The Wandering Fire Part 16

Ivor tried. He turned in time to see the Seer fall, in time to see a blurred shaping in the air beside her, but the light was too red, too bright. He was blinded by it, burned. He could not see.

And then it was dark.

Or it seemed that way. There were still torches on the walls, candles burning on the altar stone, but after the crazed illumination of the Baelrath, still raging in his mind's eye, Ivor felt surrounded by darkness. A sense of failure overwhelmed him. Something had happened; somehow, even without the mages, Kim had sent an image back and now she was lying on the floor with the High King standing over her, and Ivor had no idea what she had sent to them with what looked to have been the last effort of her soul. He couldn't see if she was breathing. There was very little he could see.

A shadow moved. Matt Soren rising to his feet.

Someone spoke. "It was too bright," said Shalha.s.san. "I could not see." There was pain in his voice.

"Nor I," Ivor murmured. Far too late his sight was returning.

"I saw," Aileron said. "But I do not understand."

"It was a Cauldron." Arthur Pendragon's deep voice was quietly sure. "I marked it as well."

"A Cauldron, yes," Loren said. "At Cader Sedat. We know that already."

"But there is no connection," Jaelle protested weakly. She looked close to collapse. "It quickens the newly dead. What does the Cauldron of Khath Meigol have to do with winter?"

What indeed? Ivor thought, and then he heard Gereint. "Young one," the shaman rasped, almost inaudibly, "this is the mages' hour. You have lived to come to this. First Mage of Brennin, what is he doing with the Cauldron?"

The mages' hour, Ivor thought. In the Temple of Dana in Gwen Ystrat. The Weaving of the Tapestry was truly past all comprehending.

Oblivious to their beseeching looks, Loren turned slowly to his source. Mage and Dwarf looked at each other as if no one else was in the room, in the world. Even Teyrnon and Barak were watching the other two and waiting. He was holding his breath, Ivor realized, and his palms were damp.

"Do you remember," Loren said suddenly, and in his voice Ivor heard the timbre of power that lay in Gereint's when he spoke for the G.o.d, "do you remember the book of Nilsom?"

"Accursed be his name," Matt Soren replied. "I never read it, Loren."

"Nor I," said Teyrnon softly. "Accursed be his name."

"I did," said Loren. "And so did Metran." He paused. "I know what he is doing and how he is doing it."

With a gasp, Ivor expelled air from his lungs and drew breath again. All around him he heard others doing the same. In Matt Soren's one eye he saw a gleam of the same pride with which Leith sometimes looked at him. Quietly, the Dwarf said, "I knew you would. We have a battle then?"

"I promised you one a long time ago," the mage replied. He seemed to Ivor to have grown, even as they watched.

"Weaver be praised!" Aileron suddenly exclaimed.

Quickly they all looked over. The High King had crouched and was cradling Kim's head in his arms, and Ivor could see that she was breathing normally again, and there was color in her face.

In a rapt silence they waited. Ivor, close to tears, saw how young her face was under the white hair. He was too easily moved to tears, he knew. Leith had derided it often enough. But surely it was all right now? He saw tears on the face of the High King and even a suspicious brightness in the eyes of dour Shalha.s.san of Cathal. In such company, he thought, may not a Dalrei weep?

In a little while she opened her eyes. There was pain in their greyness, and a great weariness, but her voice was clear when she spoke.

"I found something," she said. "I tried to send it back. Did I? Was it enough?"

"You did, and it was enough," Aileron replied gruffly.

She smiled with the simplicity of a child. "Good," she said. "Then I will sleep now. I could sleep for days." And she closed her eyes.

CHAPTER 11.

"Now you know," said Garde with a wink, "why the men of Gwen Ystrat always look so tired!"

Kevin smiled and drained his gla.s.s. The tavern was surprisingly uncrowded, given the prevailing energies of the night. It appeared that both Aileron and Shalha.s.san had given orders. Diarmuid's band, though, as always, seemed to enjoy an immunity from such disciplinary commands.

"That," said Erron to Garde, "is half a truth at best." He raised a hand to summon another flask of Gwen Ystrat wine, then turned to Kevin. "He's teasing you a bit. There's some of this feeling all year long, I'm told, but only some. Tonight's different-or tomorrow is, actually, and it's spilling over into tonight. What we're feeling now comes only at Maidaladan."

The innkeper brought over their wine. Upstairs they heard a door open, and a moment later Coll leaned over the railing. "Who's next?" he said with a grin.

"Go ahead," Garde said. "I'll keep the wine cool for you."

Kevin shook his head. "I'll pa.s.s," he said as Coll came clumping down the stairs.

