The Coming Storm (15 page)

In fact, she had. Avila stood at the windows even now, looking out on the quadrangle, on the neat rows of students making their way from one building to the next. None of this rushing madness that used to take place, they needed to be reminded this was a place of study and reflection, not play.

The horses coming over the hill hadn’t gone unnoticed. Nor their riders. They’d gone beyond her view around the end of the building but she hadn’t missed the fact that Jareth wasn’t wearing his robes. She knew the complaints. He had to understand that the discomfort was minor compared to the respect and dignity his status as wizard should have. Dress as the common folk did and they treated you as one of them, not with the deference you deserved for the talents and skills that raised you above them.

There was also a measure of punishment involved in making them wait.

First, for being presumptuous enough to assume she had nothing better to do than to await their pleasure. Second, of course, for Jareth not wearing his robes. Third, to the Elves and particularly Elon of Aerilann, to remind him and them who was Master of this place.

He’d been a major reason why wizards hadn’t been included in the Council and she knew it. It infuriated her that wizards were denied that status. To her mind, not only should they have been included, it should have been the Four – not the Three – who ruled. Wizards and wizardry set those who had magic apart, above common men, almost a race unto themselves. The magic of wizards was an integral part of the Kingdoms and Elon of Aerilann couldn’t see that. All he could see was ancient history, not current truth. He refused to give wizards equal status for something that had happened long in the past. Intransigent and impossible. Resentment still simmered in the back of her mind that she hadn’t been gifted with one of the Elven-bred horses as Jareth had – who was nothing more than an itinerant wizard. And would remain so if she had anything to say about it.

There was also the not-so-small matter of Jareth’s popularity among the Assembly, the other wizards at large and the students. He had the skills to be a Master wizard, as well, although she’d managed so far to deny him that so far.

None of those things could be tolerated easily.

The young wizard who acted as her secretary waited patiently. That was his job.

Finally, she nodded. “Send them in.”

The young wizard escorted Elon, Colath and Jareth through an anteroom to a pair of elaborate wooden doors. The young man opened them and waved them through.

Avila stood behind her desk, staring out the windows. As Jareth had predicted, she stared out the window at the hill they’d so recently descended. She knew he wasn’t foolish, so Elon had to assume this was her way of making sure he knew she’d made them wait. One of the many reasons he didn’t like this woman.

Although Avila wouldn’t admit it, even to herself, Elon of Aerilann intimidated her. She hated even more than the rest. As most Elves did. Their impassivity made her uncomfortable. She thought many Elves felt superior to men and she took exception to that. It was a relief to her that the only Elven wizard currently was a wizard at large and she rarely saw him. She couldn't read any of them and that bothered her immensely. This one more than any other but for Talesin.

Some of it was that he looked so stern. It was something in the arch of his brows, the intensity of his stare. His dark eyes saw too much, they were too perceptive and she didn’t like that at all. Now, the other one, the one whose name she didn’t know yet? He was a different matter. He was as fair and beautiful as a marble statue, all white and gold. It was an effort to take her eyes from him.

There had been a fourth. From a distance a female by the look. Where was she?

Jareth, of course, was Jareth. He had, at least, made an attempt to bring himself before her in something like reasonable order. That was better. Perhaps he was learning his lesson at last.

She waited, for the proper introduction.

“Master Avila, Elon and Colath of Aerilann,” Jareth said.

Which she well knew but apparently she was going to force them to protocol.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, with a small nod of acknowledgement.

Elon answered, “I have need of Jareth’s services, I would like your permission for him to travel with me for a time.”

Interesting, Avila thought. What was he up to?

“Why would an Elf need the assistance of a wizard?”

“I don’t know yet that I will but it would be better to be well-prepared than ill-prepared.”

“Another wizard wouldn’t do as well?”

He shook his head. “I know Jareth, I know how he’ll act. It would take time to reach that level of familiarity with another.”

“Is this official business?”

As an Elf alone he should be able to request this without these questions, as a member of the Council the same should be true. As if this pettiness weren’t enough, her voice grated at him. She had a voice like a jay, creaky and demanding. The jay, at least, came by it honestly. He schooled himself to patience.

“No,” he said, carefully, “except that I am a member of Council and I have need of his services. I wouldn’t wish to violate your protocols or the terms of the Agreement.”

She visibly bridled at the reminder. That wizards hadn’t been included among the Council clearly still grated with her. She knew well that the Elves, he in particular, along with the Dwarves, had thwarted her in that, although she blamed mostly him. And rightly.

