“I told you to go,” he said.
“I know. I don’t always do what I’m told. I thought I warned you.”
He was silent, looking up at her.
“A ‘little’ skill,” she mimicked quite precisely.
His face, she saw with delight, had suddenly gone shy.
“Why,” Kim Ford asked, “did that take you so long?”
For the first time she heard him laugh.
They reached Paras Derval at twilight, with Aileron hooded for concealment. Once inside the town they made their way quickly and quietly to Loren’s quarters. The mage was there, with Matt and Kevin Laine.
Kim and Aileron told their stories as succinctly as they could; there was little time. They spoke of Paul, in whispers, hearing the thunder gathering in the west.
And then, when it became clear that there was something important neither she nor the Prince knew, they were told about Jennifer.
At which point it was made evident that notwithstanding a frightened cat, or a kingdom that needed her, the new Seer of Brennin could still fall apart with the best of them.
Twice during the day he thought it was the end. There was very great pain. He was badly sunburned now, and so dry. Dry as the land, which, he had thought earlier—how much earlier?—was probably the point. The nexus. It all seemed so simple at times, it came down to such basic correspondences. But then his mind would start to spin, to slide, and with the slide, all the clarity went, too.
He may have been the only person in Fionavar who didn’t see the Mountain send up its fire. The sun was fire enough for him. He heard the laughter, but was so far gone he placed it elsewhere, in his own hell. It hurt there, too; he was not spared.
That time it was the bells that brought him back. He was lucid then for an interval, and knew where they were ringing, though not why. His eyes hurt; they were puffy with sunburn, and he was desperately dehydrated. The sun seemed to be a different color today. Seemed. What did he know? He was so skewed, nothing could be taken for what it was.
Though the bells were ringing in Paras Derval, he was sure of that. Except . . . except that after a while, listening, he seemed to hear a harp sounding, too, and that was very bad, as bad as it could be, because it was a thing from his own place, from behind the bolted door. It wasn’t out there. The bells were, yes, but they were fading. He was going again, there was nothing to grab hold of, no branch, no hand. He was bound and dry, and sliding, going under. He saw the bolts shatter, and the door opening, and the room. Oh, lady, lady, lady, he thought. Then no bolts anymore, nothing to bar the door. Under. Undersea down. . . .
They were in bed. The night before his trip. Of course. It would be that memory. Because of the harp, it would be.
His room. Spring night; almost summer weather. Window open, curtains blowing, her hair around them both, the covers back so he could see her by candlelight. Her candle, a gift. The very light was hers.
“Do you know,” Rachel said, “that you are a musician, after all.”
“I wish,” he heard himself say. “You know I can’t even sing.”
“But no,” she said pursuing a conceit, playing with the hairs on his chest. “You are. You’re a harper, Paul. You have harper’s hands.”
“Where’s my harp, then?” Straight man.
And Rachel said, “Me, of course. My heart’s your harpstring.”
What could he do but smile? The very light.
“You know,” she said, “when I play next month, the Brahms, it’ll be for you.”
“No. For yourself. Keep that for yourself.”
She smiled. He couldn’t see it, but he knew by now when Rachel smiled.
“Stubborn man.” She touched him lightly with her mouth. “Share it, then. Can I play the second movement for you? Will you take that? Let me play that part because I love you. To tell.”
“Oh, lady,” he had said.
Hand of the harper. Heart of the harpstring.