Fionavar 1 (17 page)

"He had yours."

"Late," Ysanne said, "and grudgingly. And only as King. I tried to help him, though, with his burden, and in return he found ways to ensure that I would be left alone here."

"A long time alone," Kim said softly.

"We all have our tasks," the Seer said. There was a silence. In the barn out back, a cow lowed plaintively. Kim heard the click of a gate being shut, then Tyrth's uneven steps crossing the yard.

She met Ysanne's gaze, a half-smile tugging at her mouth.

"You told me one lie yesterday," she said.

Ysanne nodded. "I did. One. It was not my truth to tell."

"I know," said Kim. "You have carried a great deal alone. I am here now, though; do you want
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me to share your burden?" Her mouth crooked. "I seem to be a chalice. What power can you fill me with?"

There was a tear in the old woman's eye. She wiped it away, shaking her head. "Such things as I can teach have little to do with power. It is in your dreams now that you must walk, as all the Seers must. And for you as well there is the stone."

Kim glanced down. The ring on her right hand was no longer shining as it had when Eilathen wore it. It glowered, deep and dark, the color of old blood.

"I did dream this," she said. "A terrible dream, the night before we crossed. What is it, Ysanne?"

"The Baelrath it was named, long ago, the Warstone. It is of the wild magic," the Seer said, "a thing not made by man, and it cannot be controlled like the shapings of Ginserat or Amairgen, or even of the Priestesses. It has been lost for a very long time, which has happened before. It is never found without reason, or so the old tales say."

It had grown dark outside as they talked. "Why have you given it to me?" Kim asked in a small voice.

"Because I dreamt it on your finger, too." Which, somehow, she had known would be the answer.

The ring pulsed balefully, inimically, and she feared it.

"What was I doing?" she asked.

"Raising the dead," Ysanne replied, and stood to light the candles in the room.

Kim closed her eyes. The images were waiting for her: the jumbled stones, the wide grasslands rolling away in the dark, the ring on her hand burning like a fire in the dream, and the wind rising over the grass, whistling between the stones-

"Oh, God!" she cried aloud. "What is it, Ysanne?"

The Seer returned to her seat beside the bed and gravely regarded the girl who lay there wrestling with what lay upon her.

"I am not sure of this," she said, "so I must be careful, but there is a pattern shaping here. You see, he died in your world the first time."

"Who died?" Kim whispered.

"The Warrior. Who always dies, and is not allowed to rest. It is his doom."

Kim's hands were clenched. "Why?"

"There was a great wrong done at the very beginning of his days, and for that he may not have rest.

It is told and sung and written in every world where he has fought."

"Fought?" Her heart was pounding.

"Of course," Ysanne replied, though gently still. "He is the Warrior. Who may be called only at darkest need, and only by magic and only when summoned by name." Her voice was like wind in the room.

"And his name?"

"The secret one, no man knows, or even where it is to be sought, but there is another, by which he is always spoken."

"And that is?" Though now she knew. And a star was in the window.

Ysanne spoke the name.

He was probably wrong to be lingering, but the commands had not been explicit, and he was not overly prone to let it disturb him. It intoxicated them all to be abroad in the open spaces, using forgotten arts of concealment to observe the festival traffic on the roads to and from Paras Derval, and though by day the charred land dismayed them, at night they sang the oldest songs under the unclouded glitter of the stars.

He himself had a further reason for waiting, though he knew the delay could not be prolonged indefinitely. One more day he had promised himself, and felt extravagantly gratified when the
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two women and the man crested the ridge above the thicket.

Matt was quietly reassuring. Kim was in good hands, and though he didn't know where Diarmuid's band had gone-and preferred it that way, he added with a grimace-they were expected back that night. Loren, he confirmed, had indeed gone in search of Dave. For the first time since her encounter with the High Priestess two days before, Jennifer relaxed a little.

More unsettled by the strangeness of everything than she liked to admit, she had spent yesterday quietly with Laesha. In Jennifer's room the two new friends had traded accounts of their lives. It was somehow easier, Jennifer had reflected, to approach Fionavar in this way than to step out into the heat and confront things such as the children's chanting on the green, the axe swaying in the

Temple, or Jaelle's cold hostility.