The memory of the wizard wars was still too strong for either race to allow wizards that kind of power. Friend though Jareth might be, this one was a reminder why they shouldn’t have it. Power didn’t sit her well. That they’d granted her Advisor status hadn’t mollified her much. It did no good to remind her the Council was conceived to consist only of the representatives of the three Races and that wizards weren’t a race apart, however much she wanted to insist they were.

She felt they hadn’t recognized the proper importance of wizards in society.

While the common conceit was that wizards served all races, the truth was neither Elves nor Dwarves had much need of those services. The one clause of the Agreement that dealt with wizards decreed  that they worked at the will of the Council, with the Master’s consent. That was the only reason he’d done this. He wanted no enemies, no petty quarrels to distract and deter. Avila was a Master at those skills. While he was standing before Daran High King making his arguments he didn’t want her objecting to his use of one of her people.

“Jareth is an itinerant wizard-at-large, he can do as he wills.”

Keeping his voice even Elon nodded. “I would prefer to offer you the courtesy of obtaining your consent. There may be some danger involved, I wouldn’t want it said of me that I didn’t at least offer you that knowledge.”

“Danger?” she asked, with apparent unconcern that was nothing of the sort.

This threatened to be endless.

“We go up into the high country. There have been some incidents with creatures from the borderlands.”

There had been rumors of such, Avila knew. Creatures from the borderlands strayed across every now and then. That was what the Hunters were for, though. Dangerous, yes, those creatures certainly could be dangerous. Even to a wizard. It crossed her mind, although she wouldn’t admit it to herself or to any who asked, that it would be a solution to the problem of Jareth. Not that she wished him any ill but that was perilous country. Anything could happen.

“Jareth, I assume you are aware of this?” she asked.

Jareth nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

This was insulting. Even Avila had to know that. Elon’s integrity was unquestioned. As a Council member his request was no more than reasonable. Of course, it wasn’t beyond Avila to force them through this pretense just to be insulting. To make Elon ask.

“In that case, I have no objection.”

Which wasn’t quite the same as assent but Elon would take it. He nodded and bowed his head a little, if only to show respect for the office she held, if not for the one who held it. She wouldn’t know the difference and it cost him nothing to make the gesture. That mollified her even more.

With relief, they departed.

Once they were outside the gates and over the hill out of sight, Jareth pulled up. “Hold a moment.”

In that short distance he could already feel the collar chafe beneath his chin. He took the damned robe off and stuffed it in his saddlebags.

Jalila shook her head in resignation and held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

Her hands swift and sure, she folded it neatly and rolled it to a size that would more suit his saddlebag. She handed it back.

Both Elon and Colath restrained their amusement as Jareth watched in amazement.

How could a man who could do the wonders he could not know how to fold his clothing so they didn’t appear in disarray?

“That’s better,” Jareth said, rubbing the chafed spot beneath his jaw.

Elon asked, mildly, “Are you sure you’re comfortable enough?”

Giving him a narrow-eyed look, Jareth said, “Why is it my people are so convinced Elves have no sense of humor?”

“Because it’s too subtle for most,” Colath answered, his eyes twinkling as they got under way once again.

“That must be it,” Jareth said, nodding wisely.

Selah wandered aimlessly through her solar. Her loom stood still, the tapestry she’d been weaving with that fine Elven thread unfinished. She’d started to go back to it several times, had even sat and sent the shuttle back and forth a few times, but to no avail. She couldn’t keep her mind on it or much of anything else these days, however much she tried.

What had she been thinking? Something… It had slipped away from her again. Weak frustration and a trickle of fear washed through her.

“My lady,” a voice said.

She couldn’t help it, she jumped a little. That voice, that sing-song voice. Tolan. He was here in her solar. She wished he wouldn’t come. She remembered he’d come once before. When was it? While Ailith was visiting Mother? Yes, perhaps it was. She remembered she hadn’t wanted him there.

Her mother. Delae. That firm, practical woman’s face rose in her mind from the fog of her thoughts. Love washed through her and then faded away.

“My lady,” Tolan repeated.

Her heart quickened. She turned.

“Tolan?” she said, bewildered.

“Yes, my lady.”

Tolan wandered over to the half-finished tapestry. Whatever picture she’d once set to make on it, it was a jumble now.

He touched the delicate tendrils of Elven thread. So fine, so strong.

Selah didn’t want him touching it but she couldn’t bring herself to object. He frightened her. The sun shone brightly on the floor, a piercing ray shafting through the narrow arrowslit marking the time on the floor like a sundial. So bright.

“My lady.”

She looked up again. Tolan.

