THE WANDERING FIRE by Guy Gavriel Kay

They all recognized it for what it was, though, and after the brittleness of Aileron the greeting they received from mage and source marked, for all of them, their true return to Fionavar. When Matt took her hand between his own two calloused ones, Jennifer cried.

“We never knew,” Loren Silvercloak said, a roughness in his voice. “We didn’t know if she pulled you out. And only Jaelle heard the last warning about Starkadh. It saved many lives. We would have attacked.”

“And then the winter came,” Aileron said. “And there was no hope of attack or anything. We’ve been unable to do anything at all.”

“We can offer wine to our guests,” the Dwarf said tartly.

“Shain, find some cups and serve anyone who wants it,” Aileron said absently. “We need Kim badly,” he went on. “We have to find out how Maugrim is controlling the winter—it was not a thing he could ever do before. The lios have confirmed that.”

“He’s making it worse?” Paul asked soberly.

There was a silence. Loren broke it. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “He is making it. He has twisted the seasons utterly. These snows have been here for nine months, Pwyll. In six nights it will be Midsummer’s Eve.”

They looked out the window. There was ice on the glass. It was snowing again, and a bitter wind was howling about the walls. Even with two fires blazing in the room and torches everywhere, it was very cold.

“Oh, God!” said Dave abruptly. “What’s happening to the Dalrei?”

“They are gathered near the Latham,” Loren said. “The tribes and the eltor.”

“Just in that corner?” Dave exclaimed. “The whole Plain is theirs!”

“Not now,” Aileron said, and there was helpless anger in his voice. “Not while this winter lasts.”

“Can we stop it?” Kevin asked.

“Not until we know how he is doing it,” Loren replied.

“And so you want Kim?” Paul said. He had walked away from the others to stand by the window.

“And someone else. I want to bring Gereint here, Ivor’s shaman. To see if all of us together can break through the screen of ice and snow to find their source. If we do not,” the mage said, “we may lose this war before it begins. And we must not lose this war.”

Aileron said nothing. It was all in his eyes.

“All right,” said Jennifer carefully. “Kim’s on her way, I think. I hope. In the meantime, I guess I have some things to tell Loren and Matt.”

“Now?” Kevin asked.

“Why not?” She smiled, though not an easy smile. “I’ll just take some of that wine, Shain. If nobody minds.”

She and the mage and his source withdrew into an inner chamber. The others looked at each other.

”Where’s Diarmuid?” Kevin said suddenly. “Where do you think?” Aileron replied.

About half an hour earlier, shortly after Matt and Loren had left for the palace, Zervan of Seresh had lain in his bed in the mages’ quarters, not sleeping.

He had no real duties left: he had built up the front-room fire to a level that should last the night, and he knew that if Brock returned before the other two, he’d build it up again for them.

It was never a hard life being servant to the mages. He had been with them now for twenty years, ever since they had told him he was not cut from mage cloth himself. It hadn’t been a surprise; he’d sensed it very early. But he had liked all three of them—even, though it was a bitter memory, Metran, who had been clever before he had been old, before he turned out to be a traitor. He had liked Paras Derval too, the energy of the town, the nearness of the palace. It was nice being at the center of things.

When Teyrnon had asked him, Zervan had been pleased to stay on and serve the mages.

Over twenty years the original liking had grown to something akin to love. The four of them who were left, Loren and Teyrnon, Matt and Barak, were the nearest to family that Zervan had, and he worried over them all with a fussy, compulsive eye for detail.

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