Fionavar 1 (35 page)

"One thing more," he heard her say. He dared not look up. "She is not for you."

So his very heart lay open, and how should it be otherwise? But this, this he had decided for himself; he wanted her to know. He reached for the power of speech, a long way.

"No," he said. "I know. She's Tore's."

And the goddess laughed. "Has she no other choice?" Ceinwen said mockingly, and disappeared.

Dave, on his knees, lowered his head into his hands. His whole body began to shake violently.

He was still like that when Tore and Levon came looking for him.

When Tabor woke, he was ready. There was no disorientation. He was in Faelinn, and fasting, and he was awake because it was time. He looked about, opening himself, prepared to receive
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what had come, his secret name, the ambit of his soul.

At which point, disorientation did set in. He was still in Faelinn, still in his hollow, even, but the wood had changed. Surely there had been no cleared space before him; he would never have chosen such a place, there was no such place near this hollow.

Then he saw that the night sky had a strange color to it, and with a tremor of fear he understood that he was still asleep, he was dreaming, and would find his animal in the strange country of this dream. It was not usual, he knew; usually you woke to see your totem. Mastering fear as best he could, Tabor waited. It came from the sky.

Not a bird. No hawk or eagle-he had hoped, they all did-nor even an owl. No, his heart working strangely, Tabor realized then that the clearing was needed for the creature to land.

She did, so lightly the grass seemed scarcely to be supporting her. Lying very still, Tabor confronted his animal. With an effort, then, a very great effort, he stretched himself out, mind and soul, to the impossible creature that had come for him. It did not exist, this exquisite thing that stood gazing calmly back at him in the strangely hued night. It did not exist, but it would, he knew, as he felt her enter him, become a part of him as he of her, and he learned her name even as he learned what it was the god had summoned him to find and be found by.

For a last moment, the very last, the youngest child of Ivor heard, as if someone else were speaking, a part of himself whisper, "An eagle would have been enough."

It was true. It would have been more than enough, but it was not so. Standing very still before him, the creature appeared to understand his thought. He felt her then, gently, in his mind. Do not reject me, he heard as from within, while her great, astonishing eyes never left his own. We will have only each other at the last.

He understood. It was in his mind, and then in his heart also. It was very deep; he hadn't known he went so deep. In response he stretched forth a hand. The creature lowered her head, and Tabor touched the offered horn.

"Imraith-Nimphais," he said, remembered saying, before the universe went dark.

"Hola!" cried Ivor joyously. "See who comes! Let there be rejoicing, for see, the Weaver sends a new Rider to us."

But as Tabor drew nearer, Ivor could see that it had been a difficult fast. He had found his animal-such was written in every movement he made-but he had clearly gone a long way. It was not unusual, it was good, even. A sign of a deeper merger with the totem.

It was only when Tabor walked up close to him that Ivor felt the first touch of apprehension.

No boy came back from a true fast looking quite the same; they were boys no longer, it had to show in their faces. But what he saw in his son's eyes chilled Ivor to the core, even in the morning sunshine of the camp.

No one else seemed to notice; the tumult of welcome resounded as it always did, louder even, for the son of the Chieftain who had been called by the god.

Called to what, Ivor was thinking, as he walked beside his youngest child towards Gereint's house.

Called to what?

He smiled, though, to mask his concern, and saw that Tabor did so as well; with his mouth only, not the eyes, and Ivor could feel a muscle jumping spasmodically where he gripped his son's arm.

Arriving at Gereint's door he knocked, and the two of them entered. It was dark inside, as always, and the noise from without faded to a distant murmur of anticipation.

Steadily, but with some care, Tabor walked forward and knelt before the shaman. Gereint touched him affectionately on the shoulder. Then Tabor lifted his head.

Even in the darkness Ivor saw Gereint's harshly checked motion of shock. He and Tabor faced
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each other, for what seemed a very long time.

At length Gereint spoke, but not the words of ritual. "This does not exist," the shaman said. Ivor clenched his fists.

Tabor said, "Not yet."

"It is a true finding," Gereint went on, as if he hadn't heard. "But there is no such animal. You have encompassed it?"