Garde raised an eyebrow. "No second offers," he said. "I'm not being that generous tonight, not with so few women about."

Kevin laughed. "Enjoy," he said, raising the gla.s.s Erron had filled for him.

Coll slipped into Garde's seat. He poured himself a gla.s.s, drained it in a gulp, then fixed Kevin with a surprisingly acute glance. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?" he asked softly, so it wouldn't go beyond their table.

"A little," Kevin said. It was the easiest thing to say, and after a moment he realized that it gave him an out. "Actually," he murmured, "more than a little. I don't think I'm in a party mood tonight." He stood up. "I think I'll turn in, as a matter of fact."

Erron's voice was sympathetic. "It's not a bad idea, Kevin. Tomorrow night's the real thing, anyhow. What we're feeling now is going to be ten times stronger. With a wolf hunt under your belt, you'll be ready to bed a priestess or three."

"They come out?" Kevin asked, arrested for a moment.

"Only night of the year," Erron said. "Part of the rites of Liadon." He smiled wryly. "The only good part."

Kevin returned the smile. "I'll wait for tomorrow, then. See you in the morning." He clapped Coll on the shoulder, pulled on his coat and gloves, and walked out the door into the bitter chill of the night.

It is bad, he was thinking, when you have to lie to friends. But the reality was too difficult, too alienating, and it was private, too. Let them think he was apprehensive about the hunt; that was better than the truth.

The truth was that nothing of the desire that every other man in the company was feeling had even touched him. None of it. Only from the talk all around had he even grasped that something unusual was happening. Whatever supercharged eroticism was a.s.sociated with Midsummer's Eve in this place-so much of it that even the priestesses of the G.o.ddess came out from the Temple to make love-whatever was happening wasn't bothering to include him.

The wind was unholy. Worse even than a December holiday he'd spent once on the prairies. It scythed like a blade under his coat. He wasn't going to be able to stay out long. Nothing could. How, Kevin thought, did you fight an enemy who could do this? He had sworn revenge for Jennifer, he remembered, and his mouth twisted with bitter irony. Such bravado that had been. First of all, there wasn't even a war in which to fight-Rakoth Maugrim was breaking them with a hammer of wind and ice. Second, and this truth had been coiling within him since they had arrived from Stonehenge, he wouldn't be much good for anything even if, somehow, they ended the winter and there was a war. The memory of his useless flailing about during the battle on the Plain three nights ago was still raw.

He had moved past jealousy-hadn't lingered long there anyhow-it wasn't really a part of his nature. He was used to being able to do something, though. He no longer envied Paul or Kim their dark, burdensome powers-Kim's grief by Pendaran Wood the night before and Paul's loneliness had wiped that away, leaving a kind of pity.

He didn't want their roles or Dave's axe-wielding strength, and no sane person would want any part of what fate Jennifer had found. All he wanted was to matter, to have some way, however slight, of affectuating the heartfelt vow he had sworn.

Two, actually. He had done it twice. Once in the Great Hall when Brendel had brought word of the lios alfar dead and Jennifer taken away. Then a second time, when Kim had brought them home and he looked down at what had been done to a woman he loved and then forced himself not to look away, that the scalding image might always be there if courage ever flagged in him.

It was still there, that image, and-he searched himself for this-he was not lacking in courage. He had no fear of tomorrow's hunt, whatever the others might think, only a bitterly honest awareness that he was just along for the ride.

And this, for Kevin Laine, was the hardest thing in any world to handle. What he seemed to be, here in Fionavar, was utterly impotent. Again his mouth crooked bitterly in the cold, for this description was especially accurate now. Every man in Gwen Ystrat was feeling the pull of the G.o.ddess. Every man but him, for whom, all his adult days, the workings of desire had been a deep, enduring constant, known only to the women who had shared a night with him.

If love and desire belonged to the G.o.ddess, it seemed that even she was leaving him. What did that leave?

He shook his head-too much self-pity there. What was left was still Kevin Laine, who was known to be bright and accomplished, a star in law school and one in the making, everyone said, when he got to the courts. He had respect and friendship and he had been loved, more than once. His, a woman had told him years ago, was a face made for good fortune. A curious phrase; he had remembered it.

There was, he told himself, no room for maudlin self-pity in a curriculum vitae like that.

On the other hand, all the glitter of his accomplishments lay squarely within his own world. How could he glory in mock trial triumphs any more? How set his sights on legal excellence after what he had seen here? What could possibly have meaning at home once he had watched Rangat hurl a burning hand into the sky and heard the Unraveller's laughter on the north wind?

Very little, next to nothing. In fact, one thing only, but he did have that one thing, and with the pang of his heart that always came when he hadn't done so for a while, Kevin thought of his father.

