“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 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.”
“All right. But what about Loren and Matt? How did they…?”
“That, too, is strange,” Ailell said. “At the end of his training, Loren sought leave of the Council and of me to travel for a time. He was gone three years. When he returned he had his cloak, and he was bonded to the King of the Dwarves, a thing that had never happened before. No Dwarf—”
The King broke off sharply. And in the abrupt silence they both heard it again: a barely audible tapping on the wall of the room across from the open window. As Paul looked at the King in wonder, it came again.
Ailell’s face had gone queerly soft. “Oh, Mörnir,” he breathed. “They have sent.” He looked at Paul, hesitating, then seemed to make a decision. “Stay with me, young Paul, Pwyll, stay and be silent, for you are about to see a thing few men have been allowed.”
And walking over to the wall, the King pressed his palm carefully against it in a place where the stone had darkened slightly. “Levar shanna,” he murmured, and stood back, as the thin outline of a door began to take shape in the seamless structure of the wall. A moment later the demarcation was clear, and then the door slid soundlessly open and a slight figure moved lightly into the room. It was cloaked and hooded, and remained so a moment, registering Paul’s presence and Ailell’s nod of endorsement, then it discarded the concealing garment in one smooth motion and bowed low before the King.
“Greetings I bear, High King, and a gift to remember your crowning day. And I have tidings needful for you to hear from Daniloth. I am Brendel of the Kestrel Mark.”
And in this fashion did Paul Schafer first see one of the lios alfar. And before the ethereal, flame-like quality of the silver-haired figure that stood before him, he felt himself to have grown heavy and awkward, as a different dimension of grace was made manifest.
“Be welcome, Na-Brendel of the Kestrel,” Ailell murmured. “This is Paul Schafer, whom I think we would name Pwyll in Fionavar. He is one of the four who came with Silvercloak from another of the worlds to join the fabric of our celebration.”
“This I know,” said Brendel. “I have been in Paras Derval two days now, waiting to find you alone. This one I have seen, and the others, including the golden one. She alone made the waiting tolerable, High King. Else I might have been long hence from your walls, with the gift I bear undelivered.” A flame of laughter danced in his eyes, which were green-gold in the candlelight.
“I thank you then for waiting,” said Ailell. “And tell me now, how does Ra-Lathen?”
Brendel’s face went suddenly still, the laughter extinguished. “Ah!” he exclaimed softly. “You bring me quickly to my tidings, High King. Lathen Mist-weaver heard his song in the fall of the year. He has gone oversea and away, and with him also went Laien Spearchild, last of those who survived the Bael Ran-gat. None now are left, though few enough were ever left.” The eyes of the lios alfar had darkened: they were violet now in the shadows. He stopped a moment, then continued. “Tenniel reigns in Daniloth. It is his greeting I bring you.”
“Lathen gone now, too?” the King said, very low. “And Laien? Heavy tidings you bear, Na-Brendel.”
“And there are heavier yet to tell,” the lios replied. “In the winter, rumor came to Daniloth of svart alfar moving in the north. Ra-Tenniel posted watch, and last month we learned that the word was not false. A party of them moved south past us, to the edgings of Pendaran, and there were wolves with them. We fought them there, High King. For the first time since the Bael Rangat, the lios alfar went to war. We drove them back, and most of them were slain—for we are still something of what we were—but six of my brothers and sisters fell. Six we loved will never now hear their song. Death has come again to us.”
Ailell had collapsed into his chair as the lios alfar spoke. “Svarts outside Pendaran,” he moaned now, almost to himself. “Oh, Mörnir, what wrong of mine was so great that this need come upon me in my age?” And aged he did seem then, shaking his head quiveringly back and forth. His hands on the carved arms of the chair trembled. Paul exchanged a glance with the bright figure of the lios. But though his own heart was twisted with pity for the old King, he saw no trace of the same in the eyes, now grey, of their visitor.
“I have a gifting for you, High King,” Brendel said at length. “Ra-Tenniel would have you know that he is other than was the Mistweaver. My tidings of battle should tell you that. He will not hide in Daniloth, and henceforth you will see us more often than at the sevenyear. In token of which, and as earnest of alliance and our interwoven threads of destiny, the Lord of the lios alfar sends you this.”
Never in his life had Paul seen a thing so beautiful as the object Brendel handed to Ailell. In the thin scepter of crystal that passed from the lios to the man, every nuance of light in the room seemed to be caught and then transmuted. The orange of the wall torches, the red flickers of the candles, even the blue-white diamonds of starlight seen through the window, all seemed to be weaving in ceaseless, intricate motion as if shuttling on a loom with the scepter.
“A summonglass,” the King murmured as he looked down upon the gift. “This is a treasure indeed. It has been four hundred years since one of these lay within our halls.”