Fionavar 1 (8 page)

"Be welcome, Ysanne," said the Prince, a deep courtesy in his tone. "It is long since you have graced our court." But Kim, hearing the name spoken, seeing the frail figure standing there, felt something touch her then, like a finger on the heart.

A current of sound had begun to ripple through the gathered courtiers, and those lining the spaces between the pillars were crowding backwards in fear. But the murmur was only faint background for Kim now, because all her senses were locked onto the seamed, wizened figure walking carefully towards the throne on the arm of the young Prince.

"Ysanne, you should not be here." Ailell, surprisingly, had risen to speak, and it could be seen that, even stooped with years, he was the tallest man in the room.

"True enough," the old woman agreed placidly, coming to a halt before him. Her voice was gentle as Jaelle's had been harsh. The red-haired Priestess was gazing at her with a bitter contempt. "Then why?" Ailell asked softly. "Fifty years on this throne merits a journey to pay homage," Ysanne replied. "Is there anyone else here besides Metran and perhaps Loren who well recalls the day you were crowned? I came to wish you bright weaving, Ailell. And for two other things." "Which are?"

It was Loren who asked. "First, to see your travelers," Ysanne replied, and turned to face Paul Schafer.

His responding gesture was brutally abrupt. Throwing a hand in front of his eyes, Schafer cried out, "No! No searching!"

Ysanne raised her eyebrows. She glanced at Loren, then turned back to Paul. "I see," she said.

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"Fear not, then, I never use the searching-I don't need it." The whispering in the hall rose again, for the words had carried.

Paul's arm came down slowly. He met the old woman's gaze steadily then, his own head held high-and strangely, it was Ysanne who broke the stare.

And then it was, then it was, that she turned, past Jennifer and Kevin, ignoring the rigid figure of Jaelle, and for the first tune saw Kimberly. Grey eyes met grey before the carven throne under the high windows of Delevan. "Ah!" cried the old woman then on a sharply taken breath. And in the softest thread of a whisper added, after a moment, "I have awaited you for so long now, my dear."

And only Kim herself had seen the spasm of fear that had crossed Ysanne's face before she spoke those quiet words like a benediction.

"How?" Kim managed to stammer. "What do you mean?"

Ysanne smiled. "I am a Seer. The dreamer of the dream." And somehow, Kim knew what that meant, and there were sudden, bright tears in her eyes.

"Come to me," the Seer whispered. "Loren will tell you how." She turned then, and curtsied low before the tall King of Brennin. "Fare kindly, Ailell," she said to him. "The other thing I have come to do is say goodbye. I shall not return, and we shall not meet again, you and I, on this side of the

Night." She paused. "I have loved you. Carry that."

"Ysanne-" the King cried.

But she had turned. And leaning on her staff, she walked, alone this time, the length of the stunned, brilliant hall and out the double doors into the sunlight.

That night, very late, Paul Schafer was summoned to play ta'bael with the High King of Brennin.

The escort was a guard he didn't know and, walking behind him down shadowy corridors, Paul was inwardly grateful for the silent presence of Coll, who he knew was following them.

It was a long walk but they saw few people still awake. A woman combing her hair in a doorway smiled at him, and a party of guards went by, sheathed swords clinking at their sides. Passing some bedrooms Paul heard murmurs of late-night talk, and once, a woman cried out softly on a taken breath-a sound very like a cry that he remembered.

The two men with their hidden follower came at length to a pair of heavy doors. Schafer's face was expressionless as they were opened to his escort's tapping and he was ushered into a large, richly furnished room, at the center of which were two deep armchairs and a table set for ta'bael.

"Welcome!" It was Gorlaes, the Chancellor, who came forward to grip Paul's arm in greeting. "It is kind of you to come."

"It is kind," came the thinner voice of the King. He moved out from a shadowed corner of the room as he spoke. "I am grateful to you for indulging an old man's sleeplessness. The day has worn heavily upon me. Gorlaes, good night."

"My lord," the Chancellor said quickly. "I will be happy to stay and-"

"No need. Go to sleep. Tarn will serve us." The King nodded to the young page who had opened the door for Paul. Gorlaes looked as if he would protest again, but refrained.