"I think so," Tabor said, and in his voice now was utter weariness. "I tried. I think I did."

"I think so, too," Gereint said, and there was wonder in his voice. "It is a very great thing Tabor dan

Ivor."

Tabor made a gesture of deprecation; it seemed to drain what reserves of endurance he had left.

"It just came," he said, and toppled sideways to his father's feet.

As he knelt to cradle his unconscious son, Ivor heard the shaman say in his voice of ritual, "His hour knows his name." And then, differently, "May all the powers of the Plain defend him."

"From what?" Ivor asked, knowing he should not.

Gereint swung to face him. "This one I would tell you if I could, old friend, but truly I do not know.

He went so far the sky was changed."

Ivor swallowed. "Is it good?" he asked the shaman, who was supposed to know such things. "Is it good, Gereint?"

After too long a silence Gereint only repeated, "It is a very great thing," which was not what he needed to hear. Ivor looked down at Tabor, almost weightless in his arms. He saw the tanned skin,

straight nose, unlined brow of youth, the unruly shock of brown hair, not long enough to tie properly, too long to wear loose-it always seemed to be that way with Tabor, he thought.

"Oh, my son," Ivor murmured, and then again, rocking him back and forth as he always used to, not so many years ago.

Towards sundown they pulled the horses to a halt in a small gully, only a depression, really, defined by a series of low tummocks on the plain.

Dave was a little unnerved by all the openness. Only the dark stretch of Pendaran brooding to the west broke the long monotony of the prairie, and Pendaran wasn't a reassuring sight.

The Dalrei were undisturbed, though; for them, clearly, this exposed spot on the darkening earth was home. The Plain was their home, all of it. For twelve hundred years, Dave remembered.

Levon would allow no fires; supper was cold eltor meat and hard cheese, with river water in flasks to wash it down. It was good, though, partly because Dave was ravenous after the day's ride. He was brutally tired as well, he realized, unfolding his sleeping roll beside Tore's.

Overtired, he soon amended, for once inside the blanket he found that sleep eluded him. Instead he lay awake under the wide sky, his mind circling restlessly back over the day.

Tabor had still been unconscious when they left in the morning. "He went far," was all the Chieftain would say, but his eyes could not mask concern, even in the dark of Gereint's house.

But then the question of Tabor was put aside for a moment, as Dave told his own story of the night glade and the Huntress, except for the very last, which was his alone. There was a silence when he was done.

Cross-legged on his mat, Gereint asked, " 'Courage will be needed'-she said exactly that?"

Dave nodded, then remembered it was the shaman, and grunted a yes. Gereint rocked back and forth after that, humming tunelessly to himself for a long time. So long that it startled Dave when he finally spoke.

"You must go south quickly, then, and quietly, I think. Something grows, and if Silvercloak
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brought you, then you should be with him."

"It was only for the King's festival," Dave said. Nervousness made it sound sharper than he meant.

"Perhaps," Gereint said, "but there are other threads appearing now."

Which wasn't all that wonderful.

Turning on his side, Dave could see the raised silhouette of Levon against the night sky. It was deeply comforting to have that calm figure standing guard. Levon hadn't wanted to come at first, he remembered. Concern for his brother had left him visibly torn.

It was the Chieftain, asserting himself with absolute firmness, who had settled the issue. Levon would be useless at home. Tabor was being cared for. It was not, in any case, unusual for a faster to sleep a long time on his return. Levon, Ivor reminded his older son, had done the same.

Cechtar could lead the hunt for ten days or two weeks-it would be good for him in any case, after the loss of face caused by his failure two days ago.

No, Ivor had said decisively, given Gereint's injunction as to speed and secrecy, it was important to get Dave-Davor, he said, as they all did-south to Paras Derval safely. Levon would lead, with Tore beside him in a band of twenty. It was decided.

Logical and controlling, Dave had thought, and coolly efficient. But then he remembered his own last conversation with Ivor.

The horses had been readied. He had bidden formal, slightly stiff farewells to Leith and then Liane-he was very bad at goodbyes. He'd been embarrassed, too, by the knot of girls standing nearby.

