Fionavar 1 (24 page)

Not for herself did she grieve; there had been true fear at her first foreknowledge, and an echo of it when she had seen the girl in the Great Hall, but it had passed. The thing was very dark, but no longer terrifying; long ago she had known what would come.

It would be hard, though, for the girl. It would be hard in every way, but against what had begun tonight with the dog and the wolf. . . . It was going to be hard for all of them. She could not help that; one thing only, she could do.

There was a stranger dying on the Tree. She shook her head; that, that was the deepest thing of all, and he was the one she had not been able to read, not that it mattered now. As to that, only the sporadic thunder mattered, thunder in a clear, starry sky. Mörnir would walk tomorrow, if the stranger held, and no one, not one of them could tell what that might mean. The God was outside of them.

But the girl. The girl was something else, and her Ysanne could see, had seen many times. She rose quietly and walked to stand over Kim. She saw the vellin stone on the slim wrist, and the Baelrath glowing on one finger, and she thought of Macha and Red Nemain and their prophecy.

She thought of Raederth then, for the first time that night. An old, old sorrow. Fifty years, but still.

Lost once, fifty years ago on the far side of Night, and now. . . . But the dog had howled in the wood, it was full, fullest time, and she had known for very long what was to come. There was no terror any more, only loss, and there had always been loss.

Kimberly stirred on her pillow. So young, the Seer thought. It was all so sad, but she knew, truly, of no other way, for she had lied the day before: it was not merely a matter of time before the girl could know the woven patterns of Fionavar as she needed to. It could not be. Oh, how could it ever be?

The girl was needed. She was a Seer, and more. The crossing bore witness, the pain of the land, the testimony in Eilathen's eyes. She was needed, but not ready, not complete, and the old woman knew one way, and only one, to do the last thing necessary.

The cat was awake, watching her with knowing eyes from the window sill. It was very dark; tomorrow there would be no moon. It was time, past time.

She laid a hand then, and it was very steady, upon Kimberly's forehead, where the single vertical line showed when she was distressed. Ysanne's fingers, still beautiful, traced a sign lightly and irrevocably on the unfurrowed brow. Kimberly slept. A gentle smile lit the Seer's face as she withdrew.

"Sleep child," she murmured. "You have need, for the way is dark and there will be fire ere the end, and a breaking of the heart. Grieve not in the morning for my soul; my dream is done, my dreaming. May the Weaver name you his, and shield you from the Dark all your days."

Then there was silence in the room. The cat watched from the window. "It is done," Ysanne said, to the room, the night, the summer stars, to all her ghosts, and to the one loved man, now to be lost forever among the dead.

With care she opened the secret entrance to the chamber below, and went slowly down the stone stairs to where Colan's dagger lay, bright still in its sheath of a thousand years.

There was a very great deal of pain now. The moon had passed from overhead. His last moon, he realized, though thought was difficult. Consciousness was going to become a transient condition, a very hard thing, and already, with a long way yet to go, he was beginning to
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hallucinate. Colors, sounds. The trunk of the Tree seemed to have grown fingers, rough like bark, that wrapped themselves around him. He was touching the Tree everywhere now. Once, for a long spell, he thought he was inside it, looking out, not bound upon it. He thought he was the Summer Tree.

He was truly not afraid of dying, only of dying too soon. He had sworn an oath. But it was so hard to hold onto his mind, to hold his will to living another night. So much easier to let go, to leave the pain behind. Already the dog and wolf seemed to have been half dreamt, though he knew the battle had ended only hours before. There was dried blood on his wrists from when he had tried to free himself.

When the second man appeared before him, he was sure it was a vision. He was so far gone.

Popular attraction, a faint, fading capacity of his mind mocked. Come see the hanging man!

This man had a beard, and deep-set dark eyes, and didn't seem about to change into an animal.

He just stood there, looking up. A very boring vision. The trees were loud in the wind; there was thunder, he could feel it.

Paul made an effort, moving his head back and forth to clear it. His eyes hurt, for some reason, but he could see. And what he saw on the face of the figure below was an expression of such appalling, balked desire that the hair rose up on his neck. He should know who this was, he should. If his mind were working, he would know, but it was too hard, it was hopelessly beyond him.

