Then, reaching into the pocket of his saddle-bag on the floor beside him, he withdrew something he’d carried a long way. “I think you’ve misinterpreted the judgement in the McKay case,” he told Kevin, and tossed the travel-stained Evidence notes down on the table.
Hell, Dave thought, watching them all, even Levon, even Tore, give way to hilarity and relief. There’s nothing to this! A wide grin, he knew, was splashed across his face.
“Funny, funny man,” Kevin Laine said, with unstinted approval. He was still laughing. “I need a drink,” Kevin exclaimed. “We all do. And you,” he pointed to Dave, “haven’t met Diarmuid yet. I think you’ll like him even more than you like me.”
Which was a funny kind of dig, Dave thought as they rose to go, and one he’d have to think about. He had a feeling, though, that this, at least, would turn out to be all right.
The five young men departed for the Black Boar. Kim, however, following an instinct that had been building since the coronation, begged off and returned to the palace. Once there, she knocked at a door down the corridor from her own. She made a suggestion, which was accepted. A short while later, in her own room, it emerged that her intuitions on this sort of thing had not been affected at all by anything in Fionavar.
Matt Sören closed the door behind them. He and Loren looked at each other, alone for the first time that day.
“Owein’s Horn now,” the mage said finally, as if concluding a lengthy exchange.
The Dwarf shook his head. “That is deep,” he said. “Will you try to wake them?”
Loren rose and crossed to the window. It was raining again. He put out his hand to feel it like a gift on his palm.
“I won’t,” he said at last. “But they might.”
The Dwarf said softly, “You have been holding yourself back, haven’t you?”
Loren turned. His eyes, deep-set under the thick gray eyebrows, were tranquil, but there was power in them still. “I have,” he said. “There is a force flowing through all of diem, I think, the strangers and our own. We have to give them room.”
“They are very young,” Matt Sören said.
“I know they are.”
“You are sure of this? You are going to let them carry it?”
“I am sure of nothing,” the mage said. “But yes, I am going to let them carry it.”
“We will be there?”
Silvercloak smiled then. “Oh, my friend,” he said, “we will have our battle, never fear. We must let the young ones carry it, but before the end, you and I may have to fight the greatest battle of them all.”
“You and I,” the Dwarf growled in his deep tones. By which the mage understood a number of things, not least of which was love.
In the end, the Prince had had a great many pints of ale. There were an infinity of reasons, all good.
He had been named Aileron’s heir in the ceremony that afternoon. “This,” he’d said, “is getting to be a habit.” The obvious line. They were quoting it all over the Black Boar, though. He drained another pint. Oh, an infinity of reasons, he had.
Eventually it seemed that he was alone, and in his own chambers in the palace, the chambers of Prince Diarmuid dan Ailell, the King’s Heir in Brennin. Indeed.
It was far too late to bother going to sleep. Using the outer walls, though with difficulty because of his arm, he made his way to Sharra’s balcony.
Her room was empty.
On a hunch, he looped two rooms along to where Kim Ford was sleeping. It was hard work, with the wound. When he finally climbed up over the balustrade, having to use the tree for awkward leverage, he was greeted by two pitchers of icy water in the face. No one deflected them either, or the laughter of Shalhassan’s daughter and the Seer of Brennin, who were a long way down the road to an unexpected friendship.
Mourning his fate somewhat, the heir to the throne finally slipped back into the palace and made his way, dripping, to the room of the Lady Rheva.