Dave wrestled with the refusal to seem afraid that had, in large part, brought him here, and with the genuine panic that was building within him. Paul had nodded once at Loren’s answer, but that was all. The mage’s words had become a complex rising chant. An aura of power began to shimmer visibly in the room. A low-pitched humming sound began.
“Hey!” Dave burst out. “I need a promise I’ll be back!” There was no reply. Matt Sören’s eyes were closed now. His grip on Dave’s wrist was firm.
The shimmer in the air increased, and then the humming began to rise in volume.
“No!” Dave shouted again. “No! I need a promise!” And on the words he violently pulled his hands free from those of Jennifer and the Dwarf.
Kimberly Ford screamed.
And in that moment the room began to dissolve on them. Kevin, frozen, disbelieving, saw Kim reach out then, wildly, to clutch Dave’s arm and take Jen’s free hand even as he heard the cry torn from her throat.
Then the cold of the crossing and the darkness of the space between worlds came down and Kevin saw nothing more. In his mind, though, whether for an instant or an age, he thought he heard the sound of mocking laughter. There was a taste in his mouth, like ashes of grief. Dave, he thought, oh, Martyniuk, what have you done?
PART II
RACHEL’S SONG
Chapter 4
It was night when they came through, in a small, dimly lit room somewhere high up. There were two chairs, benches, and an unlit fire. An intricately patterned carpet on the stone floor. Along one wall stretched a tapestry, but the room was too darkly shadowed, despite flickering wall torches, for them to make it out. The windows were open.
“So, Silvercloak, you’ve come back,” a reedy voice from the doorway said, without warmth. Kevin looked over quickly to see a bearded man leaning casually on a spear.
Loren ignored him. “Matt?” he said sharply. “Are you all right?” The Dwarf, visibly shaken by the crossing, managed a terse nod. He had slumped into one of the heavy chairs and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. Kevin turned to check the others. All seemed to be fine, a little dazed, but fine, except—
Except that Dave Martyniuk wasn’t there.
“Oh, God!” he began, “Loren—”
And was stopped in mid-sentence by a beseeching look from the mage. Paul Schafer, standing beside Kevin, caught it as well, and Kevin saw him walk quietly over to the two women. Schafer spoke softly to them, and then nodded, once, to Loren.
At which point the mage finally turned to the guard, who was still leaning indolently on his weapon. “Is it the evening before?” Loren asked.
“Why, yes,” the man replied. “But shouldn’t a great mage know that without the asking?”
Kevin saw Loren’s eyes flicker in the torchlight. “Go,” he said. “Go tell the King I have returned.”
“It’s late. He’ll be sleeping.”
“He will want to know this. Go now.”
The guard moved with deliberate, insolent slowness. As he turned, though, there was a sudden thunk, and a thrown knife quivered in the panelling of the doorway, inches from his head.
“I know you, Vart,” a deep voice said, as the man whipped around, pale even by torchlight. “I have marked you. You will do what you have been told, and quickly, and you will speak to rank with deference—or my next dagger will not rest in wood.” Matt Sören was on his feet again, and danger bristled through him like a presence.
There was a tense silence. Then:
“I am sorry, my lord mage. The lateness of the hour … my fatigue. Welcome home, my lord, I go to do your will.” The guard raised his spear in a formal salute, then spun again, sharply this time, and left the room. Matt walked forward to retrieve his dagger. He remained in the doorway, watching.
“Now,” said Kevin Laine. “Where is he?”
Loren had dropped into the chair the Dwarf had vacated. “I am not sure,” he said. “Forgive me, but I truly don’t know.”
“But you have to know!” Jennifer exclaimed.
“He pulled away just as I was closing the circle. I was too far under the power—I couldn’t come out to see his path. I do not even know if he came with us.”
“I do,” said Kim Ford simply. “He came. I had him all the way. I was holding him.”
Loren rose abruptly. “You did? Brightly woven! This means he has crossed—he is in Fionavar, somewhere. And if that is so, he will be found. Our friends will begin to search immediately.”
