There was no word, though. No one had seen the tall dark-haired stranger or heard tell of him. So on the third morning Loren mounted early from where he’d passed the night in a copse of trees to the west of Lake Leinan. Looking eastward he could see the sun rising from the line of hills past the lake and he knew Dun Maura lay beyond. Even by daylight, with a blue sky above, there was for the mage a darkness about that place.
There was no love lost between the Mormae of Gwen Ystrat and the mages who had followed Amairgen’s lead out from the dominion of the Mother. Blood magic, thought Loren, shaking his head, picturing Dun Maura and the rites of Liadon enacted every year before Conary came and forbade them. He thought of the flowers strewn by the maidens chanting his death and return as the spring: Rahod hedai Liadon. In every world, the mage knew, but his very soul rebelled against the darkness of this power. Grimly he turned his horse away from the country of the Priestesses and continued north, following the Latham on the long ride to the Plain.
He would ask aid of the Dalrei, as he had so often done before. If Dave Martyniuk was somewhere among the great spaces of the Plain, only the Riders could find him. So north he rode, a tall, grey, bearded figure no longer young, alone on a horse in the wide sweep of the level lands, and the baked earth resonated beneath him like a drum.
He was hoping, even though it was summer, to find a tribe of the Riders in the south Plain, for if he could speak to even one tribe then word would be sent to Celidon, and once his message was lodged at the mid-Plain, then soon all the Dalrei would know, and the Dalrei he trusted.
It was a long ride, though, and there were no villages now among the broad grazing lands in which he could take food or rest. And so he was still galloping alone as that third day drew towards sundown and then dark. His shadow lay long on the earth beside him, and the river had become a glimmering, muted presence to the east, when the urgency that had lain within him since he had left Paras Derval exploded into terror.
Grappling at the reins, he brought his mount to a rearing halt, then held it rigidly still. One moment he remained so, his face drawn suddenly tight with fear, then Loren Silvercloak cried aloud in the onrushing night and wheeled his horse hard to ride in the dark, back, back towards Paras Derval, where something overwhelming was about to happen.
Drumming furiously home under the stars, he gathered his mind and hurled a desperate warning southward over all the empty leagues that lay between. He was too far away, though, much too far away, and without his power. He urged his horse faster, driving like wind in the darkness, but he knew, even as he did so, that he was going to be too late.
Jennifer was not happy. Not only was Dave missing, not only had Kevin and Paul ridden off that morning on some crazy expedition with Diarmuid, but now Kim had left as well, with Matt guiding her to the home of the old woman whom people in the Great Hall the day before had called a witch.
Which left her in a large room on the cooler west side of the palace, sitting in a low window seat, surrounded by a gaggle of court ladies whose principal yearning in life seemed to be to elicit all they could from her about Kevin Laine and Paul Schafer, with special and explicit focus on their sexual predilections.
Parrying the questions as best she could, she barely managed to conceal a growing irritation. On the far side of the room, a man was playing a stringed instrument under a tapestry depicting a scene of battle. There was a dragon flying over the conflict. She hoped profoundly that it was a mythical confrontation.
The ladies had all been briefly presented to her, but only two names had registered. Laesha was the very young, brown-eyed lady-in-waiting who seemed to have been assigned to her. She was quiet, which was a blessing. The other was the Lady Rheva, a striking, dark-haired woman who clearly enjoyed a higher status than the others, and to whom Jennifer had taken an effortless dislike.
Nor was this in any degree lessened when it became clear, because Rheva made it clear, that she’d spent the night before with Kevin. It was evidently a triumph in a continuing game of one-upmanship, and Rheva was exploiting it for all it was worth. It was aggravating in the extreme, and Jennifer, abandoned, was in no mood to be aggravated.
So when another of the women gave a sulky toss of her hair and inquired whether Jennifer had any idea why Paul Schafer had been so indifferent to her—”Does he, perhaps, prefer to spend his nights with boys?” she asked, with a barb of malice—Jennifer’s brief laugh was entirely humourless.
