he explained unnecessarily.

Paul addressed the Prince casually. "If you're in a party mood, aren't you in the wrong bedroom?"

Diarmuid's smile was rueful. "Don't assume you were a first choice," he murmured. "Your charming companions accepted their dresses for tomorrow, but nothing more, I'm afraid. The small one, Kim"-he shook his head-"has a tongue in her."

"My condolences," said Kevin, delighted. "I've been on the receiving end a few times."

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"Then," said Diarmuid dan Ailell, "let us drink in joint commiseration." The Prince set the tone by commencing to relate what he characterized as essential information: a wittily obscene description of the various court ladies they were likely to meet. A description that reflected an extreme awareness of their private as well as public natures.

Tegid and Coll stayed; the other two men left after a time, to be replaced by a different pair with fresh wine flasks. Eventually these two departed as well. The two men who succeeded them, however, were not smiling as they entered.

"What is it, Carde?" Coll asked the fair-haired one.

The man addressed cleared his throat. Diarmuid, sprawled in a deep chair by the window, turned at the sound.

Garde's voice was very soft. "Something strange. My lord, I thought you should know right away.

There's a dead svart alfar in the garden below this window."

Through the wine-induced haze descending upon him, Kevin saw Diarmuid swing to his feet.

"Brightly woven," the Prince said. "Which of you killed it?"

Garde's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's just it, my lord. Erron found it dead. It's throat was

. . .

ripped apart, my lord. Erron thinks . . . he thinks it was done by a wolf, though . . . with respect, my lord, I don't ever want to meet what killed that creature."

In the silence that followed this, Kevin looked over at Paul Schafer. Sitting up on his bed, Schafer seemed thinner and more frail than ever. His expression was unreadable.

Diarmuid broke the stillness. "You said it was below this window?"

Carde nodded, but the Prince had turned already and, throwing open the doors, was on the balcony and then dropping over the edge. And right behind him was Paul Schafer. Which meant that Kevin

had to go, too. With Coll beside him and Carde just behind, he moved to the edge of the balcony, swung over the balustrade, hung by his hands a dizzy instant, and dropped the ten feet to the garden. The other two followed. Only Tegid remained in the room, his mountainous bulk precluding the descent.

Diarmuid and Paul had moved to where three men were standing by a stunted clump of shrubbery.

They parted to let the Prince in among them. Kevin, breathing deeply to clear his head, moved up beside Paul and looked down.

When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he wished they hadn't. The svart alfar had been almost decapitated; its head had been clawed to shreds. One arm had been torn through, the shoulder remaining attached to the body only by an exposed strip of cartilage, and there were deep claw marks scoring the naked torso of the dark green, hairless creature. Even in the shadows, Kevin could see the thick blood clotting the dried-out soil. Breathing very carefully, shocked almost sober, he resisted an impulse to be sick. No one spoke for a long time: the fury that was reflected in the mangled creature on the ground imposed its own silence.

Eventually Diarmuid straightened and moved back a few steps. "Carde," he said crisply, "I want the watch doubled on our guests as of now. Tomorrow I want a report on why that thing wasn't seen by any of you. And why you didn't see what killed it either. If I post guards, I expect them to be useful."

"My lord." Carde, badly shaken, moved off with the other guards.

Coll was still crouching beside the dead svart. Now he looked over his shoulder. "Diar," he said,

"it was no ordinary wolf that did this."

"I know," said the Prince. "If it was a wolf."

Kevin, turning, looked at Paul Schafer again. Schafer had his back to them. He was gazing at the
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outer wall of the garden.

At length the four of them walked back to the balcony. With the aid of crevices in the palace wall, and a hand over the balustrade from Tegid, they were all soon in the room once more.

Diarmuid, Tegid, and Coll departed shortly after. The Prince left them two flasks of wine and an offer; they accepted both.

Kevin ended up drinking almost all of the wine himself, primarily because Paul, for a change, wasn't in a mood to talk.