“Your friends?” Kevin asked. “Not that creep in the doorway, I hope?”
Loren shook his head. “Not him, no. He is Gorlaes’s tool—and here I must ask of you another thing.” He hesitated. “There are factions in this court, and a struggle taking place, for Ailell is old now. Gorlaes would like me gone, for many reasons, and failing that, would take joy in discrediting me before the King.”
“So if Dave is missing …?” Kevin murmured.
“Exactly. I think only Metran knows I went for five—and I never promised him so many, in any case. Dave will be found, I promise you that. Can I ask you to keep his presence a secret for this time?”
Jennifer Lowell had moved to the open window while the others talked. A hot night, and very dry. Below and to her left, she could make out the lights of a town, lying almost directly adjacent to the walled enclosure of what she assumed to be Paras Derval. There were fields in front of her, and beyond them rose the thick, close trees of a forest. There was no breeze. She looked upward, apprehensive, and was desperately relieved to find she knew the stars. For though the slender hand on the window ledge was steady, and the cool green eyes gave little away, she had been badly thrown by Dave’s disappearance and the sudden dagger.
In a life shaped of careful decisions, the only impulsive act of significance had been the beginning of her relationship with Kevin Laine one night two years ago. Now, improbably, she found herself in a place where only the fact that she could see the Summer Triangle overhead gave her any kind of security. She shook her head and, not lacking in a sense of irony, smiled very slightly to herself.
Paul Schafer was speaking, answering the mage. “It seems,” he said softly—they were all speaking quietly—”that if you brought us here, then we’re already a part of your group, or we’ll be seen that way anyhow. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Kevin was nodding, and then Kim. Jennifer turned from the window. “I won’t say anything,” she said. “But please find Dave soon, because I really am going to be very frightened if you don’t.”
“Company!” Matt growled from the doorway.
“Ailell? Already? It can’t be,” said Loren.
Matt listened for a moment longer. “No … not the King. I think …” and his dark, bearded face twisted into its version of a smile. “Listen for yourself,” the Dwarf said.
A second later Kevin heard it, too: the unsteady carolling of someone coming down the hallway towards them, someone far gone in drink:
Those who rode that night with Revor
Did a deed to last forever …
The Weaver cut from brighter cloth
Those who rode through Daniloth!
“You fat buffoon!” another voice snarled, rather more controlled. “Shut up or you’ll have him disinherited for bringing you in here.” The sardonic laughter of a third person could be heard, as the footsteps made their tenuous way up the corridor.
“Song,” the aggrieved troubadour said, “is a gift to men from the immortal gods.”
“Not the way you sing,” his critic snapped. Loren was suppressing a smile, Kim saw. Kevin snorted with laughter.
“Shipyard lout,” the one called Tegid retorted, not quietly. “You betray your ignorance. Those who were there will never forget my singing that night in the Great Hall at Seresh. I had them weeping. I had—”
“I was there, you clown! I was sitting beside you. And I’ve still got stains on my green doublet from when they started throwing fruit at you.”
“Poltroons! What can you expect in Seresh? But the battle after, the brave fight in that same hall! Even though wounded, I rallied our—”
“Wounded?” Hilarity and exasperation vied for mastery in the other speaker’s voice. “A tomato in the eye is hardly—”
“Hold it, Coll.” The third man spoke for the first time. And in the room Loren and Matt exchanged a glance. “There’s a guard just ahead,” the light, controlling voice went on. “I’ll deal with him. Wait for a minute after I go in, then take Tegid to the last room on the left. And keep him quiet, or by the river blood of Lisen, I will be disinherited.”
Matt stepped quickly into the hallway. “Good even, Prince.” He raised his dagger in salute. A vein of blue glittered in the light. “There is no guard here now. He has gone to bring your father—Silvercloak has just returned with four people who have crossed. You had best move Tegid to a safe place very fast.”
“Sören? Welcome home,” said the Prince, walking forward. “Coll, take him quickly.”