“I would like to speak to you about your daughter,” he said, in that soft, sing-song tone.

Ailith. Her heart twisted. What of Ailith? Another thin stream of fear wound through her.

“She’s a willful child, isn’t she?”

Ailith willful? No, Selah thought with a small frown. No. No. Not willful. Bright yes, in mind and spirit but willful, no.

“Ah. I misspoke myself. I meant she’s strong-willed.”

Yes. Strong-willed and even-tempered like her father. Geric. Even-tempered. No more. Not anymore. She rarely saw him. She never saw him. Not anymore. Not the man she married. Not the man she’d loved so deeply.

“My lady.”

Tolan always called her that, never by her name.

“She’s strong-willed, is she not?” Tolan said, his voice that soft sing-song.

Sighing, she nodded.

Tolan nodded in return, his head mirroring her own. “As I thought, as I thought. And stubborn, as well. Like her mother. Stubborn, determined, but in the end…”

Her head was nodding. Yes, stubborn sometimes as well. Determined.

“Good, good,” he said. “Then I’ll have to be more careful. It will simply take more time. Excellent. Thank you, my lady.”

He was gone. She was relieved. Her hand went to her neck. Something bothered her there. It itched maddeningly. The chain. She hated chains.

What had she been thinking?

Was Tolan here? Tolan had been here. Yes. Again. She didn’t want him here.

Something nettled her neck. She worried at it like she would at a sore tooth, her fingers drifting to it and then drifting away.

Ailith. Tolan had been asking about Ailith. Somewhere deep inside of her that little voice was shouting again. Tolan had been asking about Ailith. Her daughter. That voice sometimes sounded like her mother. Like her mother was taking her by the shoulders and shaking her.

That itch, that maddening itch.

It was dark. She looked out the windows and now it was dark.

Tolan had been here. He’d been asking about Ailith. Her mother had been shouting at her. No. Mother wasn’t here. Tolan had been here. Asking about Ailith. Her daughter. Her only child.

That maddening itch. She dragged at it. The chain snapped and it and the little charm fell to the floor.

For a moment she just stared at it. In the center of the charm was a small oily stone, dark but if you stared at it long enough you could see shadows move in it.

She looked up. Moonlight streamed in the window. It was late. Where had the time gone? Tolan had been here but then it had been daylight. Now he was gone and it was dark.

The thread of fear that had haunted her so long blossomed abruptly into cold terror. Tolan. Geric had given her that thing but Tolan had been there. His voice, that soft even voice, never changing volume, only that mesmeric sing-song modulation. Tolan had been here. Tonight. Asking about Ailith.

Was she strong-willed?

Selah’s heart was pounding and she was dizzy. With light steps she ran to the door. Get Ailith and maybe run to her mother. Mother would know what to do. Carefully, she eased the door open, peered down the stairs to the landing. Could they both get out? How? She didn’t know what to do. Her mind was still oddly fogged, her thoughts disjointed.

Her mother would know, she would know what to do. Carefully, Selah picked up the charm from the carpet. Her thoughts become hazy and thick again. Hastily, she dropped it. It rolled beneath the bed. She wouldn’t touch it again. That had startled her badly. Her heart pounded. She was so frightened. Mother would know what to do.

How, though, could she get out unseen? Guards patrolled the walls. New guards. She remembered that. Geric had hired them. She hadn’t liked the looks of them.

Then it came to her. A bolt of terror. What if she was caught? What if they both were caught? Remembering the rages and remembering Tolan. She was afraid of him. Ailith was strong-willed. If Selah could get away, get to her mother’s, maybe her mother would know what to do. What if she were caught? Well, it was only her. Not Ailith. Someone had to know. They had to get Ailith away from here. Mother would know what to do.

Silently, she eased the door shut again. There was a better way out. She knew it. From here. She knew. The door, the secret door. The escape in case of siege. No one would see her. She would be gone. She needed to be gone, wanted to be gone. Fear drove her through the door and sent her flying down the stairs.

Sleeping and dreaming. Darkness. A long dark tunnel. The sound of water dripping. It was dank. Mold bloomed over the rough, dark stones. A sound like the wind came, a rushing, a soughing. Ailith knew it, it was familiar, this place. Why was she afraid? She knew this place but it was dark. Very dark.

A glimmer of light in the distance, torchlight or firelight, very faint.

Then a voice.

A familiar voice, so oddly even, so reasonable, that peculiar sing-song.

“It has to be done, my Lord,” that voice she knew said in her dreams. “She got it off. It has to be done.”