"We're on!" Kim hissed, prodding him with an elbow. They were, it seemed. The four of them stepped forward in response to Gorlaes's sweeping gesture and, as instructed, waved to the loudly cheering crowd.

Kimberly, waving with one hand and supporting Kevin with the other, realized suddenly that this was the scene that Loren had conjured up for them in the Park Plaza two nights before.

Instinctively she looked up over her shoulder. And saw the banner flapping lazily overhead: the crescent moon and the oak.

Kevin, grateful for her arm, did manage a few waves and a fixed smile, while reflecting that the tumultuous gathering below was taking a lot on faith. At this height they could have been any four members of the court. He supposed, impressed with himself for thinking so clearly, that the public relations thing would probably focus on the nobility anyhow. The people around them knew that they were from another world-and someone seemed to be awfully unhappy about it.

His head was killing him, and some indeterminate fungus seemed to have taken up residence in his mouth. Better shape up fast, he thought, you're about to meet a king. And there was a long ride waiting tomorow, with God knows what at the end.

For Diarmuid's last offer had been an unexpected one. "We're going south tomorrow morning,"

he'd said as the dawn was breaking. "Across the river. A raid of sorts, though a quiet one. No one to know. If you think you can manage, you may find it interesting. Not altogether safe, but I think we can take care of you." It was the smile on the last phrase that got both of them-which, Kevin realized, was probably what the manipulative bastard had intended.

The great hall at Paras Derval had been designed by Tomaz Lal, whose disciple Ginserat had been, he who later made the wardstones and much else of power and beauty in the older days.

Twelve great pillars supported the high ceiling. Set far up in the walls were the windows of Delevan-stained-glass images of the founding of the High Kingdom by Iorweth, and the first wars with Eridu and Cathal. The last window on the western wall, above the canopied throne of Brennin, showed Conary himself, Colan young beside him, their fair hair blowing back as they rode north through the Plain to the last battle against Rakoth Maugrim. When the sun was setting, that window would blaze with light in such a fashion that the faces of the King and his golden son were illuminated as from within with majesty, though the window had been crafted almost a thousand years before. Such was the art of Delevan, the craft of Tomaz Lal.

Walking between the huge pillars over mosaic-inlaid tiles, Kimberly was conscious for the first time of feeling awe in this place. The pillars, windows, ever-present tapestries, the jewelled floor, the gem-encrusted clothing of the lords and ladies, even the silken splendor of the lavender-colored gown she wore. . . She drew a deep, careful breath and kept her gaze as straight as she could.

And doing so, she saw, as Loren led the four of them to the western end of the hall, under the last great window, a raised dais of marble and obsidian and upon it a throne carved of heavy oak, and sitting upon the throne was the man she'd only glimpsed through the crowd on the balcony earlier in the day.

The tragedy of Ailell dan Art lay in what he had fallen from. The haggard man with the wispy, snow-white beard and blurred, cataract-occluded gaze showed little of the giant warrior, with eyes like a noonday sky, who had taken the Oak Throne fifty years before. Gaunt and emaciated,
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Ailell seemed to have been stretched thin by his years, and the expression with which he peered forward to follow their approach was not welcoming.

To one side of the King stood Gorlaes. The broad-shouldered Chancellor was dressed in brown, with his seal of office hung about his neck and no other ornament. On the other side of the throne, in burgundy and white, stood Diarmuid, the King's Heir of Brennin. Who winked when her gaze lingered. Kim turned away abruptly to see Metran, the First Mage, making his slow wheezing way, attendant solicitously at hand, to stand with Loren just in front of them.

Seeing Paul Schafer gazing intently at the King, she turned back to the throne herself, and after a pause she heard her name being spoken in introduction. She stepped forward and bowed, having decided earlier that under no circumstances was she going to try anything so hazardous as a curtsy.

The others followed suit. Jennifer did curtsy, sinking down in a rustle of green silk, and rising gracefully as an appreciative murmur ran through the hall.

