“We’ll talk later,” Paul said. Dave would be going north to the Dalrei, he knew. If there was war while Prydwen sailed, it would surely begin on the Plain.
Niavin of Seresh and Mabon of Rhoden went by, deep in talk, and then Jaelle walked out, head held very high, and would not meet his glance—all ice again, now that spring had returned. It wasn’t for her that he was waiting, though. Eventually the room had emptied, save for one man.
He and Arthur looked at each other. “I have a question,” said Paul. The Warrior lifted his head. “When you were there last, how many of you survived?”
“Seven,” said Arthur softly. “Only seven.”
Paul nodded. It was as if he remembered this. One of the ravens had spoken. Arthur came up to him.
“Between us?” he said, in the deep voice.
“Between us,” said Paul. Together they walked from the Council Chamber and down the corridors. There were pages and soldiers running past them in all directions now— the palace was aflame with war fever. They were quiet, though, the two of them, as they walked in stride through the turmoil.
Outside Arthur’s room they stopped. Paul said, very low so it would not be overheard, “You said this might be what you were summoned for. A while ago you said you never saw the end of things.” He left it at that.
For a long moment Arthur was silent, then he nodded once. “It is a place of death,” he said for the second time and, after a hesitation, added, “It would not displease me as events have gone.”
Paul opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He turned, instead, and walked down the corridor to where his own room was. His and Kevin’s, until two days ago. Behind him, he heard Arthur opening his door.
Jennifer saw the door open, had time to draw a breath, and then he was in the room, bringing with him all the summer stars.
“Oh, my love,” she said and her voice broke, after all. “I need you to forgive me for so much. I am afraid—”
She had space for nothing more. A deep sound came from within his chest, and in three strides Arthur was across the room and on his knees, his head buried in the folds of the dress she wore, and over and over again he was saying her name.
Her hands were cradling him to her, running through his hair, the grey amid the brown. She tried to speak, could not. Could scarcely breathe. She lifted his face that she might look at him and saw the tears of bitter longing pouring down. “Oh, my love,” she gasped and, lowering her head, she tried to kiss them all away. She found his mouth with her own, blindly, as if they were both blind and lost without the other. She was trembling as with fever. She could hardly stand. He rose and gathered her to him and, after so long, her head was on his chest again, and she could feel his arms around her and could hear the strong beat of his heart, which had been her home.
“Oh, Guinevere,” she heard him say after a space of time. “My need is great.”
“And mine,” she replied, feeling the last dark webs of Starkadh tear asunder so that she stood open to desire. “Oh, please,” she said. “Oh, please, my love.” And he took her to his bed, across which a slant of sunlight fell, and they rose above their doom for part of an afternoon.
After, he told her where it was he had to go and she felt all the griefs of the worlds return to rest in her. She was clear, though; she had spun free from Rakoth, and she was stronger for every single thing she had survived, as Matt had said. She rose up and stood in the sunlight of the room, clad only in her hair, and said, “You must come back to me. What I told you before is true: there is no Lancelot here. It has changed, Arthur. Only the two of us are here now, only us.”
In the slant of sun she watched the stars sliding through his eyes. The summer stars, whence he had come. Slowly he shook his head, and she ached for his age and his weariness.
“It cannot be so,” he said. “I killed the children, Guinevere.”
She could find nothing at all to say. In the silence she could almost hear the patient, inexorable shuttling of the Loom.
Saddest story of all the long tales told.
Chapter 14
In the morning came Arthur and Guinevere together out of Paras Derval to the great square before the palace gates. Two companies were gathered there, one to ride north, the other west to the sea, and there was not a heart among all those assembled that did not lift to see the two of them together.
Dave Martyniuk, waiting behind Levon for the signal to ride, looked past the five hundred men Aileron had given them to lead to the Plain, and he gazed at Jennifer with a memory flaring in his mind.
The very first evening: when Loren had told the five of them who he really was, and Dave, disbelieving and hostile, had stormed toward the door. To be stopped by Jennifer saying his name. And then, as he had turned, by a majesty he saw in her face. He could not have named it then, nor did he have words for it now, but he saw the same thing in her this morning and it was not transitory or ephemeral.
She left Arthur’s side and walked, clad in a gown green as her eyes, green as the grass, to where he stood. Something of irresolution must have showed in his face, because as she came near he heard her laugh and say, “If you so much as start to bow or anything like that, Dave, I’ll beat you up. I swear I will.”
It was good to hear her laugh. He checked the bow he had, in fact, been about to offer and, instead, surprised them both by bending to kiss her cheek.
“Thank you,” she said and took his hand in hers.
He smiled down on her and, for once, didn’t feel awkward or uncouth.
Paul Schafer came up to join them, and with her other hand Jennifer claimed one of his. The three of them stood, linked so, for a moment.
“Well,” said Dave.
Paul looked soberly at him. “You’re going right into it, you know.”
“I know,” Dave replied. “But if I have a place in this, I think it’s with the Dalrei. It… won’t be any easier where you’re heading.” They were silent amid the bustle and clatter of the square. Then Dave turned to Jennifer. “I’ve been thinking about something,” he said. “Way back, when Kim took you out of… that place, Kevin did something. You won’t remember, you were unconscious then, but he swore vengeance for what had been done to you.”
“I remember,” said Paul.
“Well,” Dave went on, “he must have wondered how he would ever do it, but… I’m thinking that he found a way.”
There was sunshine pouring down from a sky laced with scattered billows of clouds. Men in shirt sleeves walked all around them.
“He did more,” said Jennifer, her eyes bright. “He got me all the way out. He finished what Kim started.”
“Damn,” said Paul gently. “I thought it was my charm.” Remembered words, not his own.
Tears, laughter, and they parted.
Sharra watched the Aven’s handsome son lead five hundred men away to the north. Standing with her father near the chariots, she saw Jennifer and Paul walk back to join the company that would soon be riding west. Shalhassan was going with them as far as Seresh. With the snow melted, there was urgent need now for his additional troops and he wanted to give his own orders in Cynan.
Aileron was already up on his black horse, and she saw Loren the mage mount up as well. Her heart was beating very fast.
Diarmuid had come to her again last night by way of her window. He had brought her a flower. She had not thrown water at him, this time, and had been at pains to point that out. He professed gratitude and later, in a different voice, a great deal more.
Then he had said, “I am going to a difficult place, my dear. To do a difficult thing. It may be wiser if I speak to your father if we… after we return. I would not have you bound to me while I am—”