Kay, Sci-fi and Fantasy Library

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OVERTURE
After the war was over, they bound him under the Mountain. And so that there
might be warning if he moved to escape, they crafted then, with magic and with
art, the five wardstones, last creation and the finest of Ginserat. One went south
across Saeren to Cathal, one over the mountains to Eridu, another remained with
Revor and the Dalrei on the Plain. The fourth wardstone Colan carried home,
Conary’s son, now High King in Paras Derval.
The last stone was accepted, though in bitterness of heart, by the broken
remnant of the lios alfar. Scarcely a quarter of those who had come to war with
Ra-Termaine went back to the Shadowland from the parley at the foot of the
Mountain. They carried the stone, and the body of their King—most hated by the
Dark, for their name was Light.
From that day on, few men could ever claim to have seen the lios, except
perhaps as moving shadows at the edge of a wood, when twilight found a farmer
or a carter walking home. For a time it was rumoured among the common folk
that every sevenyear a messenger would come by unseen ways to hold converse
with the High King in Paras Derval, but as the years swept past, such tales
dwindled, as they tend to, into the mist of half-remembered history.
Ages went by in a storm of years. Except in houses of learning, even Conary
was just a name, and Ra-Termaine, and forgotten, too, was Revor’s Ride through
Daniloth on the night of the red sunset. It had become a song for drunken tavern
nights, no more true or less than any other such songs, no more bright.
For there were newer deeds to extol, younger heroes to parade through city
streets and palace corridors, to be toasted in their turn by village tavern fires.
Alliances shifted, fresh wars were fought to salve old wounds, glittering triumphs
assuaged past defeats, High King succeeded High King, some by descent and
others by brandished sword. And through it all, through the petty wars and the
great ones, the strong leaders and weak, the long green years of peace when the
roads were safe and the harvest rich, through it all the Mountain slumbered—for
the rituals of the wardstones, though all else changed, were preserved. The stones
were watched, the naal fires tended, and there never came the terrible warning of
Ginserat’s stones turning from blue to red.
And under the great mountain, Rangat Cloud-Shouldered, in the wind-blasted
north, a figure writhed in chains, eaten by hate to the edge of madness, but
knowing full well that the wardstones would give warning if he stretched his
powers to break free.
Still, he could wait, being outside of time, outside of death. He could brood on
his revenge and his memories—for he remembered everything. He could turn the
names of his enemies over and over in his mind, as once he had played with the
blood-clotted necklace of Ra-Termaine in a taloned hand. But above all he could
wait: wait as the cycles of men turned like the wheel of stars, as the very stars
shifted pattern under the press of years. There would come a time when the
watch slackened, when one of the five guardians would falter. Then could he, in
darkest secrecy, exert his strength to summon aid, and there would come a day
when Rakoth Maugrim would be free in Fionavar.
And a thousand years passed under the sun and stars of the first of all the
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worlds. . . .
PART I—Silvercloak
Chapter 1
In the spaces of calm almost lost in what followed, the question of why tended
to surface. Why them? There was an easy answer that had to do with Ysanne
beside her lake, but that didn’t really address the deepest question. Kimberly,
white-haired, would say when asked that she could sense a glimmered pattern
when she looked back, but one need not be a Seer to use hindsight on the warp
and weft of the Tapestry, and Kim, in any event, was a special case.
With only the professional faculties still in session, the quadrangles and
shaded paths of the University of Toronto campus would normally have been
deserted by the beginning of May, particularly on a Friday evening. That the
largest of the open spaces was not, served to vindicate the judgement of the
organizers of the Second International Celtic Conference. In adapting their
timing to suit certain prominent speakers, the conference administrators had run
the risk that a good portion of their potential audience would have left for the
summer by the time they got under way.
At the brightly lit entrance to Convocation Hall, the besieged security guards
might have wished this to be the case. An astonishing crowd of students and
academics, bustling like a rock audience with pre-concert excitement, had
gathered to hear the man for whom, principally, the late starting date had been
arranged. Lorenzo Marcus was speaking and chairing a panel that night in the
first public appearance ever for the reclusive genius, and it was going to be
standing room only in the august precincts of the domed auditorium.
The guards searched out forbidden tape recorders and waved ticket-holders
through with expressions benevolent or inimical, as their natures dictated.
Bathed in the bright spill of light and pressed by the milling crowd, they did not
see the dark figure that crouched in the shadows of the porch, just beyond the
farthest circle of the lights.
