There was no word, though. No one had seen the tall dark-haired stranger or heard tell of him. So on the third morning Loren mounted early from where he’d passed the night in a copse of trees to the west of Lake Leinan. Looking eastward he could see the sun rising from the line of hills past the lake and he knew Dun Maura lay beyond. Even by daylight, with a blue sky above, there was for the mage a darkness about that place.
There was no love lost between the Mormae of Gwen Ystrat and the mages who had followed Amairgen’s lead out from the dominion of the Mother. Blood magic, thought Loren, shaking his head, picturing Dun Maura and the rites of Liadon enacted every year before Conary came and forbade them. He thought of the flowers strewn by the maidens chanting his death and return as the spring: Rahod hedai Liadon. In every world, the mage knew; but his very soul rebelled against the darkness of this power. Grimly he turned his horse away from the country of the Priestesses and continued north, following the Latham on the long ride to the Plain.
He would ask aid of the Dalrei, as he had so often done before. If Dave Martyniuk was somewhere among the great spaces of the Plain, only the Riders could find him. So north he rode, a tall, grey, bearded figure no longer young, alone on a horse in the wide sweep of the level lands, and the baked earth resonated beneath him like a drum.
He was hoping, even though it was summer, to find a tribe of the Riders in the south Plain, for if he could speak to even one tribe then word would be sent to Celidon, and once his message was lodged at the mid-Plain, then soon all the Dalrei would know, and the Dalrei he trusted.
It was a long ride, though, and there were no villages now among the broad grazing lands in which he could take food or rest. And so he was still galloping alone as that third day drew towards sundown and then dark. His shadow lay long on the earth beside him, and the river had become a glimmering, muted presence to the east, when the urgency that had lain within him since he had left Paras Derval exploded into terror.
Grappling at the reins, he brought his mount to a rearing halt, then held it rigidly still. One moment he remained so, his face drawn suddenly tight with fear, then Loren Silvercloak cried aloud in the onrushing night and wheeled his horse hard to ride in the dark, back, back towards Paras Derval, where something overwhelming was about to happen.
Drumming furiously home under the stars, he gathered his mind and hurled a desperate warning southward over all the empty leagues that lay between. He was too far away, though, much too far away, and without his power. He urged his horse faster, driving like wind in the darkness, but he knew, even as he did so, that he was going to be too late.
Jennifer was not happy. Not only was Dave missing, not only had Kevin and Paul ridden off that morning on some crazy expedition with Diarmuid, but now Kim had left as well, with Matt guiding her to the home of the old woman whom people in the Great Hall the day before had called a witch.
Which left her in a large room on the cooler west side of the palace, sitting in a low window seat, surrounded by a gaggle of court ladies whose principal yearning in life seemed to be to elicit all they could from her about Kevin Laine and Paul Schafer, with special and explicit focus on their sexual predilections.
Parrying the questions as best she could, she barely managed to conceal a growing irritation. On the far side of the room, a man was playing a stringed instrument under a tapestry depicting a scene of battle. There was a dragon flying over the conflict. She hoped profoundly that it was a mythical confrontation.
The ladies had all been briefly presented to her, but only two names had registered. Laesha was the very young, brown-eyed lady-in-waiting who seemed to have been assigned to her. She was quiet, which was a blessing. The other was the Lady Rheva, a striking, dark-haired woman who clearly enjoyed a higher status than the others, and to whom Jennifer had taken an effortless dislike.
Nor was this in any degree lessened when it became clear, because Rheva made it clear, that she’d spent the night before with Kevin. It was evidently a triumph in a continuing game of one-upmanship, and Rheva was exploiting it for all it was worth. It was aggravating in the extreme, and Jennifer, abandoned, was in no mood to be aggravated.
So when another of the women gave a sulky toss of her hair and inquired whether Jennifer had any idea why Paul Schafer had been so indifferent to her—“Does he, perhaps, prefer to spend his nights with boys?” she asked, with a barb of malice—Jennifer’s brief laugh was entirely humorless.
“There are more obvious possibilities, I should think,” she replied, aware that she was making an enemy. “Paul is somewhat discriminating, that’s all.”
There was a brief silence. Someone tittered. Then:
“Are you suggesting, by any chance, that Kevin is not?” It was Rheva, and her voice had gone very soft.
Jennifer could handle this. What she could not handle was having it continue. She rose abruptly from the window seat and, looking down on the other woman, smiled.
“No,” she said, judiciously. “Knowing Kevin, I wouldn’t say that at all. The trick, though, is to get him twice.” And she moved past them all and out the door.
Walking swiftly down the corridor, she made a very firm mental note to inform Kevin Laine that if he took a certain court lady to bed once more, she would never speak to him again as long as she lived.
At the doorway to her room, she heard her name being called. Her long skirt trailing the stone floor, Laesha came hurrying up. Jennifer eyed her inimically, but the other woman was laughing breathlessly.
“Oh, my,” she gasped, laying a hand on Jennifer’s arm, “that was wonderful! The cats in that room are spitting with anger! Rheva hasn’t been handled like that for years.”
Jennifer shook her head ruefully. “I don’t imagine they’ll be very friendly the rest of the time I’m here.”
“They wouldn’t have been anyway. You are much too beautiful. On top of your being new, it’s guaranteed to make them hate you for existing. And when Diarmuid put out word yesterday that you were reserved for him, they—”
“He what?” Jennifer exploded.
Laesha eyed her carefully. “Well, he is the Prince, and so—”
“I don’t care who he is! I have no intention of letting him touch me. Who do they think we are?”
Laesha’s expression had altered a little. “You mean that?” she asked hesitantly. “You don’t want him?”
“Not at all,” said Jennifer. “Should I?”
“I do,” said Laesha simply, and flushed to the roots of her brown hair.
There was an awkward silence. Speaking carefully, Jennifer broke it. “I am only here two weeks,” she said. “I will not take him from you or anyone else. I need a friend right now, more than anything else.”
Laesha’s eyes were wide. She took a short breath.
“Why do you think I followed you?”
This time they shared the smile.
“Tell me,” Jennifer asked after a moment. “Is there any reason we have to stay in here? I haven’t been outside at all. Can we see the town?”
“Of course,” said Laesha. “Of course we can. We haven’t been at war for years.”
Despite the heat, it was better outside the palace. Dressed in an outfit much like Laesha’s, Jennifer realized that no one knew she was a stranger. Feeling freed by that, she found herself strolling at ease beside her new friend. After a short while, though, she became aware that a man was following them through the dusty, twisting streets of the town. Laesha noticed it, too.
“He’s one of Diarmuid’s,” she whispered.