“Quickly?” Tegid expostulated. “Great Tegid moves at his own pace. He deigns not to hide from minions and vassals. He confronts them with naked steel of Rhoden and the prodigious armour of his wrath. He—”
“Tegid,” the Prince said with extreme softness, “move now, and sharply, or I will have you stuffed through a window and dropped to the courtyard. Prodigiously.”
There was a silence. “Yes, my lord,” the reply came, surprisingly meek. As they moved past the doorway Kim caught a glimpse of an enormously fat man, and another, muscled but seeming small beside him, before a third figure appeared in the entranceway, haloed by the wall torch in the corridor. Diarmuid, she had time to remember. They call him Diarmuid. The younger son.
And then she found herself staring.
All his life Diarmuid dan Ailell had been doing that to people. Supporting himself with a beringed hand upon the wall, he leaned lazily in the doorway and accepted Loren’s bow, surveying them all. Kim, after a moment, was able to isolate some of the qualities: the lean, graceful build, high cheekbones in an over-refined face, a wide, expressive mouth, registering languid amusement just then, the jewelled hands, and the eyes … the cynical, mocking expression in the very blue eyes of the King’s Heir in the High Kingdom. It was hard to judge his age; close to her own, she guessed.
“Thank you, Silvercloak,” he said. “A timely return and a timely warning.”
“It is folly to defy your father for Tegid,” Loren began. “It is a matter far too trivial—”
Diarmuid laughed. “Advising me again? Already? A crossing hasn’t changed you, Loren. There are reasons, there are reasons …” he murmured vaguely.
“I doubt it,” the mage replied. “Other than perversity and South Keep wine.”
“Good reasons, both,” Diarmuid agreed, flashing a smile. “Who,” he said, in a very different tone, “have you brought for Metran to parade tomorrow?”
Loren, seemingly used to this, made the introductions gravely. Kevin, named first, bowed formally. Paul followed suit, keeping his eyes on those of the Prince. Kim merely nodded. And Jennifer—
“A peach!” exclaimed Diarmuid dan Ailell. “Silvercloak, you have brought me a peach to nibble.” He moved forward then, the jewellery at wrist and throat catching the torchlight, and, taking Jennifer’s hand, bowed very low and kissed it.
Jennifer Lowell, not predisposed by character or environment to suffer this sort of thing gladly, let him have it as he straightened.
“Are you always this rude?” she asked. And there was no warmth in the voice at all, or in the green eyes.
It stopped him for an instant only. “Almost always,” he answered affably. “I do have some redeeming qualities, though I can never remember what they’re supposed to be. I’ll wager,” he went on, in a swift change of mood, “that Loren is shaking his head behind my back right now in tragic disapproval.” Which happened to be true. “Ah well, then,” he continued, turning to look at the frowning mage, “I suppose I’m expected to apologize now?”
He grinned at Loren’s sober agreement, then turned once more to Jennifer. “I am sorry, sweetling. Drink and a long ride this afternoon. You are quite extravagantly beautiful, and have probably dealt with worse intrusions before. Indulge me.” It was prettily done. Jennifer, somewhat bemused, found she could only manage a nod. Which succeeded in provoking yet another sublimely mocking smile. She flushed, angry again.
Loren cut in sharply. “You are behaving badly, Diarmuid, and you know it.”
“Enough!” the Prince snapped. “Don’t push me, Loren.” The two men exchanged a tense look.
When Diarmuid spoke again, though, it was in a milder tone. “I did apologize, Loren, do me some justice.” After a moment, the mage nodded.
“Fair enough,” he said. “We don’t have time to quarrel, in any case. I need your help. Two things. A svart attacked us in the world from which I brought these people. It followed Matt and me, and it was wearing a vellin stone.”
“And the other thing?” Diarmuid was instantly attentive, drunk as he was.
“There was a fifth person who crossed with us. We lost him. He is in Fionavar—but I don’t know where. I need him found, and I would much prefer that Gorlaes not know of him.”
“Obviously. How do you know he is here?”
“Kimberly was our hook. She says she had him.”
Diarmuid turned to fix Kim with an appraising stare. Tossing her hair back she met the look, and the expression in her own eyes was more than a little hostile. Turning without reaction, the Prince walked to the window and looked out in silence. The waning moon had risen—overly large, but Jennifer, also gazing out, did not notice that.
