The touch of Merlin’s fingertips had all that. Kristen’s eyes shone in surprise and wonderment and she did not shrink back from him. He smiled gravely, but with a little touch of mischief in his own eyes, and then he blew her a kiss and wrapped his woolen scarf about his neck.
“Thank you for the Rain Queen and the tales and stories,” he said. “They helped me. Come back soon.”
As he strode back up the driveway, she had no idea what he meant by her helping him. She knew the night had too many mysteries only half-hinted at to think it through now, and thinking wasn’t the answer anyway. Instead she wrapped herself around the pale, forlorn figure of the elf beside her, and waited quietly while the others buckled themselves into the car and Streak started up the engine. Streak turned and looked at Geraint, Kristen, and Serrin in the back.
“This is weird drek, isn’t it?” he said, eyes narrowed and his face very serious.
“This is, indeed, weird drek, as you so eloquently put it,” Geraint agreed.
“Fine by me,” Streak said, guessing that those would probably be the last words spoken until they reached the chopper, and he was dead right.
An hour later, an elf considerably older than any of them had imagined stood staring up into the sky, leaning on his staff for support, a much younger figure standing quietly beside him. He could hardly see the chopper headed for the English Channel, and he wouldn’t have risked any assensing. It had been a long, hard struggle to find the well-masked body tokens, and the spirit he’d employed, though formidably strong and with the benefit of his own masking and concealments, had perished very shortly after it had done its work.
“I wonder whether they’ll find him, Merlin,” Hessler said quietly.
“They’re looking in the right place,” the spirit said amiably.
“Perhaps. It will depend on the reaction they receive when they get there.”
“Well, that you can do something about,” Merlin pointed out. “After all, you’ve been a member of the Priory for some time.”
There is that.” The old elf smiled. And my voice has not gone unraised in the current debate.”
“And your messenger is already gone before them,” Merlin said. All in all, I think they have every chance. I do hope so. The girl is a happy spirit, and I would like to see her again. She is happy when she smiles and dances. I like people when they are like that.”
“Merlin, there are times when you lighten the heart, you really do,” Hessler said gently, and hurried back to his home. At his feet, a black cat purred over the remains of an unfortunate field mouse.
14
Serrin fell asleep in a car in England and woke up in one traveling through the south of France. Squinting at the sunlight, he rubbed his stubbly chin and tried to focus his vision. The delicious aroma of hot coffee offered itself to his senses. He grabbed the plastic cup and drank greedily while Geraint resealed the flask.
“Oh, spirits, that was good,” Serrin said with real gratitude. “Where are we?”
Ten minutes out of Clermont-Ferrand and what looks like a pretty decent rural chateau, judging by the trid picture library,” Geraint told him. “You’ve been asleep since the night with Hessler.”
“Right,” Serrin said doubtfully, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Er, right.”
“What happened?” Michael spoke with an artificial cheeriness that Serrin didn’t detect.
The elf rubbed his chin, sat up and stretched to get the stiffness out of his back, and smiled at Kristen.
“Hmmm?” He thought deeply for some seconds. “Frag me, I can’t remember a thing. Honestly. It’s a complete blank.”
He turned back to Kristen and, ignoring the rest of them, leant and kissed her on the lips.
“Ugh, morning breath,” she giggled, then grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him long and hard.
Merlin was right, Geraint thought to himself. Whatever magic Hessler had used to banish the memories, he must have added something to stop him worrying about the amnesia too. That was good of him.
“Stop shagging in the back there!” Streak berated them jokingly. “Puts me off my driving. I have this horrible tendency to voyeurism.”
“Frag off,” Serrin said cheerfully, giving Kristen a hug.
He was in unusually good humor this morning. More after-effects of whatever magic Hessler used on him, Geraint thought. From what he knew of Serrin, mornings were usually good candidates for avoiding his company.
“Here it is. Must be this whitewashed one at the end of the road,” Streak said happily.
“That’s not whitewash,” Michael complained, peering through the windscreen.
“Well, whatever it is, we’re booked into it. Now give me a hand with the guns and grenades in the back,” Streak said as he unbuckled himself and opened the driver’s door.
“Seeing the look on Michael’s face, he laughed. Only kidding, mate. Honest.”
“That’s a relief,” Michael said. “We came here to talk, not wage war.”
‘Nah, I mean I can handle ‘em myself,” Streak said with an evil grin and hefted the first of the metal cases.
Within the hour they were close to the small village, their hired car-much humbler than the Westwind that Streak had left to be collected in Taunton and returned to the rental firm-negotiating the narrow roads with no little difficulty. The rockiness of the hilly terrain was stark, even with the green coat of spring on the hillsides. The land looked, somehow, as if reluctant to allow the new growths of the season. There was something unforgiving about the hills and mountains, the ragged treeline, the harshness of the light here.
Their plan was for Michael and Geraint to take an initial stroll into the village, to climb the ascent to the place that had come to be known as Sauniere’s chapel, and to observe what they could. They would formulate further plans on the basis of those observations. Serrin didn’t want to risk any astral assensing, since he’d been forewarned of the likely presence of mages watching for anyone doing just that. Kristen would stay with him. As for Streak, they didn’t plan to need his French for conversing much with the locals at this stage.
Sauntering into the village, Michael and Geraint chatted casually about the weather and the grandeur of the scenery as they headed toward the road up to the chapel. They didn’t get far. Half a dozen sturdy French peasant farmers, each bearing a walking stick that looked very like a club, or else a spade or pitchfork, slowly congregated together from various directions and barred their Way.
“Excusez-moi, c’est le chapel de Sauniere?” Geraint said cheerfully, waving his cheap camera in a fair impression of the Idiot British Tourist in Europe.
The men just stood in their way and said nothing. Geraint and Michael took a step forward and one of the Frenchmen did the same, raising his spade and driving the metal into the ground beside the stony path. He spat on the ground before him, and the others stood with arms folded, clubs at the ready.
A further reasonable impression of the British Idiot only got Geraint the grunted statement that the chapel was closed to visitors. An enquiry as to when it would be open got no reply, only a hostile stare. There was nothing for it under the circumstances but to beat a retreat while trying to appear disappointed but unconcerned.
“It could just be paranoia,” Michael said when they were out of earshot. “On their part, I mean.” The men were still standing together halfway up the path. There was no sign of anyone else attempting to ascend it. Oddly, there seemed to be little sign of anyone else in the village, though by now, mid-morning, the houses should have been showing some signs of life and activity.