"Be welcome to Brennin," the High King said, leaning back in his throne. "Bright be the thread of your days among us." The words were gracious, but there was little pleasure in the low desiccated tones in which they were spoken. "Thank you, Metran, Loren," the King said, in the same voice.

"Thank you, Teyrnon," he added, nodding to a third man half hidden beyond Loren.

Metran bowed too low in response and almost toppled over. His aide helped him straighten.

Someone snickered in the background.

Loren was speaking. "We thank you for your kindness, my lord. Our friends have met your son and the Chancellor already. The Prince was good enough to make them guest-friends of your house last night." His voice on the last phrase was pitched to carry.

The King's eyes rested for a long moment on those of Loren, and Kim, watching, changed her mind. Ailell might be old, but he certainly wasn't senile-the amusement registering in his face was far too cynical.

"Yes," said the King, "I know he did. And herewith I endorse his doing so. Tell me, Loren," he went on in a different tone, "do you know if any of your friends play ta'bael?"

Loren shook his head apologetically. "Truly, my lord," he said, "I never thought to ask. They have the same game in their world, they call it chess, but-"

"I play," said Paul.

There was a short silence. Paul and the King looked at each other. When Ailell spoke, his voice was very soft. "I hope," he said, "that you will play with me while you are with us."

Schafer nodded by way of response. The King leaned back, and Loren, seeing this, turned to lead them from the hall.

"Hold, Silvercloak!"

The voice was icily imperious. It knifed into them. Kim quickly turned left to where she'd noticed a small grouping of women in grey robes. Now that cluster parted and a woman walked forward towards the throne.

All in white she was, very tall, with red hair held back by a circlet of silver on her brow. Her eyes were green and very cold. In her bearing as she strode towards them was a deep, scarcely suppressed rage, and as she drew near, Kimberly saw that she was beautiful. But despite the hair, which gleamed like a fire at night under stars, this was not a beauty that warmed one. It cut, like a weapon. There was no nuance of gentleness in her no shading of care, but fair she was, as is the flight of an arrow before it kills.

Loren, checked in the act of withdrawing, turned as she approached-and there was no warmth in his face, either.

"Have you not forgotten something?" the woman in white said, her voice feather-soft and sinuous with danger.

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"An introduction? I would have done so in due course," Loren replied lightly. "If you are impatient, I can-"

"Due course? Impatient? By Macha and Nemain you should be cursed for insolence!" The red-haired woman was rigid with fury. Her eyes burned into those of the mage.

Who endured the look without expression. Until another voice interceded in rich, plummy tones.

"I'm afraid you are right, Priestess," said Gorlaes. "Our voyager here does at times forget the patterns of precedence. Our guests should have been presented to you today. I fear-"

"Fool!" the Priestess snapped. "You are a fool, Gorlaes. Today? I should have been spoken to before he went on this journey. How dare you, Metran? How dare you send for a crossing without leave of the Mother? The balancing of worlds is in her hands and so it is in mine. You touch the earthroot in peril of your soul if you do not seek her leave!"

Metran retreated from the enraged figure. Fear and confusion chased each other across his features.

Loren, however, raised a hand and pointed one long, steady finger at the woman confronting him.

"Nowhere," he said, and thick anger spilled from his own voice now, "nowhere is such a thing written! And this, by all the gods, you know. You overreach yourself, Jaelle-and be warned, it shall not be permitted. The balance lies not with you-and your moonlit meddling may shatter it yet."

The Priestess's eyes flickered at that-and Kim suddenly remembered Diarmuid's reference the night before to a secret gathering.

And it was Diarmuid's lazy voice that slid next into the charged silence. "Jaelle," he said, from by his father's throne, "whatever the worth of what you say, surely this is not the time to say it.

Lovely as you are, you are marring a festival with your wrangling. And we seem to have another guest waiting to be greeted." Stepping lightly from the dais, he walked past all of them, down to the end of the hall, where, Kim saw as she turned to watch, there stood another woman, this one white-haired with age and leaning on a gnarled staff before the great doors of Ailell's hall.