Word of the wager had spread through the crowd by now and a laughing, anticipatory sound filled the square. They could see scribbled wagers passing from hand to hand. Only the red-haired Priestess and the grim High King seemed impervious to the lifting mood.
It didn’t take long. Bashrai was pleasingly efficient, and in a short while the entire army of Cathal had stepped bare-headed past the palace gates where the two Kings stood. Diarmuid’s men were checking them, and carefully, but Shalhassan had checked as carefully himself.
Sharra was not in the ranks.
Shalhassan turned slowly to the white-clad Prince. Diarmuid had managed to maintain his smile. “The horses, I wonder?” he tried. Shalhassan merely raised his eyebrows in a movement his court knew very well, and Diarmuid, with a gracious gesture and a laugh, slipped out of his rich cloak in the cold. He was in red underneath to match his feather and the children.
“The hat, too?” he offered, holding them both out to be claimed.
Shalhassan gestured to Bashrai, but as the Captain, smiling on behalf of his King, stepped forward, Shalhassan heard an all-too-familiar voice cry out, “Take it not, Bashrai! The people of Cathal claim only wagers they have fairly won!”
Rather too late it came clear to him. There had been an honour guard of five, hastily assembled at dawn in Seresh. One of them now walked forward from where they had gathered on the near side of the square. Walked forward and, pulling off a close-fitting cap, let tumble free to her waist the shining black hair for which she was renowned.
“Sorry, Father,” said Sharra, the Dark Rose of Cathal.
The crowd erupted in shouting and laughter at this unexpected twist. Even some of the Cathalian soldiers were cheering idiotically. Their King bestowed a wintry glance upon his sole remaining child. How, he thought, could she thus lightly bring him so much shame in a foreign land?
When she spoke again, though, it was not to him. “I thought I’d do it myself this time,” she said to Diarmuid, not with any degree of warmth. The Prince’s expression was hard to read. Without pausing, however, Sharra turned to his brother and said, “My lord King, I am sorry to have to report a certain laxity among your troops, both of Seresh and here. I should not have been able to join this guard, however chaotic the morning was. And I should certainly have been discovered as we came into Paras Derval. It is not my place to advise you, but I must report the facts.” Her voice was guileless and very clear; it reached every corner of the square.
In the stony heart of Shalhassan a bonfire burst into warming flame. Splendid woman! A Queen to be, and worthy of her realm! She had turned a moment of acute embarrassment for him into a worse one for Brennin and a triumph for herself and for Cathal.
He moved to consolidate the gain. “Alas!” cried Shalassan. “My daughter, it seems has the advantage over us all. If a wager has been won today, it has been won by her.” And with Bashrai quick to aid, he doffed his own cloak, ignoring the bite of wind, and walked over to lay it at his daughter’s feet.
Precisely in step beside him, neither before nor behind, was Diarmuid of Brennin. Together they knelt, and when they rose the two great cloaks, the dark one and the white, lay in the snow before her and the thronged square echoed to her name.
Shalhassan made his eyes as kind as he could, that she might know he was, for the moment, pleased. She was not looking at him.
“I thought I had saved you a cloak,” she said to Diarmuid.
“You did. How better should I use it than as a gift?” There was something very strange in his eyes.
“Is gallantry adequate compensation for incompetence?” Sharra queried sweetly. “You are responsible for the south, are you not?”
“As my brother’s expression should tell you,” he agreed gravely.
“Has he not cause to be displeased?” Sharra asked, pressing her advantage.
“Perhaps,” the Prince replied, almost absently. There was a silence: something very strange. And then just before he spoke again it flashed maliciously in his blue eyes and, a pit yawning before them, father and daughter both saw a hilarity he could no longer hold in check.
“Averren,” said Diarmuid. All eyes turned to where another figure detached itself from the four remaining riders from Seresh. This one, too, removed a cap, revealing short copper-coloured hair. “Report,” said Diarmuid, his voice carefully neutral.
