The Wandering Fire Part 13

Long ago he had decided he would not tell his mother when the time came. It would smash her as a hammer smashes a lock, and there was no need for any of them to live through that. He went back in and kissed her lightly on the cheek where she sat weaving by the fire.

She smiled up at him. "Another vest for you, my growing son. And brown to match your hair this time."

"Thank you," he said. There was a catch in his throat. She was small and would be alone, with his father away at war. What could he do, though; what was in him to deny what had been laid down? These were dark times, maybe the very darkest times of all. He had been marked. His legs would walk even if his heart and courage stayed behind. It was better, he knew, to have the heart and soul go too, to make the offering run deeper and be true. He was beginning to know a number of unexpected things. He was already traveling.

"Where's Dari?" he asked. A silly question. "Can I wake him?"

Vae smiled indulgently. "You want to play? All right, he's slept enough, I suppose."

"I'm not asleep," Dari said drowsily, from behind his curtain. "I heard you come in."

This, Finn knew, was going to be the hardest thing. He could not weep. He had to leave Dari an image of strength, clean and unblurred. It was the last guarding he could do.

He drew the curtains, saw his little brother's sleepy eyes. "Come," he said. "Let's dress you quick and go weave a pattern in the snow."

"A flower?" Dari said. "Like the one we saw?"

"Like the one we saw."

They hadn't been outside for very long. A part of him cried inwardly that it wasn't enough, he needed more time. Dari needed more. But the hors.e.m.e.n were there, eight of them, and the part of him that was traveling knew that this was the beginning, and even that the number was right.

Even as he looked, Dari holding him tightly by the hand, one of the riders lifted an arm and waved to him. Slowly Finn raised his free hand and signaled an acceptance. Dari was looking up at him, an uncertainty in his face. Finn knelt down beside him.

"Wave, little one. Those are men of the High King, and they're saying h.e.l.lo to us."

Still shy, Dari lifted a small mittened hand in a tentative wave. Finn had to look away for a moment.

Then, to the brother who was all his joy, he said calmly, "I want to run and catch up with them a moment, little one. I have a thing to ask. You wait and see if you can start the flower by yourself."

He rose then and began to walk away so his brother wouldn't see his face because the tears were falling now. He couldn't even say "I love you" at the end, because Dari was old enough to sense something wrong. He had said it so often, though, had meant it so much. Surely it had been enough in the little time he'd had. Surely it would be enough?

When Vae looked out a while later she saw that her older son was gone. Dari had done a thing of wonder, though: he had traced a perfect flower in the snow, all alone.

She had her own courage, and she knew what had come. She tried to do all her weeping first before going out in the yard to tell her little one how beautiful his newest flower was, and that it was time to come in and eat.

What broke her in the end was to see that Dari, moving quietly in the snow, was tracing his flower neatly with a thin branch in the growing dark while tears were pouring down his face without surcease.

In the twilight he followed them, and then by moonlight and their torches. He even got a little ahead, at first, cutting through the valley, while they took the higher ridges. Even when they pa.s.sed him, torches, and a red flame on his right, they did not hurry; he was not far behind. Somehow he knew he could have kept up, even if they had been making speed. He was traveling. It was the day, the night, and nearly, now, the hour.

And then it was all three. There was no fear in him; as he'd moved farther and farther from the cottage his sorrow, too, had faded. He was pa.s.sing from the circles of men into another place. It was only with an effort, as they neared the Wood, that he remembered to ask the Weaver to hold fast on the Loom to the thread of the woman, Vae, and the child, Darien. An effort, but he did it, and then, with that as the last thing, he felt himself cut loose as the fire blazed to let the horn sound and he saw and knew the kings.

He heard Owein cry out for him, "Where is the child?" He saw the woman of the flame fall down before Cargail's hooves. He remembered Owein's voice, and knew his tone to be fear and unease. They had been so long asleep in their cave. Who would lead them back into the starlit sky?

Who, indeed?

"Do not frighten her," he said. "I am here." And walking forward from the trees he came past Owein, into the circle of the seven mounted kings. He heard them cry out for joy and then begin to chant Connla's verse that had become the ta'kiena, the children's game, so long afterward. He felt his body changing, his eyes. He knew he looked like smoke. Turning to the cave, he spoke in a voice he knew would sound like wind. "Iselen," he said, and saw his white, white horse come forth. He mounted and, without a backward glance, he led Owein and the Hunt back into the sky.

It came together, Paul thought, still twisting inside with the dazzle and the hurt. The two verses had come to the same place: the children's game and the one about Owein. He looked around and saw, by the moonlight, that Kim was still on her knees in the snow, so he went and, kneeling, gathered her to his chest.

"He was only a boy," she wept. "Why do I cause so much sorrow?"

