THE SUMMER TREE by Guy Gavriel Kay

“Not at all,” Jaelle replied swiftly. “You would do well to remember it. Why did Loren leave for the north this morning?”

“I don’t know,” Jennifer stammered, shocked by the naked threat.

“You don’t? A strange thing to do, is it not? To bring guests to the palace, then ride off alone. Leaving Matt behind, which is very strange. I wonder,” said Jaelle. “I wonder who he was looking for? How many of you really did cross?”

It was too sudden, too shrewd. Jennifer, heart pounding, was aware that she had flushed.

“You look warm,” Jaelle said, all solicitude. “Do have some wine.” She poured from a long-necked silver decanter. “Really,” she continued, “it is most uncharacteristic of Loren to abandon guests so suddenly.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jennifer said. “There are four of us. None of us knows him very well. The wine is excellent.”

“It is from Morvran. I am glad you like it. I could swear Metran asked him to bring five of you.”

So Loren had been wrong. Someone did know. Someone knew a great deal indeed.

“Who is Metran?” Jennifer asked disingenuously. “Was he the old man you frightened so much yesterday?”

Balked, Jaelle leaned back on her own cushions. In the silence Jennifer sipped her wine, pleased to see that her hand was steady.

“You trust him, don’t you?” the Priestess said bitterly. “He has warned you against me. They all have. Silvercloak angles for power here as much as anyone, but you have aligned yourself with the men, it seems. Tell me, which of them is your lover, or has Diarmuid found your bed yet?”

Which was quite sufficient, thank you. Jennifer shot to her feet. Her wine glass spilled; she ignored it. “Is this how you treat a guest?” she burst out. “I came here in good faith—what right have you to say such things to me? I’m not aligned with anyone in your stupid power games. I’m only here for a few days—do you think I care who wins your little battles? I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she went on, breathing hard, “I’m not happy about male control in my world, either, but I’ve never in my life met anyone as screwed up on the subject as you are. If Ysanne fell in love—well, I doubt you can even guess what that feels like!”

White and rigid, Jaelle looked up at her, then rose in her turn. “You may be right,” she said softly, “but something tells me that you have no idea what it feels like, either. Which gives us a thing in common, doesn’t it?”

Back in her room a short while later, Jennifer closed the door on Laesha and Drance and cried about that for a long time.

The day crawled forward webbed in heat. A dry, unsettling wind rose in the north and slid through the High Kingdom, stirring the dust in the streets of Paras Derval like an uneasy ghost. The sun, westering at the end of day, shone red. Only at twilight was there any relief, as the wind shifted to the west, and the first stars came out in the sky over Brennin.

Very late that night, north and west of the capital, the breeze stirred the waters of a lake to muted murmuring. On a wide rock by the shore, under the lace-work of the stars, an old woman knelt, cradling the slight form of a younger one, on whose finger a red ring shone with a muted glimmering.

After a long time, Ysanne rose and called for Tyrth. Limping, he came from the cottage and, picking up the unconscious girl, walked back and laid her down in the bed he’d made that afternoon.

She remained unconscious for the rest of the night and all the next day. Ysanne did not sleep, but watched her through the hours of darkness, and then in the searing brightness of the following day, and on the face of the old Seer was an expression only one man, long dead, would have recognized.

Kimberly woke at sunset. Away to the south in that moment, Kevin and Paul were taking up their positions with Diarmuid’s men outside the walls of Larai Rigal.

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