“Yes, my lord. When word came that the army of Cathal was moving west, I sent word to you from South Keep, as instructed. Also as instructed, I went west myself to Seresh and crossed yesterday evening to Cynan. I waited there until the army arrived and then, in Cathalian colours, I sought out the Princess. I saw her bribe a bargeman to take her across that night and I did the same.”
“Wasting my money,” said the Prince. There was utter silence in the square. “Go on.”
Averren cleared his throat. “I wanted to find out the going rate, my lord. Er … in Seresh I picked up her trail without difficulty. I almost lost her this morning, but ah … followed your surmise, my lord Prince, and found her in the colours of Seresh waiting with the guards. I spoke with Duke Niavin and later with the other three guards, and we simply rode with her in front of the army all day, my lord. As instructed.”
After silence, sound. Sound of a name cried on rising note after rising note to reach a crescendo so high it bade fair to break through the vaults of sky above and earth below, that Mörnir and Dana both might hear how Brennin loved its brilliant laughing Prince.
Shalhassan, calculating furiously, salvaged one meagre crumb of nurture from the ashes of the afternoon: they had known all along, but if that was bad it was a comprehensible thing and better that it had been done this way than in two hours, utterly without warning. That was—would have been—simply too formidable.
Then he chanced to see Aileron’s face, and even as he mentally added another score to Diarmuid’s tally for the day, he felt his one crumb turn to ash as well. It was abundantly clear from the High King’s expression—Aileron hadn’t known any of this.
Diarmuid was looking at Sharra, his own expression benign. “I told you the cloak was a gift, not a wager lost.”
Her colour high, she asked, “Why did you do it that way? Why pretend not to know?”
And laughing suddenly, Diarmuid replied, “Utter frivolity,” in a passable imitation of his brother. Then, laughing still, he turned to face the black expression, very close to a killing look, in the High King’s eyes. It was perhaps more than he had expected. Slowly the laughter faded from his eyes. At least it was gone, Shalhassan thought wryly, though he himself had not wiped it away. The cheering was still going on.
Aileron said, “You knew all along.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” said Diarmuid simply. “We do things differently. You had your charts and plans.”
“You didn’t tell me, though.”
Diarmuid’s eyes were wide and there was a questing in them and, if one knew what to look for, a long desire. Of all the people in that square, only Kevin Laine, watching from among the crowd, had seen that look before, and he was too far away this time. The Prince’s voice was even, if very low, as he said, “How else would you have ever known? How else would you have been able to put your planning to the test? I expected you to succeed, brother. We had it both ways.”
A long silence. Too long, as Aileron’s heavy-lidded gaze remained bleakly on his brother’s face. The cheering had run itself down. A moment passed. Another. A stir of cold, cold wind.
“Brightly woven, Diar,” Aileron said. And then dazzled them all with the warmth of his smile.
They began to move inside. Both ways, Shalhassan was thinking bemusedly. They knew all along and they had prepared in two hours. What sort of men were these two sons of Ailell?
“Be grateful,” came a voice at his side. “They are ours.” He turned and received a golden wink from a lios alfar and a grin from Brock, the Dwarf next to him. Before he knew what he was doing, Shalhassan smiled.
Pa
ul had wanted to waylay the Priestess immediately, but she was ahead of him in the procession and turned to the left as soon as she passed through the great doors of the palace, and he lost sight of her in the crowded entranceway. Then, as he fought to get free and follow, Kevin came up and he had to stop.
“He was brilliant, wasn’t he?” Kevin grinned.
“Diarmuid? Yes, very.” Paul rose on tiptoe to try to see over the people milling about them. There was a banquet being readied; servants and courtiers jostled each other as they crisscrossed the vestibule. He saw Gorlaes, the handsome Chancellor, taking charge of the party from Cathal, which now included, unexpectedly, a Princess.
“You’re not listening,” Kevin said.
“Oh. What?” Paul drew a breath. “Sorry. Try me again.” He managed a smile.
Kevin gave him a searching glance. “You okay? After last night?”
“I’m fine. I walked a lot. What were you saying?”