"Fur gezunter heit, und c.u.m gezunter heit," Sol Laine had said in Yiddish, when Kevin had told him he had to fly to London on ten hours' notice. Go safely, and come safely. Nothing more. In this lay a boundless trust. If Kevin had wanted to tell, Kevin would have explained the trip. If Kevin did not explain, he had a reason and a right.

"Oh, Abba," he murmured aloud in the cruel night. And in the country of the Mother his word for father became a talisman of sorts that carried him in from the slash of wind to the house Diarmuid had been given in Morvran.

There were prerogatives of royalty. Only Coll and Kevin and Brock were sharing the place with the Prince. Coll was in the tavern, and the Dwarf was asleep, and Diarmuid was G.o.d knows where.

With a mild amus.e.m.e.nt registering at the thoughts of Diarmuid tomorrow night, and the deeper easing that thoughts of his father always gave to him, Kevin went to bed. He had a dream but it was elusive and he had forgotten it by morning.

The hunt started with the sunrise. The sky was a bright blue overhead, and the early rays of sunlight glittered on the snow. It was milder too, Dave thought, as if somehow the fact of midsummer was registering. Among the hunters there was an electric energy one could almost see. The erotic surges that had begun when they had first entered Gwen Ystrat were even deeper now. Dave had never felt anything like it in his life, and they said the priestesses would come out to them tonight. It made him weak just to think of it.

He forced his mind back to the morning's work. He had wanted to hunt with the small contingent of the Dalrei, but horses weren't going to be much use in the wood and Aileron had asked the Riders to join the bowmen, who were to ring the forest and cut down any wolves that tried to flee. Dave saw Diarmuid's big lieutenant, Coll, unsling an enormous bow and ride over the bridge to the northwest with Tore and Levon.

It left an opening for him, he supposed, and somewhat reluctantly he walked over with his axe to where Kevin Laine stood joking with two other members of the Prince's band. There was a rumor going about that they had gotten an early start on the midsummer festival last night, defying the orders of the two Kings. Dave couldn't say he was impressed. It was one thing to carouse in town, another to be partying on the eve of battle.

On the other hand, none of them seemed the worse for it this morning, and he didn't really know anyone else to join up with so he awkwardly planted himself by the Prince and waited to be noticed. Diarmuid was rapidly scanning his brother's written instructions. When he finished, he looked up, noting Dave's presence with his disconcertingly blue gaze.

"Room for one more?" Dave asked.

He was prepared for a jibe but the Prince said only, "Of course. I've seen you fight, remember?" He raised his voice very slightly, and the fifty or so men around him quieted. "Gather round, children, and I'll tell you a story. My brother has outdone himself in preparing this. Here is what we are to do."

Despite the frivolous tone, his words were crisp. Behind the Prince, Dave could see the eidolath, the honor guard of Cathal, riding quickly off to the northeast behind Shalha.s.san. Nearby, Aileron himself was addressing another cl.u.s.ter of men, and, past him, Arthur was doing the same. It was going to be a pincer movement, he gathered, with the two hosts moving together from southwest and northeast.

The archers, about two hundred of them, were to ring the wood. The Cathalians were already along the line of the Kharn River, on the eastern edge, and across the northern boundary as far as the Latham. The bowmen of Brennin were posted from the Latham as well, in the north and then, at intervals, around to the south and west. The thinner copses east of the Kharn had already been checked and found empty, Diarmuid explained. The wolves were within the circle of Leinanwood itself and, if all went according to design, would soon be within the circle of the armies. The dogs were to be set loose to drive the wolves toward the forest center.

"Unless the perfidious wolves have the temerity to disobey the High King's plans, we should meet Shalha.s.san's forces by the Latham in mid-wood with the wolves between us. If they aren't," Diarmuid concluded, "we blame anyone and everything except the plan. Any questions?"

"Where are the mages?" asked Kevin Laine. He always had questions, Dave thought. One of those. Couldn't just get on with it.

But Diarmuid answered seriously. "We were going to have them. But something happened last night in the Temple. The sources are completely drained. Swords and arrows are all we can use this morning."

And axes, Dave thought grimly. Didn't need anything more. It was cleaner this way with the magic kept out of it. There were no more questions, and no time for more; Aileron had begun moving his company forward. Diarmuid, neat-footed and quick, led them across the Latham bridge to the left flank, and Dave saw Arthur's company take the right.

They were on the southwestern edge of the wood, on the strip of land between forest and frozen lake. Around to the west and north Dave could see the archers, bows drawn, sitting on their horses where the wood thinned out.