"Good night then, my lord. And once more, my deepest well-wishes on this brightly woven day."

He walked forward, and on one knee kissed the hand Ailell extended. Then the Chancellor left the room, leaving Paul alone with the King and his page.

"Wine by the table, Tarn. Then we will serve ourselves. Go to bed-I will wake you when I want to retire. Now come, my young stranger," Ailell said, lowering himself carefully into a chair.

In silence, Paul walked foward and took the other chair. Tarn deftly filled the two glasses set beside the inlaid board, then withdrew through an inner doorway into the King's bedroom. The
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windows of the room were open and the heavy curtains drawn back to admit whatever breath of air might slide in. In a tree somewhere outside a bird was singing. It sounded like a nightingale.

The beautifully carved pieces glinted in the light of the candles, but the face of the tall King of Brennin was hidden as he leaned back in his chair. He spoke softly. "The game we play is the same, Loren tells me, though we name the pieces differently. I always play the black. Take you the white and begin."

Paul Schafer liked to attack in chess, especially with white and the first move. Gambits and sacrifices followed each other in his game, designed to generate a whirlwind assault on the opposition king. The fact that the opposition this night was a king had no effect on him, for Schafer's code, though complex, was unwavering. He set out to demolish the black pieces of Ailell just as he would have those of anyone else. And that night, heartsick and vulnerable, there was even more fire in his game than usual, for he sought to hide from torment in the cold clarity of the black-and-white board. So he marshalled himself ruthlessly, and the white pieces spun into a vortex of attack.

To be met by a defence of intricate, resilient subtlety. Whatever Ailell had dwindled from, however his mind and authority might seem to waver, Paul knew, ten moves into the game, that he was dealing with a man of formidable resources. Slowly and patiently the King ordered his defences, cautiously he shored up his bulwarks, and so it was that Schafer's free-wheeling attack began to

exhaust itself and was turned inexorably back. After almost two hours' play, Paul tipped over the white king in resignation.

The two men leaned back in their chairs and exchanged their first look since the game had begun.

And they smiled, neither knowing, since there was no way they could know, how rare it was for the other to do so. Sharing that moment, however, as Paul raised his silver goblet to salute the King, they moved closer, across the twin gulfs of worlds and years, to the kind of bonding that might have allowed them to understand each other.

It was not to happen, but something else was born that night, and the fruit of that silent game would change the balance and the pattern of all the worlds there were.

Ailell spoke first, his voice husky. "No one," he said, "no one has ever given me a game like that.

I

do not lose in ta'bael. I almost did tonight."

Paul smiled for the second time. "You almost did. You may next game-but I'm not very certain of it. You play beautifully, my lord."

Ailell shook his head. "No, I play carefully. All the beauty was on your side, but sometimes plodding caution will wear down brilliance. When you sacrificed the second rider. . . ." Ailell gestured wordlessly. "I suppose that it is only the young who can do a thing like that. It has been so long for me, I seem to have forgotten." He raised his own cup and drank.

Paul refilled both goblets before replying. He felt drained, simplified. The bird outside, he realized, had stopped singing a long time ago. "I think," he said, "that it is more a question of style than of youth or age. I'm not very patient, so I play the way I do."

"In ta'bael, you mean?"

"Other things, too," Paul answered, after a hesitation.

Ailell, surprisingly, nodded. "I was like that once, though it may be hard for you to credit." His expression was self-deprecating. "I took this throne by force in a time of chaos, and held it with my sword in the early years. If we are to be a dynasty, it begins with me and follows with . . . with Diarmuid, I suppose." Paul remained silent, and after a moment the King went on. "It is power that teaches patience; holding power, I mean. And you learn the price it exacts-which is
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something I

never knew when I was your age and thought a sword and quick wits could deal with anything. I never knew the price you pay for power." Ailell leaned over the board and picked up one of the pieces. "Take the queen in ta'bael," he said. "The most powerful piece on the board, yet she must be protected when threatened by guard or rider, for the game will be lost if that exchange is made. And the king," said Ailell dan Art, "in ta'bael you cannot sacrifice a king."

