“It didn’t find you, did it?”
“Obviously not.”
“Why obviously?”
“Oh—because we’re still alive and at liberty. But it’s like being hunted by hounds, I think. Every scenting or sighting will bring them closer.”
“Just you?” Andor licked his lips, wondering how to suggest tactfully that he be allowed to leave—alone, of course. A week’s start would be only fair.
“Just me. I saw Zinixo’s eyes . . . Big as mountains, cold as stone.” Rap shivered. “It’s sort of like the sending he used on Shandie at the beginning. It’s not the same as the hunt for magic he tried on us in the Mosweeps. This is personal!”
And obviously dangerous. “Why now?”
“I don’t know!” the faun muttered, scowling. “Perhaps because of Olybino’s performance. Perhaps the dwarf didn’t realize I was involved in the Mosweeps thing. Perhaps he still feared I was a demigod, and didn’t dare risk personal contact . . . He’s a horrible coward, you know? Worse than, well, worse than anyone else I can think of. If I was,” he growled, “was still a demigod, I mean, then I’d accept the connection and bum him to a crisp! Even’if I had to fry half the Covin to get to him, I would!” He groaned and returned to his concentrated brooding.
Andor struggled to regain control over his teeth. “Rap?” he whimpered “Rap, if any one of us five ever dies before he can call another, then the other four will be lost forever, won’t they? That means effectively dead, doesn’t it? The first death will kill all five of us!”
“I suppose so,” the king murmured, seemingly still engrossed in other matters.
“Well, then?”
What Andor meant was that it wasn’t fair to expect him to risk five lives all on his own. He had more to lose than other men, didn’t he? How could he put that into words?
“Ha!” Rap grinned. “Got it! At least, I think I have.”
“Oh, good.”
“He’s hunting for my, er, my magical signature, I suppose is the best way to describe it.” He scowled, briefly. “Never mind the details. What matters is that he’s looking for me as a sorcerer. If I cloak myself in a shielding, so I don’t react with the ambience . . .”
For a moment he twisted his ugly features in a grimace. Then he jumped up, smirking. “There! Done it!”
Andor clambered warily to his feet, dusting himself. “Done what?”
“I just shielded myself.” Rap chuckled and ran his hands through his awful hair again. “No sorcery in, no sorcery out! So as far as the Covin’s concerned, I’m a mundane, and thus I won’t show up to their search! So it’s all up to you, now, friend Andor. Lead the way!”
Not a sorcerer?
Well, in that case . . .
A hurricane hit Andor at full force, slamming him into the ground, knocking all the wind out of him, rolling him over. Then the great ox was on his back, crushing his lungs, twisting his arm up until his shoulder was almost dislocated.
“Rap!” he gurgled, through a faceful of greenery. “What the Evil are you doing?”
“You saw your chance did you?” a gruff voice snarled in his ear. ”Thought you’d settle a few old scores, did you?”
“Rap! Never! What in the world are you talking about? We’re old buddies, you and I! Ever since I gave you your first lesson in bookkeeping—”
“That won’t work, either!” the jotunnish accent said. “This shielding will keep your occult charm out, too! I saw where your hand was heading.”
Damnation! “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, yes, you do! So now I know I can’t turn my back on you, Andor, old snake. Too bad, because you’d have been really helpful.”
“You’re making a horrible mistake,” Andor told the vegetation under his nose. It was hard to breathe with that load on top of him. “I was just scratching a bite.”
“You were just drawing your sword! And we both know who’s the better swordsman. Going to finish our long-ago duel, were you? Well, I think we’ll have Jalon in your place, thank you nicely. He can’t help as you could have, but he does look sort of elvish at a distance. And I can trust him at my back.”
“Rap—”
The pressure on Andor’s arm increased mercilessly. ”Rap!!”
“Call Jalon!” the faun roared. He sounded more like a jotunn when he wasn’t visible.
The bones in Andor’s shoulder creaked and burst into flame. Oh, God of Vengeance! He swore a silent oath and called.