Then Aileron signaled Arthur, and Dave saw the Warrior speak to his dog. With a howl, the grey dog exploded forward into Leinanwood and the hunting pack sprang after him. Dave heard faint answering sounds from the northern side as the other half of the pack was released. A moment the men waited; then the High King stepped forward, and they entered the wood.

It grew darker very suddenly, for even without leaves the trees were thick enough to screen the sun. They were moving northwest, before beginning their wide sweep back to the east, so Diarmuid's flank, their own, was in the lead. Abruptly Dave became aware of the smell of wolf, sharp and unmistakable. All around them the dogs were barking, but not urgently. His axe carried at the ready, with its thong looped around his wrist, Dave strode with Kevin Laine on his left and the Dwarf named Brock, bearing an axe of his own, on his right, behind the figure of Diarmuid.

Then, off to their right, Cavall gave tongue again, so loudly that even someone who had never hunted before knew what the sound meant.

"Turn!" Aileron cried from behind them. "Spread out and turn, toward the river!"

Dave's sense of direction was hopelessly gone by then, but he pointed his nose where Diarmuid went and, with quickening heart, set off to find the wolves.

They were found first.

Before they reached the river or the men of Cathal, the black and grey and brindle shapes were upon them. Scorning to be hunted, the giant wolves surged to the attack, and even as he swung the axe in a killing stroke, Dave heard the sounds of battle to the east as well. The men of Cathal had their own fight.

He had no more time to think. Swerving down and to his right, he dodged the fanged leap of a black beast. He felt claws shred his coat. No time to look back; there was another coming. He killed it with a chopping backhand slash, then had to duck, almost to his knees, as another leaped for his face. It was the last clear moment he remembered.

The battle became a chaotic melee as they twisted through the trees, pursuing and pursued. Within his breast Dave felt a surge of the obliterating fury that seemed to be his in battle, and he waded forward through snow red with blood, his axe rising and falling. In front of him all the time he saw the Prince, elegantly lethal with a sword, and heard Diarmuid singing as he killed.

He had no conception of time, could not have said how long it was before they broke through, he and the Prince, with Brock just behind. In front of him he could see the figures of the Cathalians across the frozen river. There were wolves to the right, though, engaging the center of the Brennin ranks and Arthur's flank as well. Dave turned to go to their aid.

"Wait!" Diarmuid laid a hand on his arm. "Watch."

Kevin Laine came up beside them, bleeding from a gash on his arm. Dave turned to watch the last of the battle on their side of the Latham.

Not far off, Aithur Pendragon, with grey Cavall by his side, was wreaking controlled destruction among the wolves. Dave had a sudden unexpected sense of how many times the Warrior had swung that blade he carried, and in how many wars.

But it wasn't Arthur whom Diarmuid was watching. Following the Prince's gaze, Dave saw, and Kevin beside him, the same thing Kimberly had seen a year before on a twilit path west of Paras Derval.

Aileron dan Ailell with a sword.

Dave had seen Levon fight, and Tore; he had watched Diarmuid's insouciant deadliness and, just now, Arthur's flawless swordplay with never a motion wasted; he even knew how he battled in his own right, fueled by a rising tide of rage. But Aileron fought the way an eagle flew, or an eltor ran on the summer Plain.

It had ended on the other side. Shalha.s.san, b.l.o.o.d.y but triumphant, led his men down to the frozen waters of the Latham, and so they saw as well.

Seven wolves remained. Without a word spoken, they were left for the High King. Six were black, Dave saw, and one was grey, and they attacked in a rush from three sides.

He saw how the grey one died and two of the black, but he never knew what motion of the sword killed the other four.

It was very nearly silent in the wood after that. Dave heard scattered coughing on both sides of the river; a dog barked once, nervously; a man not far away swore softly at the pain of a wound he'd taken. Dave never took his eyes from the High King. Kneeling in the trampled snow, Aileron carefully wiped his blade clean before rising to sheath it. He glanced fleetingly at his brother, then turned, with an expression almost shy, to Arthur Pendragon.

Who said, in a voice of wonder, "Only one man I ever saw could do what you just did."

Aileron's voice was low but steady. "I am not him," he said. "I am not part of it."

"No," said Arthur. "You are not part of it."

After another moment, Aileron turned to the river. "Brightly woven, men of Cathal. A small blow only have we given the Dark this morning, but better that we have given it than otherwise. There are people who will sleep easier tonight for our work in this wood."

Shalha.s.san of Cathal was splotched in blood from shoulder to boot and there were b.l.o.o.d.y smears in the forked plaits of his beard, but, kingly still, he nodded grave agreement. "Shall we sound the maron to end the hunt?" Aileron asked formally.

"Do so," Shalha.s.san said. "All five notes, for there are six of us dead on this side of the river."