“It hasn’t rained while you were gone, by the way,” said Diarmuid. “We have other things to talk about. Matt,” he continued crisply, “Coll is in the last room on the left. Make sure Tegid is asleep, then brief him. A description of the fifth person. Tell Coll I’ll speak with him later.” Wordlessly, Matt slipped from the room.
“No rain at all?” Loren asked softly.
“None.”
“And the crops?”
Diarmuid raised an eyebrow without bothering to answer. Loren’s face seemed moulded of fatigue and concern. “And the King?” he asked, almost reluctantly.
Diarmuid paused this time before answering. “Not well. He wanders sometimes. He was apparently talking to my mother last night during dinner in the Great Hall. Impressive, wouldn’t you say, five years past her death?”
Loren shook his head. “He has been doing that for some time, though not in public before. Is there … is there word of your brother?”
“None.” The answer this time was very swift. A strained silence followed. His name is not to be spoken, Kevin remembered and, looking at the Prince, wondered.
“There was a Gathering,” Diarmuid said. “Seven nights past at the full of the moon. A secret one. They invoked the Goddess as Dana, and there was blood.”
“No!” The mage made a violent gesture. “That is going too far. Who summoned it?”
Diarmuid’s wide mouth crooked slightly.
“Herself, of course,” he said.
“Jaelle?”
“Jaelle.”
Loren began pacing the room. “She will cause trouble, I know it!”
“Of course she will. She means to. And my father is too old to deal with it. Can you see Ailell on the Summer Tree now?” And there was a new thing in the light voice—a deep, coruscating bitterness.
“I never could, Diarmuid.” The mage’s tone had suddenly gone soft. He stopped his pacing beside the Prince. “Whatever power lies in the Tree is outside my province. And Jaelle’s, too, though she would deny it. You have heard my views on this. Blood magic, I fear, takes more than it gives back.”
“So we sit,” Diarmuid snarled, stiff anger cracking through, “we sit while the wheat burns up in fields all over Brennin! Fine doings for a would-be royal house!”
“My lor
d Prince”—the use of the title was careful, admonitory—”this is no ordinary season, and you do not need me to tell you that. Something unknown is at work, and not even Jaelle’s midnight invocations will redress the balance, until we touch what lies beneath.”
Diarmuid sank into one of the chairs, gazing blankly at the dim tapestry opposite the window. The wall torches had almost burnt out, leaving the room webbed with lighter and darker shadows. Leaning against the window ledge, Jennifer thought that she could almost see the threads of tension snaking through the darkened spaces. What am I doing here, she thought. Not for the last time. A movement on the other side of the chamber caught her eye, and she turned to see Paul Schafer looking at her. He gave a small, unexpectedly reassuring smile. And I don’t understand him, either, she thought, somewhat despairingly.
Diarmuid was on his feet again by then, seemingly unable to be still for any length of time. “Loren,” he said, “you know the King won’t come tonight. Did you—”
“He must! I won’t let Gorlaes have—”
“Someone’s here,” Paul said sharply. He had quietly ended up in Matt’s post by the door. “Five men, three with swords.”
“Diarmuid—”
“I know. You haven’t seen me. I won’t be far,” and the heir to the throne of Brennin leaped in a rustle of cloth and a moonlit flash of yellow hair through the window, reaching out, almost lazily, for a handhold on the wall outside. For God’s sake, Kevin thought.
Which was all he had time for. Vart, the surly guard, appeared in the doorway. When he saw that Matt was nowhere to be seen, a thin smile flicked across his face.
“My lord the Chancellor,” Vart announced.
Kevin wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t what he saw. Gorlaes, the Chancellor, was a big, broad-shouldered, brown-bearded man of middle years. He smiled generously, showing good teeth as he came sweeping in. “Welcome back, Silvercloak! And brightly woven, indeed. You have come in the very teeth of time—as ever.” And he laughed. Loren, Kevin saw, did not.
The Summer Tree Page 4