“There are more obvious possibilities, I should think,” she replied, aware that she was making an enemy. “Paul is somewhat discriminating, that’s all.”
There was a brief silence. Someone tittered. Then:
“Are you suggesting, by any chance, that Kevin is not?” It was Rheva, and her voice had gone very soft.
Jennifer could handle this. What she could not handle was having it continue. She rose abruptly from the window seat and, looking down on the other woman, smiled.
“No,” she said, judiciously. “Knowing Kevin, I wouldn’t say that at all. The trick, though, is to get him twice.” And she moved past them all and out the door.
Walking swiftly down the corridor, she made a very firm mental note to inform Kevin Laine that if he took a certain court lady to bed once more, she would never speak to him again as long as she lived.
At the doorway to her room, she heard her name being called. Her long skirt trailing the stone floor, Laesha came hurrying up. Jennifer eyed her inimically, but the other woman was laughing breathlessly.
“Oh, my,” she gasped, laying a hand on Jennifer’s arm, “that was wonderful! The cats in that room are spitting with anger! Rheva hasn’t been handled like that for years.”
Jennifer shook her head ruefully. “I don’t imagine they’ll be very friendly the rest of the time I’m here.”
“They wouldn’t have been anyway. You are much too beautiful. On top of your being new, it’s guaranteed to make them hate you for existing. And when Diarmuid put out word yesterday that you were reserved for him, they—”
“He what?” Jennifer exploded.
Laesha eyed her carefully. “Well, he is the Prince, and so—”
“I don’t care who he is! I have no intention of letting him touch me. Who do they think we are?”
Laesha’s expression had altered a little. “You mean that?” she asked hesitantly. “You don’t want him?”
“Not at all,” said Jennifer. “Should I?”
“I do,” said Laesha simply, and flushed to the roots of her brown hair.
There was an awkward silence. Speaking carefully, Jennifer broke it. “I am only here two weeks,” she said. “I will not take him from you or anyone else. I need a friend right now, more than anything else.”
Laesha’s eyes were wide. She took a short breath.
“Why do you think I followed you?”
This time they shared the smile.
“Tell me,” Jennifer asked after a moment. “Is there any reason we have to stay in here? I haven’t been outside at all. Can we see the town?”
“Of course,” said Laesha. “Of course we can. We haven’t been at war for years.”
Despite the heat, it was better outside the palace. Dressed in an outfit much like Laesha’s, Jennifer realized that no one knew she was a stranger. Feeling freed by that, she found herself strolling at ease beside her new friend. After a short while, though, she became aware that a man was following them through the dusty, twisting streets of the town. Laesha noticed it, too.
“He’s one of Diarmuid’s,” she whispered.
Which was a nuisance, but before he had left in the morning, Kevin had told her about the dead svart alfar in the garden, and Jennifer had decided that for once she wasn’t about to object to having someone watch over her. Her father, she thought wryly, would find it amusing.
The two women walked along a street where a blacksmith’s iron rang upon anvils. Overhead, balconies of second-floor houses leaned out over the narrow roadway, blocking the sunlight
at intervals. Turning left at a crossing of lanes, Laesha led her past an open area where the noise and the smell of food announced a market. Slowing to look, Jennifer saw that even in a time of festival there didn’t seem to be much produce on display. Following her glance, Laesha shook her head slightly and continued up a narrow alleyway, pausing at length outside a shop door through which could be seen bales and bolts of cloth. Laesha, it seemed, wanted a new pair of gloves.
While her friend went inside, Jennifer moved on a few steps, drawn by the sound of children’s laughter. Reaching the end of the cobbled lane, she saw that it ran into a wide square with a grassy area, more brown than green, in the centre. And upon the grass, fifteen or twenty children were playing some sort of counting game. Smiling faintly, Jennifer stopped to watch.