"You have stolen my death," the figure said.

Paul closed his eyes. He was too far away from this. Too far down the road. He was incapable of explaining, unable to do more than try to endure.

An oath. He had sworn an oath. What did an oath mean? A whole day more, it meant. And a third night.

Some time later his eyes seemed to be open again and he saw, with uttermost relief, that he was alone. There was grey in the eastern sky; one more, one last.

And this was the second night of Pwyll the Stranger on the Summer Tree.

In the morning came something unheard of: a hot, dry wind, bitter and unsettling, swept down into

Paras Derval from the north.

No one could remember a hot north wind before. It carried with it the dust of bone-bare farms, so the air darkened that day, even at noon, and the high sun shone balefully orange through the obscuring haze.

The thunder continued, almost a mockery. There were no clouds.

"With all respect, and such-like sentiments," Diarmuid said from by the window, his tone insolent and angry, "We are wasting time." He looked dishevelled and dangerous; he was also, Kevin realized with dismay, a little drunk.

From his seat at the head of the council table, Ailell ignored his heir. Kevin, still not sure why he'd been invited here, saw two bright spots of red on the cheeks of the old King. Ailell looked terrible;

he seemed to have shrivelled overnight.

Two more men entered the room: a tall, clever-looking man, and beside him, a portly, affable fellow. The other mage, Kevin guessed: Teyrnon, with Barak, his source. Gorlaes, the Chancellor, made the introductions and it turned out he was right, except the innocuous-seeming fat man was the mage, and not the other way around.

Loren was still away, but Matt was in the room, and so, too, were a number of other dignitaries.

Kevin recognized Mabon, the Duke of Rhoden, Ailell's cousin, and beyond him was Niavin of Seresh. The ruddy man with the salt-and-pepper beard was Ceredur, who had been made North
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Warden after Diarmuid's brother was exiled. He'd seen them at last night's banquet. Their expressions were very different now.

It was Jaelle, they were waiting for, and as the moments passed, Kevin, too, began to grow impatient with apprehension.

"My lord," he said abruptly to the King, "while we wait-who is Galadan? I feel completely ignorant."

It was Gorlaes who answered. Ailell was sunken in silence, and Diarmuid was still sulking by the window. "He is a force of Darkness from long ago. A very great power, though he did not always serve the Dark," the Chancellor said. "He is one of the andain-child of a mortal woman and a god.

In older days there were not a few such unions. The andain are a difficult race, moving easily in no world at all. Galadan became their Lord, by far the most powerful of them all, and said to be the most subtle mind in Fionavar. Then something changed him."

"An understatement, that," murmured Teyrnon.

"I suppose," said Gorlaes. "What happened is that he fell in love with Lisen of the Wood. And when she rejected him and bound herself instead to a mortal, Amairgen Whitebranch, first of the mages, Galadan vowed the most complete vengeance ever sworn." The Chancellor's voice took on a note of awe. "Galadan swore that the world that witnessed his humiliation would cease to exist."

There was a silence. Kevin could think of nothing to say. Nothing at all.

Teyrnon took up the tale. "In the time of the Bael Rangat he was first lieutenant to Rakoth and most terrible of his servants. He had the power to take on the shape of a wolf, and so he commanded them all. His purposes, though, were at odds with his master's, for though the Unraveller sought rule for lust of power and domination, Galadan would have conquered to utterly destroy."

"They fought?" Kevin hazarded.

Teyrnon shook his head. "One did not pitch oneself against Rakoth. Galadan has very great powers, and if he has joined the svart alfar to his wolves in war upon us, then we are in danger indeed; but

Rakoth, whom the stones bind, is outside the Tapestry. There is no thread with his name upon it.

He cannot die, and none could ever set his will against him."

"Amairgen did," said Diarmuid from the window.

"And died," Teyrnon replied, not ungently.

"There are worse things," the Prince snapped.