2
Jalon lifted his face out of the mush and said, “Ouch!” The pressure on his arm eased immediately. “This is not easy for a jotunn, you know!” he said. “If I lose my temper, I may start using really vulgar language.”
With a hoarse chuckle, the weight vanished from his back. A moment later two big hands grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him bodily upright. He spun around and was enveloped in the big fellow’s hearty embrace. They thumped each other and laughed.
He backed off, wiping sap and leaves from his cheeks.
“Good to see you again, Rap! Hope I can stay around a little longer this time, though.”
“Hope so, too! It’s good to have you back.” Puffing slightly, the oversized faun grinned down happily at the undersized jotunn.
“And great to be in Ilrane!” Jalon said. Immature sugarcane rippled all around—oh, that green! He inspected his hand, which was bright with the same green. “You know, I’ve never found a stable pigment to capture this color? Not close, even! It’s almost glauconite, but with less blue in it. Do you think you could magic up some for me some time?”
Inexplicably Rap bellowed with laughter. “If that’s all I have to pay for your assistance, then I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”
“You will? Oh, thanks, Rap!” Jalon rubbed his shoulder. He must not get lost in thinking about painting, though, or singing. He must remember that they were here on very important business, and not go wool-gathering. Then he recalled the sky tree and swung around to take a proper look at it.
God of Beauty! Glorious! The nimbus of color on the sunward side, a spiky kaleidoscope of pale hues, contrasting with the low-value gentian blue of the shadowed face, and the cerulean sky beyond—he drank it in, memorizing the play of light.
“I said,” Rap repeated, “that if your shoulder hurts, I can take off my shielding for a moment and fix it for you, while we’re here.”
“Mm? No, it’s fine.” Even the clouds took on pearly tints near the tree.
“You’ve seen a sky tree before, haven’t you?”
“What? Oh, yes. Andor visited Valdostor years ago, and he called me to do some of the climbing for him.” But Jalon had never really had a good chance to study a tree at a distance, in its proper setting. The land rose in irregular waves to it—the root hills, elves called them—and here they were blotched with orchards and vineyards in malachite and shamrock green, streaked with deeper cypress. Might even be real cypresses.
“What? Oh, thanks.” He accepted his pack from the faun and let himself be led across the field toward the road. The air was honey and wine. Ilrane! At last! He had always wanted to visit Ilrane and had always let himself be diverted somehow. There would be songs to learn, too, because everybody knew that the elves had music they saved for homeland and sky trees.
“Aren’t you going to put that pack on?” Rap asked as they scrambled through the hedge.
“On? Of course!” Jalon hauled the straps over his shoulders. They were set for Andor, and loose on him, but they would do for now. Meanwhile he was far more interested in—
“This road!” the faun said. “I didn’t notice in the night—it’s colored!”
“All roads are colored in IIrane, Rap. Elves don’t like bare gravel or rock. The pictures tell a story to speed your journey. Two stories, depending which direction you’re going. Let’s see, this one seems to be—”
“We have to go this way.”
“Oh. Well, that’s all right. This way it’ll be better. The best tales lead to the trees, of course. Yes, this looks like the tale of Puil’arin. She was the daughter of Zand’arin, War Vicar of the Senior Sept, and she fell in love with . . .”
In a few paces, the ballad came flooding back. Wishing he had a lyre or a lute with him, Jalon raised his eyes to the road ahead and began to sing. Rap strode along at his side, listening contentedly.
There was something magical about the light in Ilrane. It made a man’s heart tingle. It roasted every warm color and froze every cool one; a million tints of green vibrated all around. The most banal motifs were transformed into marvels-willows over brooks, cattle under trees, cottages drowning in billows of flowers. Jalon’s head ached with the effort of storing up memories he would express in pigment when he returned to Hub. He would try watercolor first, he decided, then oils, but would he manage to capture that enchantment? Probably he would dash off a dozen or so landscapes in a few days, working in a frenzy until he was ready to drop. Thereafter they would lie around his studio until Thinal sold them off for a fortune to rich imps, or Andor gave them away to women. That was what usually happened. He didn’t care; it was the act of creation that mattered.