Another voice, deep, familiar. Father. Oddly vague and tenuous, not the firm tones she once knew, or the furious rages of late but sad, mournful the way a child’s voice might be when they’d been bad. Not clear. Muttering dolefully.

“I know, I know,” that sing-song voice said. “Sad, so sad. But it must be. It must be done. And you must do it, only you. It’s sad but you must. You know she’s doing wrong. You know what she’ll do. She’ll tell. She’s betraying you. You know that. Defying you. That’s wrong.”

So reasonable, that voice, so very reasonable. Yet, somehow she knew that what he asked wasn’t. What he asked was unreasonable, insane.
What was he talking about
?

“If she wasn’t going to betray you, would she not simply come to you and say, please my Lord, as a proper wife should? Would she creep about and sneak about? No. It’s sad, so sad, but it must be done.”

“She wouldn’t,” her father said in that thick and dreamy child-like voice.

Ailith’s heart pounded. Something was about to happen. Something terrible. She had to wake up but she couldn’t. It felt as if her limbs had been weighted down.

“She wouldn’t,” her father repeated.

Father, don’t
, Ailith pleaded silently.

That other voice, that oh-so-reasonable voice, said, “She will. She has. I’ll prove it. She comes.”

From the darkness came the sound of light fast footsteps, drawing near. A pale figure, a blur appeared out of the darkness, running, her feet bare.

“As I told you. See, as I told you. She’ll betray you. She’s leaving you. You can’t allow that.”

The figure ran past them, there was a brief glimpse of a pale face, strained with fear.

Mother
?

Her father roared, “No!”

Stunned, she saw him jolt into a run as if goaded, saw the glitter of the blade in his hand.

No, Father! No!

A silent scream echoed inside her head.
No, don’t
! She didn’t want to believe  he would do it. At the last second he would remember himself and stop. He had to, he must. He wouldn’t only be killing her mother –
terrible thought
– but he would be killing himself as well. Somehow she knew that. Not his body, that would go on, but his soul and any hope he might ever be the man he once was, the man he used to be, would not.

He wouldn’t kill her mother, he couldn’t. This was just an evil dream. A horrible dream, a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. It wasn’t real. She couldn’t be watching her father racing after her mother down that dark and dripping tunnel.

Turning her head, her mother looked back and her expression turned stricken and hopeless as she saw who it was who gave chase. Her heart broke in that moment, it was there in her face. As well as her stride. That hesitation, that moment of horrified heartbreak, was all it took.

Blood splattered and arced across the walls as the knife struck, rose, then fell again. All was black and grey in that terrible place, all but the bright red blood that splattered as the knife rose and fell.

It was as if the knife lanced into Ailith’s own body, that terrible pain, the horror and grief.

Feeling her mother die.

A part of her mind kept repeating,
it’s a dream
, but another part knew it wasn’t.

Stunned, she watched, even as she felt something become hideously aware. As she sensed eyes turn. Awful eyes. Sandy eyes. Her mother… Her mother was dead, she was gone. If those eyes saw her, saw Ailith, she might be dead as well. Or worse. The shell of her father was standing erect again, covered in blood, the knife in his hand. A shell, a puppet. Somehow she knew, deep inside him, that he was screaming. But that voice was fading, becoming fainter, dying as well. The light that was her father was fading, tattering, and then it was gone. With that last terrible act, what was left of him died.

He was gone.

New grief, new pain, terrible, tore through her heart.

Those eyes turned. They sensed something. Turning. In a second he would finish that endless turn and he would see, he would know she was there.

If he saw her she would die.

Crying out, she clapped her hands over her mouth as she shot awake and fell out of bed to lay on the floor shaking in cold terror and horror. It hadn’t been real. It couldn’t have been real. Had it? It couldn’t have happened. No, her father couldn’t have killed her mother. Couldn’t have.

She was across the room and easing the door open before she thought consciously about it. If it was true? If she’d dreamed true? She had to know.

If it was, if it was, then they were still far down below. But it couldn’t be true.

She had to know.

Every sense was alert. The stairwell was empty. There was no one.

The stairs. She flew up them two at a time, her feet barely seeming to touch the cold stone.

Her mother’s solar. The door was closed. It was almost a relief to see that. Maybe she was there, maybe she was sleeping. It had been nothing more than a terrible dream.

Carefully, quietly, so as not to disturb, Ailith eased the door open. Moonlight streamed into the room, across the bed. It was empty, unslept in. A litter of clothing covered the floor.

That wasn’t like her mother. Her mother had always been neat, careful and well-groomed.