“I saw,” Aileron said. “But I do not understand.”
“It was a Cauldron.” Arthur Pendragon’s deep voice was quietly sure. “I marked it as well.”
“A Cauldron, yes,” Loren said. “At Cader Sedat. We know that already.”
“But there is no connection,” Jaelle protested weakly. She looked close to collapse. “It quickens the newly dead. What does the Cauldron of Khath Meigol have to do with winter?”
What indeed? Ivor thought, and then he heard Gereint. “Young one,” the shaman rasped, almost inaudibly, “this is the mages’ hour. You have lived to come to this. First Mage of Brennin, what is he doing with the Cauldron?”
The mages’ hour, Ivor thought. In the Temple of Dana in Gwen Ystrat. The Weaving of the Tapestry was truly past all comprehending.
Oblivious to their beseeching looks, Loren turned slowly to his source. Mage and Dwarf looked at each other as if no one else was in the room, in the world. Even Teyrnon and Barak were watching the other two and waiting. He was holding his breath, Ivor realized, and his palms were damp.
“Do you remember,” Loren said suddenly, and in his voice Ivor heard the timbre of power that lay in Gereint’s when he spoke for the god, “do you remember the book of Nilsom?”
“Accursed be his name,” Matt Sören replied. “I never read it, Loren.”
“Nor I,” said Teyrnon softly. “Accursed be his name.”
“I did,” said Loren. “And so did Metran.” He paused. “I know what he is doing and how he is doing it.”
With a gasp, Ivor expelled air from his lungs and drew breath again. All around him he heard others doing the same. In Matt Sören’s one eye he saw a gleam of the same pride with which Leith sometimes looked at him. Quietly, the Dwarf said, “I knew you would. We have a battle then?”
“I promised you one a long time ago,” the mage replied. He seemed to Ivor to have grown, even as they watched.
“Weaver be praised!” Aileron suddenly exclaimed.
Quickly they all looked over. The High King had crouched and was cradling Kim’s head in his arms, and Ivor could see that she was breathing normally again, and there was color in her face.
In a rapt silence they waited. Ivor, close to tears, saw how young her face was under the white hair. He was too easily moved to tears, he knew. Leith had derided it often enough. But surely it was all right now? He saw tears on the face of the High King and even a suspicious brightness in the eyes of dour Shalhassan of Cathal. In such company, he thought, may not a Dalrei weep?
In a little while she opened her eyes. There was pain in their greyness, and a great weariness, but her voice was clear when she spoke.
“I found something,” she said. “I tried to send it back. Did I? Was it enough?”
“You did, and it was enough,” Aileron replied gruffly.
She smiled with the simplicity of a child. “Good,” she said. “Then I will sleep now. I could sleep for days.” And she closed her eyes.
Chapter 11
“Now you know,” said Garde with a wink, “why the men of Gwen Ystrat always look so tired!”
Kevin smiled and drained his glass. The tavern was surprisingly uncrowded, given the prevailing energies of the night. It appeared that both Aileron and Shalhassan had given orders. Diarmuid’s band, though, as always, seemed to enjoy an immunity from such disciplinary commands.
“That,” said Erron to Garde, “is half a truth at best.” He raised a hand to summon another flask of Gwen Ystrat wine, then turned to Kevin. “He’s teasing you a bit. There’s some of this feeling all year long, I’m told, but only some. Tonight’s different—or tomorrow is, actually, and it’s spilling over into tonight. What we’re feeling now comes only at Maidaladan.”
The innkeper brought over their wine. Upstairs they heard a door open, and a moment later Coll leaned over the railing. “Who’s next?” he said with a grin.
“Go ahead,” Garde said. “I’ll keep the wine cool for you.”
Kevin shook his head. “I’ll pass,” he said as Coll came clumping down the stairs.