“Long ago, one of my great-great-uncles went through in a boat to see what was on the other side. He planned to see, then return at once, and several boats waited for him. Only his boat came back, overturned but intact. Twice since then volunteers have gone through, and not even their boats were seen again.”
He paused, looking at her. Her expression had turned thoughtful. “I thought we might go out there,” he said. “After last night it may be stirring. We can feel it if it is. Would you like to?”
She answered only after a long moment’s lag. “Has anything ever come through from the other side? Besides your great uncle’s boat?”
“Not that we know of. Nothing seen floating, no bodies or anything unusual washed up on the beach.”
She couldn’t correlate the geography of the two worlds well, but it seemed to her that Lake Superior might be on the other side, and told him so. He nodded thoughtfully. “If it is, it’s probably cold, like the sea here. And if the arrival there is rough, rough enough to overturn you . . .”
“I’ve gone through both ways,” she said. “Coming through to this side is the most violent, but going through the other way, you never know what position you’ll arrive in. Hardly ever on your feet.”
“I’ve read the same sort of thing. Do you want to sail out there? Close enough to feel if anything is happening?”
Again she frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose we should. I don’t know what we’ll accomplish—nothing, probably—but . . .”
He nodded, and after they’d stowed their things in the skiff, she got into the stern. He untied the painter, lifted the bow free of the shingle rock and pushed off, Varia holding the tiller. Then he raised the sail and sat down by her in the stern. Approaching the gate site, they felt nothing unusual, and after circling it, turned to tack their way shoreward, slowly, for the skiff had little draft, and only skeg and rudder to bite the water.
On their way back to the cove, a slender ship passed them, a Sea Swallow swift and graceful, its mast unseated, driven by long oars. The colors of an imperial courier fluttered at the stern. When the couple reached the manor, the courier met them, giving Cyncaidh a sealed envelope, while a troubled Ahain hovered unnoticed in the background. Slitting the envelope, Cyncaidh read the message, then turned to Varia. “Lochran has died. The Chief Counselor. Unexpectedly. The Emperor wants me to come at once, with the courier.”
Ahain interrupted. “Your lordship!”
Cyncaidh turned, noticing him now. “Yes?”
“Lady Cyncaidh lost consciousness this morning after you left. Lord A’duaill says it’s a stroke. He doesn’t think she’ll live out the day.”
Cyncaidh’s jaw clenched, and he turned to the courier. “I’ll stay till my wife can either travel or has died. Meanwhile I’ll have preparations begun.”
“As you say, Lord Cyncaidh.”
“Meanwhile I’ll look in on her, and discuss her condition with Lord A’duaill, my wizard and healer. You and I can talk further after supper.” He turned to Varia, who stood white-faced, her knuckles between her teeth, not at the unexpected move but at the report of Mariil’s stroke. “Lady Varia, perhaps you’d care to come with me.”
She nodded. “Of course, your lordship.”
They went together to the second floor, to the east wing, and went in. Mariil was still unconscious. They’d been there only minutes when her spirit aura flickered out. She was dead.
30: Confrontation
The ride back from Laurel Notch had been like a vacation. It had even been sunny, with only two showers, hard but not prolonged. Macurdy talked more with Fengal as they rode, and learned more from him. It seemed to him the youth had been born a woodsman, that at eighteen he knew and understood more about the forest than many who’d spent a lifetime in it. So they’d been gone a full eleven days when they arrived back.
Liiset’s courier had arrived, but Macurdy made no immediate use of him because the joint operation with Wollerda’s force was almost ready. Jeremid briefed him on it, and two days later they rode out at the head of four companies of eager hillsmen.