Again Kevin hesitated, though with a different, more vulnerable expression. “Just that Diarmuid’s riding off within the hour to fetch this shaman from the Dalrei. Dave’s going and I am too. Do you want to come?”
And how did one explain how dearly one wanted to come? To come and savour, even amid war, the richness of companionship and the laughter that the Prince and Kevin both knew how to engender. How to explain, even if he had the time?
“Can’t, Kev. I’ve too much to do here.”
“Umm. Right. Can I help?”
“Not yet. Maybe later.”
“Fine,” Kevin said, feigning a casualness. “We’ll be back in three or four days.”
Paul saw red hair through an archway. “Good,” he said to his closest friend. “Take care.” There should have been more, he thought, but he couldn’t be everything; he wasn’t even sure what, exactly, he could be.
He squeezed Kevin on the shoulder and moved off quickly to intercept Jaelle, cutting through the eddying crowd. He didn’t look back; Kevin’s expression, he knew, would have forced him to stop and explain, and he didn’t feel up to explaining how deeply fear lay upon him.
Halfway across the floor he saw, with a shock, that Jennifer was with the Priestess. Schooling his features, he came up to them.
“I need you both,” he said.
Jaelle fixed him with her cool regard. “It will have to wait.”
Something in the voice. “No, it won’t,” Paul said. And gripping her right arm very hard and Jennifer’s more gently, he propelled them both, smiling fatuously for the crowd, across the entrance foyer, down a branching hallway, and then, almost without breaking stride, into the first room they came to.
It was, thankfully, empty of people. There were a number of musical instruments laid out on the two tables and on the window seat. A spinet stood in the middle of the room and, beside it, what appeared to be a harp laid on its side, mounted into brackets and with free-standing legs.
He closed the door.
Both women regarded him. At any other time he might have paused to appreciate the order of beauty in the room with him, but neither pair of green eyes was less than cold at the moment, and the darker ones flashed with anger. He had bruised Jaelle, he knew, but she wasn’t about to let him see that. Instead, she snapped, “You had best explain yourself.”
It was a bit much.
“Where is he?” said Paul, hurling the question like a blade.
And found himself nonplused and weaponless when, after a blank instant, both women smiled and exchanged an indulgent glance.
“You were frightened,” Jaelle said flatly.
He didn’t deny it. “Where?” he repeated.
It was Jennifer who answered. “He’s all right, Paul. Jaelle was just telling me. When did you find out?”
“Last night. I went to the house.” The cradle rocking in the icy wind … in the empty house.
“I would rather you checked with me or with Jaelle before doing that sort of thing,” Jennifer said mildly.
He felt the explosion coming, moved ruthlessly to curb it, and succeeded, barely. Neither woman appeared quite so smug as they looked at him. He said, paying out the words carefully, “There seems to be a misconception here. I don’t know if either of you are capable of grasping this trenchant point, but we are not talking about some cuddly infant with spittle on his chin; we are dealing with the son of Rakoth Maugrim and I must know where he is!” He felt his voice crack with the strain of keeping it from rising to a shout.
Jaelle had paled, but again it was Jennifer who answered, hardily. “There is no misconception, Paul. I am unlikely to forget who his father is.”
It was like cold water in the face; he felt his anger being sluiced away, leaving behind a residue of sorrow and deep pain.
“I know that,” he said after a difficult moment. “I’m sorry. I was frightened last night. The house was the second thing.”
“What was the first?” Jaelle asked, not harshly this time.
“Fordaetha of Rük.”
With some distant satisfaction he saw her hands begin to tremble. “Here?” she whispered. “So far south?” She put her hands in the pockets of her gown.
“She was,” he said quietly. “I drove her back. But not before she killed. I spoke to Loren this morning. Their servant is dead: Zervan. And so is a girl from the tavern.” He turned to Jennifer. “An ancient power of winter was in Paras Derval. She tried to kill me as well and … failed. But there is a great deal of evil about. I must know where Darien is, Jennifer.” She was shaking her head. He pushed on. “Listen to me, please! He cannot be only yours now, Jen. He can’t. There is too much at stake, and we don’t even know what he is!”