The children were gathered in a loose circle about the slim figure of a girl. Most of them were laughing, but the girl in the centre was not. She gestured suddenly, and a boy came forward from the ring with a strip of cloth and, with a gravity that matched her own, began to bind it over her eyes. That done, he rejoined the ring. At his nod the children linked hands and began to revolve, in a silence eerie after the laughter, around the motionless figure blindfolded in the centre. They moved gravely and with dignity. A few other people had stopped to watch.
Then, without warning, the blindfolded girl raised an arm and pointed it towards the moving ring. Her high clear voice rang out over the green:
When the wandering fire
Strikes the heart of stone
Will you follow?
And on the last word the circling stopped.
The girl’s finger was levelled directly at a stocky boy, who, without any hesitation, released the hands on either side of him and walked into the ring. The circle closed itself and began moving again, still in silence.
“I never tire of watching this,” a cool voice said from just behind Jennifer.
She turned quickly. To confront a pair of icy green eyes and the long red hair of the High Priestess, Jaelle. Behind the Priestess she could see a group of her grey-clad attendants, and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Diarmuid’s man edging nervously closer to them.
Jennifer nodded a greeting, then turned back to watch the children. Jaelle stepped forward to stand beside her, her white robe brushing the cobblestones of the street.
“The ta’kiena is as old as any ritual we have,” she murmured in Jennifer’s ear. “Look at the people watching.”
And indeed, although the faces of the children seemed almost unnaturally serene, the adults who had gathered at the edge of the square or in shop archways wore expressions of wonder and apprehension. And there were more people gathering. Again the girl in the ring raised her arm.
When the wandering fire
Strikes the heart of stone
Will you follow?
Will you leave your home?
And again the circling stopped on the last word. This time the extended finger pointed to another of the boys, older and lankier than the first. With only a brief, almost ironic pause, he, too, released the hands he was holding and walked forward to stand by the other chosen one. A murmur rose from the watchers, but the children, seemingly oblivious, were circling again.
Unsettled, Jennifer turned to the impassive profile of the Priestess. “What is it?” she asked. “What are they doing?”
Jaelle smiled thinly. “It is a dance of prophecy. Their fate lies in when they are called.”
“But what—”
“Watch!”
The blindfolded girl, standing straight and tall, was chanting again:
When the wandering fire
Strikes the heart of stone
Will you follow?
Will you leave your home?
Will you leave your life?
This time, when the voice and the dancing stopped together, a deep sound of protest ran through the watching crowd. For the one chosen now was one of the youngest girls. With a toss of her honey-coloured hair and a cheerful smile, she stepped into the ring beside the two boys. The taller one placed an arm around her shoulders.
Jennifer turned to Jaelle. “What does it mean?” she asked. “What kind of prophecy …?” The question trailed off.
Beside her the Priestess was silent. There was no gentleness in the lines of her face, nor compassion in her eyes as she watched the children begin to move again. “You ask what it means,” she said at length. “Not much in these soft times, when the ta’kiena is only another game. That last one they now say means only that she will leave the life her family has led.” Her expression was unreadable, but an irony in the tone reached Jennifer.
“What was it before?” she asked.
This time Jaelle did turn to look at her. “The dance has been done by children for longer than anyone can remember. In harsher days that call meant death, of course. Which would be a pity. She’s an attractive child, isn’t she?”
There was a malicious amusement in the voice. “Watch closely,” Jaelle continued. “This last one they truly fear, even now.” And indeed, the people around and behind them had grown suddenly quiet with strained anticipation. In the stillness Jennifer could hear the sounds of laughter from the market, several streets over. It seemed farther than that.
In the circle on the green, the blindfolded girl raised her arm and began the chant for the final time:
When the wandering fire
Strikes the heart of stone
Will you follow?
Will you leave your home?
Will you leave your life?
Will you take … the Longest Road?
The dancing stopped.