At that, Ailell stirred. Before he could speak, though, the door opened and Jaelle swept into the room. She nodded briefly to the King, acknowledged no one else, and slipped into the chair left for her at one end of the long table.

"Thank you for hurrying," Diarmuid murmured, coming to take his chair at Ailell's right hand.

Jaelle merely smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

"Well, now," said the King, clearing his throat, "it seems to me that the best way to proceed is to spend this morning in a careful review-"

"In the name of the Weaver and the Loom, Father!" Diarmuid's fist crashed on the table. "We all know what has happened! What is there to review? I swore an oath last night we would aid the lios, and-"

"A premature oath, Prince Diarmuid," Gorlaes interrupted. "And not one within your power to swear."

"No?" said the Prince softly. "Then let me remind you-let us indeed carefully review," he amended delicately, "what has happened. One of my men is dead. One of the ladies of this court is dead. A

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svart alfar was within the palace grounds six nights ago." He was ticking them off on his fingers.

"Lios alfar have died in Brennin. Galadan has returned. Avaia has returned. Our First Mage is a proven traitor. A guest-friend of this House has been torn away from us-a guest-friend, I pause to point out, of our radiant High Priestess as well. Which should mean something, unless she takes such things to be meaningless."

"I do not," Jaelle snapped through clenched teeth.

"No?" the Prince said, his eyebrows raised. "What a surprise. I thought you might regard it as of the same importance as arriving to a War Council on time."

"It isn't yet a Council of War," Duke Ceredur said bluntly. "Though to be truthful, I am with the Prince- I think we should have the country on war footing immediately."

There was a grunt of agreement from Matt Sören. Teyrnon, though, shook his round honest head.

"There is too much fear in the city," he demurred, "and it is going to spread within days throughout the country." Niavin, Duke of Seresh, was nodding agreement. "Unless we know exactly what we are doing and what we face, I think we must take care not to panic them," the chubby mage concluded.

"We do know what we face!" Diarmuid shot back. "Galadan was seen. He was seen! I say we summon the Dalrei, make league with the lios, and seek the Wolflord wherever he goes and crush him now!"

"Amazing," Jaelle murmured drily in the pause that ensued, "how impetuous younger sons tend to be, especially when they have been drinking."

"Go gently, sweetling," the Prince said softly. "I will not brook that from anyone. You, least of all, my midnight moonchild."

Kevin exploded. "Will you two listen to yourselves? Don't you understand: Jennifer is gone!

We've got to do something besides bicker, for God's sake!"

"I quite agree," Teyrnon said sternly. "May I suggest that we invite our friend from Daniloth to join us if he is able. We should seek the views of the lios on this."

"You may seek their views," said Ailell dan Art, suddenly rising to tower above them all, "and I would have his thoughts reported to me later, Teyrnon. But I have decided to adjourn this Council until this same time tomorrow. You all have leave to go."

"Father-" Diarmuid began, stammering with consternation.

"No words!" Ailell said harshly, and his eyes gleamed in his bony face. "I am still High King in Brennin, let all of you remember it!"

"We do, my dearest lord," said a familiar voice from the door. "We all do," Loren Silvercloak went on, "but Galadan is far too great a power for us to delay without cause."

Dusty and travel-stained, his eyes hollow with exhaustion, the mage ignored the fierce reaction to his arrival and gazed only at the King. There was, Kevin realized, a sudden surge of relief in the room; he felt it within himself. Loren was back. It made a very great difference.

Matt Sören had risen to stand beside the mage, eyeing his friend with a grimly worried expression.

Loren's weariness was palpable, but he seemed to gather his resources, and turned among all that company to look at Kevin.

"I am sorry," he said simply. "I am deeply sorry."

Kevin nodded jerkily. "I know," he whispered. That was all; they both turned to the King.

"Since when need the High King explain himself?" Ailell said, but his brief assertion of control seemed to have drained him; his tone was querulous, not commanding.

"He need not, my lord. But if he does, his subjects and advisers may sometimes be of greater aid."

The mage had come several steps into the room.

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"Sometimes," the King replied. "But at other times there are things they do not and should not know." Kevin saw Gorlaes shift in his seat. He took a chance.