There had been dancing after the banquet that night. She had expected some difficulty in dealing with the men, but against her will she'd ended up being amused at the careful, almost apprehensive propriety of those who danced with her. Women claimed by Prince Diarmuid were very clearly off limits to anyone else. She'd excused herself early and had gone to bed.

To be awakened by Matt Sören knocking at her door. The Dwarf devoted the morning to her, an attentive guide through the vastness of the palace. Roughly garbed, with an axe swinging at his side, he was a harshly anomalous figure in the hallways and chambers of the castle. He showed her rooms with paintings on the walls, and inlaid patterns on the floor. Everywhere there were tapestries. She was beginning to see that they had a deeper significance here. They climbed to the highest tower, where the guards greeted Matt with unexpected deference, and, looking out, she saw the High Kingdom baking in the rigor of its summer. Then he led her back to the Great Hall, empty now, where she could gaze undisturbed at the windows of Delevan.

As they circled the room, she told him about her meeting with Jaelle two days ago. The Dwarf blinked when she explained how she was made guest-friend, and again when she described Jaelle's questions about Loren. But once more he reassured her.

"She is all malice, Jaelle, all bright, bitter malice. But she is not evil, only ambitious."

"She hates Ysanne. She hates Diarmuid."

"Ysanne, she would hate. Diarmuid . . . arouses strong feelings in most people." The Dwarf's mouth twisted in his difficult smile. "She seeks to know every secret there is. Jaelle may suspect we had a fifth person, but even if she were certain, she would never tell Gorlaes-who is someone to be wary of."

"We've hardly seen him."

"He is with Ailell, almost all the time. Which is why he is to be feared. It was a dark day for Brennin," Matt Sören said, "when the elder Prince was sent away."

"The King turned to Gorlaes?" Jennifer guessed.

The Dwarf's glance at her was keen. "You are clever," he said. "That is exactly what happened."

"What about Diarmuid?"

"What about Diarmuid?" Matt repeated, in a tone so unexpectedly exasperated, she laughed aloud.

After a moment, the Dwarf chuckled, too, low in his chest.

Jennifer smiled. There was a solid strength to Matt Sören, a feeling of deeply rooted common sense. Jennifer Lowell had come into adulthood trusting few people entirely, especially men, but, she realized in that moment, the Dwarf was now one of them. In a curious way, it made her feel better about herself.

"Matt," she said, as a thought struck her, "Loren left without you. Did you stay here for us?"

"Just to keep an eye on things." With a gesture at the patch over his right eye, he turned it into a kind of joke.

She smiled, but then looked at him a long moment, her green eyes sober. "How did you get
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that?"

"The last war with Cathal," he said simply. "Thirty years ago."

"You've been here that long?"

"Longer, Loren has been a mage for over forty years now."

"So?" She didn't get the connection. He told her. There was an easiness to the mood they shared that morning, and Jennifer's beauty had been known to make taciturn men talkative before.

She listened, taking in, as Paul had three nights before, the story of Amairgen's discovery of the skylore, and the secret forging that would bind mage and source for life in a union more complete than any in all the worlds.

When Matt finished, Jennifer rose and walked a few steps. Trying to absorb the impact of what she had been told. This was more than marriage, this went to the very essence of being. The mage, from what Matt had just said, was nothing without his source, only a repository of knowledge, utterly powerless. And the source . . .

"You've surrendered all of your independence!" she said, turning back to the Dwarf, hurling it almost as a challenge.

"Not all," he said mildly. "You give some up any time you share your life with someone. The bonding just goes deeper, and there are compensations."

"You were a king, though. You gave up-"

"That was before," Matt interrupted. "Before I met Loren. I . . . prefer not to talk about it."

She was abashed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was prying."

The Dwarf grimaced, but by now she knew it for his smile. "Not really," he said. "And no matter. It is a very old wound."

"It's just so strange," she explained. "I can't even grasp what it must mean."