Paul couldn't read the expression in the sunken, still-handsome face, but there was a new timbre in the voice, something shifting far under the words.

Ailell seemed to notice his discomfort. He smiled again, faintly. "I am heavy company at night,"

he said. "Especially tonight. Too much comes back. I have too many memories."

"I have too many of my own," Paul said impulsively, and hated himself the instant the words were spoken.

Ailell's expression, though, was mild, even compassionate. "I thought you might," he said. "I'm not sure why, but I thought you might."

Paul lowered his face to the deep wine goblet and took a long drink. "My lord," he said, to break the ensuing stillness with a new subject, any new subject, "why did the Priestess say that Loren should have asked her before bringing us? What does-"

"She was wrong about that, and I will send to tell her so. Not that Jaelle is likely to listen."

Ailell's expression was rueful. "She loves to make trouble, to stir up tensions she might find ways to exploit. Jaelle is ambitious beyond belief, and she seeks a return to the old ways of the Goddess

ruling through her High Priestess, which is how it was before Iorweth came from oversea. There is a good deal of ambition in my court, there often is around the throne of an aging king, but hers runs deeper than any."

Paul nodded. "Your son said something like that last night."

"What? Diarmuid did?" Ailell gave a laugh that was actually evocative of the Prince. "I'm surprised he sobered up long enough to think so clearly."

Paul's mouth twitched. "Actually, he wasn't sober, but he seemed to think pretty clearly anyhow."

The King gestured dismissively. "He is charming sometimes." After a pause he tugged at his beard and asked, "I'm sorry, what were we speaking of?"

"Jaelle," Paul said. "What she said this morning."

"Yes, yes, of course. Once her words would have been true, but not for a long time now. In the days when the wild magic could only be reached underground, and usually only with blood, the power needed for a crossing would be drained from the very heart of the earth, and that has always been the province of the Mother. So in those days it was true that such an expenditure of earthroot, of avarlith, could only be made through intercession of the High Priestess with the Goddess. Now, though, for long years now, since Amairgen learned the skylore and founded the Council of the

Mages, the power drain in their magic runs only through the mage's source, and the avarlith is not touched."

"I don't understand. What power drain?"

"I go too quickly. It is hard to remember that you are from another world. Listen, then. If a mage were to use his magic to start a fire in that hearth, it would require power to do it. Once all our magic belonged to the Goddess and that power was tapped straight from the earthroot; and being both drained and expended in Fionavar, the power would find its way back to the earth-it would never diminish. But in a crossing the power is used in another world-"

"So you lose it!"

"Exactly. Or so it was once. But since Amairgen freed the mages from the Mother, the power
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will be drained from the source only, and he rebuilds it in himself over time."

"He?"

"Or she, of course."

"But . . . you mean each mage has . . . ?"

"Yes, of course. Each is bonded to a source, as Loren is to Matt, or Metran to Denbarra. That is the anchoring law of the skylore. The mage can do no more than his source can sustain, and this bond is for life. Whatever a mage does, someone else pays the price."

And so much came clear then. Paul remembered Matt Sören trembling as they came through the crossing. He remembered Loren's sharp concern for the Dwarf, and then, seeing more clearly still, the dim torches on the walls of that first room, the torches frail Metran had so easily gestured to brightness, while Loren had refrained to let his source recover. Paul felt his mind stretch away from self-absorption, stiffly, as if muscles had been too long unused.

"How?" he asked. "How are they bound to each other?"

"Mage and source? There are a great many laws, and long training to be endured. In the end, if there is still willingness, they may bind with the ritual, though it is not a thing to be done lightly.

There are only three left in Fionavar. Denbarra is sister-son to Metran, Teyrnon's source is Barak, his closest friend as a child. Some pairings have been strange ones: Lisen of the Wood was source to Amairgen White-branch, first of the mages."

"Why was it strange?"

"Ah," the High King smiled, a little wistfully, "it is a long tale, that one. Perhaps you may hear a part of it sung in the Great Hall."