“He is to be random,” she replied calmly, standing very tall, golden among the instruments of music. “He is not to be used, Paul.”
So much dark in this, and where were his ravens now? It was a hard, a savage thing, but it had to be said, and so:
“That isn’t really the issue. The issue is whether or not he has to be stopped.”
In the silence that followed they could hear the tread of feet outside in the corridor and the continuing buzz of the crowd not far away. There was a window open. So as not to have to look anymore at what his words had done to Jennifer, Paul walked over to it. Even on the main level of the palace they were quite high up. Below, to the south and east, a party of thirty men or so were just leaving Paras Derval. Diarmuid’s band. With Kevin, who might in fact have understood, if Paul had known clearly what he wanted to explain.
Behind him Jaelle cleared her throat and spoke with unwonted diffidence. “There is no sign yet of that last, Pwyll,” she said. “Both Vae and her son say so and we have been watching. I am not so foolish as you take me for.”
He turned. “I don’t take you for foolish at all,” he said. He held the look, longer perhaps than necessary, before turning reluctantly to the other woman.
Jennifer had been looking pale a long time, it was almost a year since she’d had a healthy tan, but never had he seen her as white as now she was. For a disoriented instant he thought of Fordaetha. But this was a mortal woman, and one to whom unimaginable damage had been done. Against the white of her skin, the high cheekbones stood out unnaturally. He wondered if she was going to faint. She closed her eyes; opened them. “He told the Dwarf I was to die. Told him there was a reason.” Her voice was an aching rasp.
“I know,” Paul said, as gently as he could. “You explained to me.”
“What reason could there be for killing me if … if not because of a child?” How did one comfort a soul to whom this had been done? “What reason, Paul? Could there be another?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “You’re probably right, Jen. Please stop.”
She tried; wiped at her tears with both hands. Jaelle walked forward with a square of silk and gave it to her awkwardly. Jennifer looked up again. “But if I’m right … if he was afraid of a child, then … shouldn’t Darien be good?”
So much yearning in the
question, so much of her soul. Kevin would lie, Paul thought. Everyone he knew would lie.
Paul Schafer said, very low, “Good, or a rival, Jen. We can’t know which, and so I must know where he is.”
Somewhere on the road Diarmuid and his men were galloping. They would wield swords and axes in this war, shoot arrows, throw spears. They would be brave or cowardly, kill or die, bonded to each other and to all other men.
He would do otherwise. He would walk alone in darkness to find his own last battle. He who had come back would say the cold truths and the bitter, and make a wounded woman cry as though whatever was left of her heart was breaking even now.
Two women. There were bright, disregarded tears on Jaelle’s cheeks as well. She said, “They have gone to the lake. Ysanne’s lake. The cottage was empty, so we sent them there.”
“Why?”
“He is of the andain, Pwyll. I was telling Jennifer before you came: they do not age as we do. He is only seven months old, but he looks like a five-year-old child. And is growing faster now.”
Jennifer’s sobs were easing. He walked over to the bench where she was and sat down beside her. With a real hesitation, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
He said, “There is no one I have known so fine as you. Any wound I deal to you is more deeply bestowed upon myself; you must believe this to be true. I did not choose to be what I have become. I am not even sure what that is.”
He could sense her listening.
He said, “You are weeping for fear you have done wrong, or set loose an evil. I will say only that we cannot know. It is just as possible that Darien will be our last, our deepest hope of light. And let us remember”—he looked up and saw that Jaelle had come nearer—”let all three of us remember that Kim dreamt his name and so he has a place. He is in the Tapestry.”
She had stopped crying. Her hand remained in his, and he did not let it go. She looked up after a moment. “Tell me,” she said to Jaelle, “how are you watching him?”
The Priestess looked uncomfortable. “Leila,” she said.
“The young one?” Paul asked, not comprehending. “The one who spied on us?”
The Wandering Fire Page 10