"I know. Even here they do not understand the six of us. Or the Law that governs the Council of the

Mages. We are feared, respected, very seldom loved."

"What Law?" she asked.

At that he hesitated, then rose. "Let us walk," Matt said. "I will tell you a story, though I warn you, you would do better with one of the cyngael, for I am a poor tale-spinner."

"I'll take my chances," Jennifer said with a smile.

As they started to walk the outer edges of the hall, he began. "Four hundred years ago, the High King went mad. Vailerth was his name, the only son of Lernath, who was the last King of Brennin to die on the Summer Tree."

She had questions about that, too, but held her peace. "Vailerth was brilliant as a child," Matt continued, "or so the records from that time say, but it seems something bent in him after his father died and he came to the throne. A dark flower blossomed in his brain, the Dwarves say when such a thing occurs.

"First Mage to Vailerth was a man called Nilsom, whose source was a woman. Aideen was her name, and she had loved Nilsom all her life, or so the records tell."

Matt walked a few strides in silence. Jennifer had the feeling he was sorry to have begun the story, but after a moment he resumed. "It was rare for a mage to have a woman for source, in part because in Gwen Ystrat, where the Priestesses of Dana are, they would curse any woman who did so. It was always rare; it is rarer still since Aideen."

She looked over at him, but the Dwarf's features were quite impassive.

"Many dark things fell out because of Vailerth's madness. At length there came talk of civil war in the land, because he began taking children, boys and girls both, from their homes and bringing them into the palace by night. They would never be seen again, and the rumors of what the High

King did to them were very bad. And in these deeds, in all of these deeds of darkness, Nilsom
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was with the King, and some say it was he who goaded Vailerth into them. Theirs was a dark weaving, and Nilsom, with Aideen by his side, had power so great none dared openly gainsay them. It is my own thought," the Dwarf added, turning his head for the first time, "that he, too, was mad, but in a cooler, more dangerous fashion. It was a long time ago, however, and the records are incomplete, because many of our most precious books were destroyed in the war.

There was war at the last, for one day Vailerth and Nilsom went too far: they proposed to go into the Godwood and cut down the

Summer Tree.

"The whole of Brennin rose up then, save for the army Vailerth had raised. But that army was loyal and strong, and Nilsom was very strong, more so than the five other mages in Brennin all together.

And then on the eve of war there was only one other mage, for four of them were found dead, and their sources, too.

"There was civil war in the High Kingdom then. Only Gwen Ystrat stayed aloof. But the Dukes of

Rhoden and Seresh, the Wardens of the North March and the South, the farmers and the townsmen and the mariners from Taerlindel, all came to war against Vailerth and Nilsom.

"They were not enough. Nilsom's power then, sourced in Aideen's strength and her love, was greater, they say, than that of any mage since Amairgen. He wrought death and ruination among all who opposed them, and blood soaked the fields as brother slew brother, while Vailerth laughed in

Paras Derval."

Once more Matt paused, and when he resumed, there was a flatness in his voice. "The last battle was fought in the hilly land just west of us, between here and the Godwood. Vailerth, they say, climbed to the topmost towers of this palace to watch Nilsom lead his army to the final victory, after which nothing but the dead would stand between them and the Tree.

"But when the sun rose that morning, Aideen went before her mage, whom she loved, and she told him she would no longer drain herself for him in this cause. And saying so, she drew forth a knife and drained the life's blood from her veins instead and so died."

"Oh, no," Jennifer said. "Oh, Matt!"

He seemed not to have heard. "There is little after that," he said, still very flat. "With Nilsom powerless, the army of Vailerth was overrun. They threw down their swords and spears and sued for peace. Nilsom would not do so, and in the end he was killed by the last mage in Brennin.

Vailerth leaped from his tower and died. Aideen was buried with honor in a grave close by the Mörnirwood, and Duke Lagos of Seresh was crowned in this hall."

They had come full circle, back to the benches under the last window, close to the throne.

Overhead, Colan's yellow hair was brilliant in the sunlight that poured through the windows.