"Not you," he murmured, stroking her white hair. "He was called long ago. We couldn't know."

"I should have known. There had to be a child. It was in the verse."

He never stopped stroking her hair. "Oh, Kim, we can reproach ourselves fairly for so many things. Be easy on the ones that are not fair. I don't think we were meant to know." What long premeditating will, Paul thought, down all the years, had been fa.r.s.eeing enough to shape this night? Softly he spoke, to frame it: "When the wandering fire Strikes the heart of stone Will you follow?

Will you leave your home?

Will you leave your life?

Will you take the Longest Road?"

The ta'kiena had become skewed over the long years. It wasn't four different children to four different fates. The wandering fire was the ring Kim wore. The stone was the rock it had smashed. And all questions led to the Road that Finn had taken now.

Kim lifted her head and regarded him with grey eyes, so like his own. "And you?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

To anyone else he might have dissembled, but she was kindred in some way, set apart as he was, though not for the same thing.

"No," said Paul. "I'm too frightened to even weep."

She read it in him. He saw her face change, to mirror his own. "Oh," she said. "Darien."

Even Diarmuid was silent on the long ride home. The sky had cleared and the moon, nearing full, was very bright, and high. They didn't need the torches. Kevin rode next to Kim, with Paul on her other side.

Glancing at her, and then at Paul, Kevin felt his own sense of grievance slipping away. It was true that he had less to offer here, demonstrably less than his marked, troubled friends, but neither did he have to carry what, so manifestly, they did. Kim's ring was no light, transfiguring gift. It could be no easy thing to have set in motion what had happened to that boy. How could a human child have become, even as they watched, a thing of mist, diffused enough to take to the night sky and disappear among the stars? The verses, he understood, something to do with both verses coming together. He wasn't sure, for once, if he wanted to know more.

Paul, though, Paul didn't have a choice. He did know more, and he couldn't hide the fact, nor the strain of wrestling with it. No, Kevin decided, he wouldn't begrudge them their roles this once, or regret his own insignificance in what had happened.

The wind was behind them, which made things easier, and then, when they dipped down toward the valley around the lake again, he felt it grow milder and less chill.

They were skirting the farmhouse again, retracing their path. Looking down, he saw there was a light, still, in the window, though it was very late, and then he heard Paul call his name.

The two of them stopped on the trail. Ahead, the others kept moving and then disappeared around a bend in the hill slope.

They looked at each other a moment, then Paul said, "I should have told you before. Jennifer's child is down there. He's the young one we saw earlier. It was his older brother... so to speak... whom we just watched go with the Hunt."

Kevin kept his voice level. "What do we know about the child?"

"Very little. He's growing very fast. Obviously. All the andain do, Jaelle says. No sign yet of any... tendencies." Paul drew a breath and let it out. "Finn, the older one, was watching over him, and so were the priestesses, through a girl who was mind-linked to Finn. Now he's gone and there is only the mother, and it'll be a bad night down there."

Kevin nodded. "You're going down?"

"I think I'd better. I need you to lie, though. Say I've gone to Mornirwood, back to the Tree, for reasons of my own. You can tell Jaelle and Jennifer the truth-in fact, you'd better, because they'll know from the girl that Finn's gone."

"You're not coming east, then? To the hunt?"

Paul shook his head. "I'd better stay. I don't know what I can do, but I'd better stay."

Kevin was silent. Then, "I'd say be careful, but that doesn't mean much here, I'm afraid."

"Not much," Paul agreed. "But I'll try."

They looked at each other. "I'll take care of what you wanted," Kevin said. He hesitated. "Thanks for telling me."

Paul smiled thinly. He said, "Who else?" After a moment, leaning sideways on their horses, the two men embraced.

"Adios, amigo," said Kevin and, turning, kicked his mount to a trot that carried him around the bend.

Paul watched him go. He remained motionless for a long time after, his eyes fixed on the curve in the trail past which Kevin had disappeared. The road was not only bending now, it was forking, and very sharply. He wondered when he'd see his friend again. Gwen Ystrat was a long way. Among many other things, it might be that Galadan was there. Galadan, who he'd sworn would be his when they met for the third time. If they did.

But he had another task now, less filled with menace but as dark, notwithstanding that. He turned his thoughts from bright Kevin and from the Lord of the andain to one who was also of the andain and might yet prove greater than their Lord, for good or ill.

Picking his way carefully down the slope, he circled the farmyard by the light of the moon and the glow of the lamp in the window. There was a path leading up to the gate.

And there was something blocking the path.

Anyone else might have been paralyzed with fear, but Paul felt a different thing, though not any the less intense. How many twists for the heart, he thought, are gathered in this one night? And thinking so, he dismounted and stood on the path facing the grey dog.