Ivor's daughter had been elusive and remote.

After, he'd looked in on Tabor. The boy was feverish, and restless with it. Dave wasn't good with this, either. He'd made a confused gesture to Leith, who'd come in with him. He hoped she'd understand, not that he could have said exactly what he'd wanted to convey.

It was after this that Ivor had taken him for that last stroll around the perimeter of the camp.

"The axe is yours," the Chieftain had begun. "From what you have described, I doubt you will have great use for it in your own world, but perhaps it will serve to remind you of the Dalrei."

Ivor had frowned then. "A warlike remembrance, alas, of the Children of Peace. Is there anything else you would . . . ?"

"No," Dave had said, flustered. "No, it's fine. It's great. I'll ah, treasure it." Words. They had walked a few paces in silence, before Dave thought of a thing he did want to say.

"Say goodbye to Tabor for me, eh? I think . . . he's a good kid. He'll be all right, won't he?"

"I don't know," Ivor had replied with disturbing frankness. They had turned at the edge of the camp to walk north, facing the Mountain. By daylight Rangat was just as dazzling, the white slopes reflecting the sunlight so brightly it hurt the eye to see.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Dave had said lamely, aware of how asinine that sounded. To cover it, he pushed on. "You've been, you know, really good to me here. I've . . . learned a lot." As he said it, he realized it was true.

For the first time Ivor smiled. "That pleases me," he said. "I like to believe we have things to teach."

"Oh, yeah, for sure," Dave said earnestly. "Of course you do. If I could stay longer. . . ."

"If you could stay," Ivor had said, stopping and looking directly at Dave, "I think you would make a Rider."

Dave swallowed hard, and flushed with intense, self-conscious pleasure. He was speechless; Ivor had noticed. "If," the Chieftain had added, with a grin, "we could ever find a proper horse for you!"

Sharing the laugh, they resumed their walk. God, Dave was thinking, / really, really like this man.

It would have been nice to be able to say it.

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But then Ivor had thrown him the curve. "I don't know what your encounter last night means,"

he had said softly, "but it means a good deal, I think. I am sending Levon south with you, Davor.

It is the right thing, though I hate to see him go. He is young yet, and I love him very much. Will you take care of him forme?"

Mean, unbalancing curve ball. "What?" Dave had exclaimed, bridling reflexively at the implications. "What are you talking about? He's the one who knows where he's going! You want me to guard him? Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

Ivor's expression was sad. "Ah, my son," he had said gently, "you have far to go in some ways.

You, too, are young. Of course I told him to guard you as well, and with everything he has. I tell you both. Don't you see, Davor?"

He did see. Too late, of course. And clearly, he'd been an idiot, again. Again. And with no time to make it up, for they had looped full circle by then, and Levon, Tore, and seventeen other Riders were already mounted, with what seemed to be the whole third tribe turning out to see them off.

So there had been no last private word. He'd hugged Ivor hard, though, hoping the Chieftain would somehow know that it meant a lot for him to do that. Hoping, but not knowing if.

Then he had left, south for Brennin and the way home, the axe at his saddle side, sleeping roll behind, a few other things behind as well, too far behind for anything to be done.

On the starlit dark of the Plain, Dave opened his eyes again. Levon was still there, watching over them, over him. Kevin Laine would have known how to handle that last talk, he thought, surprisingly, and slept.

On the second day they started just before sunrise. Levon set a brisk but not a killing pace; the horses would have to last, and the Dalrei knew how to judge these things. They rode in a tight cluster, with three men, rotating every second hour, sent ahead a half-mile. Quickly and quietly, Gereint had advised, and they all knew Tore had seen svart alfar heading south two weeks before.

Levon might take calculated risks on the hunt, but he was not a rash man; Ivor's son could hardly be so. He kept them moving in a state of watchful speed, and the trees at the outreaches of Pendaran rolled steadily by on their right as the sun climbed in the sky.

Gazing at the woods, less than a mile away, Dave was bothered by something. Kicking his horse forward, he caught up with Levon at the head of the main party.