“She has her means,” Luke said, “though I thought it only a psychic bond with her sister. Apparently it goes somewhat further.”
She nodded.
“Speaking of which, I hope you can use it to help us track her,” he continued. “With the trail gone and a drug or a spell barring a Trump call, we’ll be needing assistance.”
“Yes,” she answered, “though she is in no danger at the moment.”
“Good,” he said. “In that case, I’ll order us all food and set to briefing this good-looking fellow on what’s going on in Kashfa these days.”
“Luke,” I said. “It sounds like an ideal time for me to head back to the Courts for the rest of the funeral.”
“How long would you be gone, Merle?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Back by morning, I trust?”
“Me, too. What if I’m not, though?”
“I’ve a feeling I should go looking without you.”
“Try reaching me first, though.”
“Sure. See you later.”
I drew my cloak of space about me, shrugging Kashfa away. When I opened it again I was back in Jurt’s quarters at Sawall.
.I stretched, I yawned. I did a quick turn about the room, making certain I was alone. I unfastened my cloak and tossed it upon the bed. I paced as I unbuttoned my shirt.
Halt. What was it? Also, where?
I retraced a few paces. I had never spent a great deal of time in my younger brother’s rooms, but I would have recalled what I was feeling.
There was a chair and table in the corner formed by the wall and an armoire of dark, almost black wood. Kneeling on the chair and reaching over the table, I could feel it-the presence of a way, not quite strong enough for transport, though. Ergo…
I moved off to my right, opened the armoire. It had to be inside, of course. I wondered how recently he had installed it. I also felt slightly funny about poking about in his quarters this way. Still, he owed me for a lot of misery and inconvenience. A few confidences and a little cooperation hardly cleaned the slate. I hadn’t learned to trust him yet, and it was possible he was setting me up for something. Good manners, I decided, would have to be sacrificed to prudence.
I pushed garments aside, making a way clear to the back of the thing. I could feel it strongly. A final shove at the garments, a quick shuffle to the rear, and I was at the focus. I let it take me away.
Once there was a forward yielding, the pressure of the garments at my back gave me a small push. That, plus the fact that someone (Jurt, himself?) had done a sloppy shadowmastering job resulting in mismatched floor levels, sent me sprawling as I achieved destination.
At least, I didn’t land in a pit full of sharpened stakes or acid. Or the lair of some half-starved beast. No, it was a green-tiled floor, and I caught myself as I fell. And from the flickering light all about me I guessed there was a mess of candles burning.
Even before I looked up I was sure they’d all be green.
Nor was I incorrect. About that or anything else. The setup was similar to that of my father, with a groined vault containing a light source superior to the candles. Only there was no painting above this altar. This one featured a stained-glass window, lots of green in it, and a little red.
Its principal was Brand.
I rose and crossed to it. Lying upon it, drawn a few inches from its sheath, was Werewindle.
I reached out and took hold of it, my first impulse being to bear it away with me for eventual restoration to Luke. Then I hesitated. It wasn’t something I could wear to a funeral. If I took it now I’d have to hide it somewhere, and it was already well-hidden right here. I let my hand rest upon it, though, as I thought. It contained a similar feeling of power to that which Grayswandir bore, only somehow brighter, less tragedy-touched and brooding. Ironic. It seemed an ideal blade for a hero.