Her heart pounding inexplicably, Jennifer saw that the slim finger was pointing unerringly at the boy who had carried the blindfold. Raising his head, as if hearing some far-off music, the boy stepped forward. The girl removed her blindfold. They regarded each other a long moment, then the boy turned, laid a hand, as if in benediction, on the other chosen ones, and walked alone from the green.
Jaelle, watching him go, wore a troubled expression for the first time. Glancing at her unguarded features, Jennifer realized with a start how young the woman beside her was. About to speak, she was checked by the sound of crying, and, turning her head, she saw a woman standing in the doorway of a shop behind them in the lane; there were tears pouring down her face.
Jaelle followed Jennifer’s glance. “His mother,” the Priestess said softly.
Feeling utterly helpless, Jennifer had an instinctive longing to offer comfort to the woman. Their eyes met, and on the face of the other woman Jennifer saw, with an aching twist of new understanding, a distillation of all a mother’s sleepless nights. A message, a recognition, seemed to pass for an instant between the two of them, then the mother of the boy chosen for the Longest Road turned her head away and went into her shop.
Jennifer, struggling with something unexpected, finally asked Jaelle, “Why is she hurting so much?”
The Priestess, too, was a little subdued. “It is difficult,” she said, “and not a thing I understand yet, but they have done the dance twice before this summer, I am told, and both times Finn was chosen for the Road. This is the third, and in Gwen Ystrat we are taught that three times touches destiny.”
Jennifer’s expression drew a smile from the Priestess. “Come,” she said. “We can talk at the Temple.” Her tone was, if not exactly friendly, at least milder than hitherto.
On the verge of accepting, Jennifer was stopped by a cough behind her.
She turned. Diarmuid’s man had moved up to them, sharp concern creasing his face. “My lady,” he said, acutely embarrassed, “forgive me, but might I speak with you in private for a moment.”
“You fear me, Drance?” Jaelle’s voice was like a knife again. She laughed. “Or should I say your master does? Your absent master.”
The stocky soldier flushed, but held his ground. “I have been ordered to watch over her,” he said tersely.
Jennifer looked
from one to the other. There was suddenly an electric hostility shimmering in the air. She felt disoriented, understanding none of it.
“Well,” she said to Drance, trying to pick her way, “I don’t want to get you in trouble—why don’t you just come with us?”
Jaelle threw her head back and laughed again, to see the man’s terrified recoil. “Yes, Drance,” she said, her tone coruscating, “why don’t you come to the Temple of the Mother with us?”
“My lady,” Drance stammered, appealing to Jennifer. “Please, I dare not do that … but I must guard you. You must not go there.”
“Ah!” said Jaelle, her eyebrows arched maliciously. “It seems that the men here are already saying what you can or cannot do. Forgive me my invitation. I thought I was dealing with a free visitor.”
Jennifer was not oblivious to the manipulation, and she remembered Kevin’s words that morning as well: “There’s some danger here,” he’d said soberly. “Trust Diarmuid’s men, and Matt, of course. Paul says be careful of the Priestess. Don’t go anywhere on your own.”
In the dawn shadows of the palace, it had made a good deal of sense, but now, in bright afternoon sunlight, the whole thing was rankling just a little. Who was Kevin, making his way through the court ladies, then galloping off with the Prince, to tell her to sit tight like a dutiful little girl? And now this man of Diarmuid’s …
About to speak, she remembered something else. She turned to Jaelle. “There seems to be some real concern for our safety here. I would like to place myself under your protection while I visit your Temple. Will you name me a guest-friend before I go?”
A frown flicked across Jaelle’s face, but it was chased away by a slow smile, and there was triumph in her eyes.
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “Of course I will.” She raised her voice so that her words rang out over the street, and people turned to look. Lifting her arms wide, fingers spread, she intoned, “In the name of Gwen Ystrat and the Mormae of the Mother, I name you guest of the Goddess. You are welcome in our sanctuaries, and your well-being shall be my own concern.”
The Summer Tree Page 12