A year and more had pa.s.sed, but the moon was bright and he could see the scars. Scars earned under the Summer Tree while Paul lay bound and helpless before Galadan, who had come to claim his life. And had been denied by the dog who stood now in the path that led to Darien.

There was a difficulty in Paul's throat. He took a step forward. "Bright the hour," he said and sank to his knees in the snow.

For a moment he wasn't sure, but then the great dog came forward and suffered him to place his arms about its neck. Low in its throat it growled, and Paul heard an acceptance, as of like to like.

He leaned back to look. The eyes were the same as they had been when first he'd seen them on the wall, but he was equal to them now; he was deep enough to absorb their sorrow, and then he saw something more.

"You have been guarding him," he said. "I might have known you would."

Again the dog rumbled, deep in its chest, but it was in the bright eyes that Paul read a meaning. He nodded. "You must go," he said, "Your place is with the hunt. It was more than happenstance that drew me here. I will stay tonight and deal with tomorrow when it comes."

A moment longer the grey dog stayed facing him; then, with another low growl, it moved past, leaving the path to the cottage open. As the dog went by, Paul saw the number of its scars again, more clearly, and his heart was sore.

He turned. The dog had done the same. He remembered their last farewell, and the howl that had gone forth from the heart of the G.o.dwood.

He said, "What can I say to you? I have sworn to kill the wolf when next we meet."

The dog lifted its head.

Paul whispered, "It may have been a rash promise, but if I am dead, who can tax me with it? You drove him back. He is mine to kill, if I can."

The grey dog came back toward him to where he still crouched, on the path. The dog, who was the Companion in every world, licked him gently on his face before it turned again to go.

Paul was crying, whose dry eyes had sent him to the Summer Tree. "Farewell," he said, but softly. "And go lightly. There is some brightness allowed. Even for you. The morning will offer light."

He watched the dog go up the slope down which he had come and then disappear past the curve around which Kevin, too, had gone.

At length he rose and, taking the reins of the horse, unlatched the gate and walked over to the barn. He put his horse in an empty stall.

Closing the barn and then the gate, he walked through the yard to the back door of the cottage and stepped up on the porch. Before knocking he looked up: stars and moon overhead, a few fast-moving wisps of cloud scudding southward with the wind. Nothing else to be seen. They were up there, he knew, nine hors.e.m.e.n in the sky. Eight of them were kings, but the one on the white horse was a child.

He knocked and, so as not to frighten her, called softly, "It is a friend. You will know me."

She opened it quickly this time, surprising him. Her eyes were hollowed. She clutched a robe about herself. She said, "I thought someone might come. I left a light."

"Thank you," said Paul.

"Come in. He is asleep, finally. Please be quiet."

Paul stepped inside. She moved to take his coat and saw he wasn't wearing one. Her eyes widened.

"I have some power," he said. "If you will let me, I thought I'd stay the night."

She said, "He is gone, then?" A voice far past tears. It was worse, somehow.

Paul nodded. "What can I say? Do you want to know?"

She had courage; she did want to know. He told her, softly, so as not to wake the child. After he had done, she said only, "It is a cold fate for one with so warm a heart."

Paul tried. "He will ride now through all the worlds of the Tapestry. He may never die."

She was a young woman still, but not her eyes that night. "A cold fate," she repeated, rocking in the chair before the fire.

In the silence he heard the child turn in its bed behind the drawn curtain. He looked over.

"He was up very late," Vae murmured. "Waiting. He did a thing this afternoon-he traced a flower in the snow. They used to do it together, as children will, but this one Dari did alone, after Finn left. And... he colored it."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. I don't know how, but he tinted the snow to color his flower. You'll see in the morning."

"I probably marred it just now, crossing the yard."

"Probably," she said. "There is little left of the night, but I think I will try to sleep. You look very tired, too."

He shrugged.

"There is only Finn's bed," she said. "I'm sorry."

He rose. "That will suit me very well."

A short while later, in the dark, he heard two things. The first was the sound of a mother crying for her child, and the second was the wind outside growing in strength in the hours before dawn.

The calling came. It woke Dari, as it always did. At first it felt like a dream again but he rubbed his eyes and knew he was awake, though very tired. He listened, and it seemed to him that there was something new this time. They were crying for him to come out with them, as they always did, but the voices in the wind were naming him by another name.

He was cold, though, and if he was cold in his bed, he would die outside in the wind. Little boys couldn't go out into that wind. He was very cold. Rubbing his eyes drowsily, he slid into his slippers and voyaged across the floor to crawl into bed with Finn.

But it wasn't Finn who was there. A dark figure rose up in Finn's own bed and said to him, "Yes, Darien, what can I do?"