For a moment the hidden creature observed the crowd, then it turned, swiftly
and quite silently, and slipped around the side of the building. There, where the
darkness was almost complete, it looked once over its shoulder and then, with
unnatural agility, began to climb hand over hand up the outer wall of
Convocation Hall. In a very little while the creature, which had neither ticket nor
tape recorder, had come to rest beside a window set high in the dome above the
hall. Looking down past the glittering chandeliers, it could see the audience and
the stage, brightly lit and far below. Even at this height, and through the heavy
glass, the electric murmur of sound in the hall could be heard. The creature,
clinging to the arched window, allowed a smile of lean pleasure to flit across its
features. Had any of the people in the highest gallery turned just then to admire
the windows of the dome, they might have seen it, a dark shape against the night.
But no one had any reason to look up, and no one did. On the outside of the dome
the creature moved closer against the window pane and composed itself to wait.
There was a good chance it would kill later that night. The prospect greatly
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facilitated patience and brought a certain anticipatory satisfaction, for it had been
bred for such a purpose, and most creatures are pleased to do what their nature
dictates.
Dave Martyniuk stood like a tall tree in the midst of the crowd that was
swirling like leaves through the lobby. He was looking for his brother, and he was
increasingly uncomfortable. It didn’t make him feel any better when he saw the
stylish figure of Kevin Laine coming through the door with Paul Schafer and two
women. Dave was in the process of turning away— he didn’t feel like being
patronized just then—when he realized that Laine had seen him.
“Martyniuk! What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Laine. My brother’s on the panel.”
“Vince Martyniuk. Of course,” Kevin said. “He’s a bright man.”
“One in every family,” Dave cracked, somewhat sourly. He saw Paul Schafer
give a crooked grin.
Kevin Laine laughed. “At least. But I’m being rude. You know Paul. This is
Jennifer Lowell, and Kim Ford, my favorite doctor.”
“Hi,” Dave said, forced to shift his program to shake hands.
“This is Dave Martyniuk, people. He’s the center on our basketball team.
Dave’s in third-year law here.”
“In that order?” Kim Ford teased, brushing a lock of brown hair back from her
eyes. Dave was trying to think of a response when there was a movement in the
crowd around them.
“Dave! Sorry I’m late.” It was, finally, Vincent. “I have to get backstage fast. I
may not be able to talk to you till tomorrow. Pleased to meet you”—to Kim,
though he hadn’t been introduced. Vince bustled off, briefcase high front of him
like the prow of a ship cleaving through the crowd.
“Your brother?” Kim Ford asked, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Yeah.” Dave was feeling sour again. Kevin Laine, he saw, had been accosted
by some other friends and was evidently being witty.
If he headed back to the law school, Dave thought, he could still do a good
three hours on Evidence before the library closed.
“Are you alone here?” Kim Ford asked.
“Yeah, but I—”
“Why don’t you sit with us, then?”
Dave, a little surprised at himself, followed Kim into the hall.
“Her,” the Dwarf said. And pointed directly across the auditorium to where
Kimberly Ford was entering with a tall, broad-shouldered man. “She’s the one.”
The grey-bearded man beside him nodded slowly. They were standing, half
hidden, in the wings of the stage, watching the audience pour in. “I think so,” he
said worriedly. “I need five, though, Matt.”
“But only one for the circle. She came with three, and there is a fourth with
them now. You have your five.”
“I have five,” the other man said. “Mine, I don’t know. If this were just for
Metran’s jubilee stupidity it wouldn’t matter, but—”
“Loren, I know.” The Dwarf’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “But she is the one
we were told of. My friend, if I could help you with your dreams. . .”
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“You think me foolish?”
“I know better than that.”
The tall man turned away. His sharp gaze went across the room to where the
five people his companion had indicated were sitting. One by one he focused on
them, then his eyes locked on Paul Schafer’s face.
Sitting between Jennifer and Dave, Paul was glancing around the hall, only
half listening to the chairman’s fulsome introduction of the evening’s keynote
speaker, when he was hit by the probe.
The light and sound in the room faded completely. He felt a great darkness.
There was a forest, a corridor of whispering trees, shrouded in mist. Starlight in
the space above the trees. Somehow he knew that the moon was about to rise,
and when it rose. . . .
He was in it. The hall was gone. There was no wind in the darkness, but still
the trees were whispering, and it was more than just a sound. The immersion was
complete, and within some hidden recess Paul confronted the terrible, haunted
eyes of a dog or a wolf. Then the vision fragmented, images whipping past,
chaotic, myriad, too fast to hold, except for one: a tall man standing in darkness,
and upon his head the great, curved antlers of a stag.
Then it broke: sharp, wildly disorienting. His eyes, scarcely able to focus,
swept across the room until they found a tall, grey-bearded man on the side of the
stage. A man who spoke briefly to someone next to him, and then walked smiling
to the lectern amid thunderous applause.
“Set it up, Matt,” the grey-bearded man had said. “We will take them if we
can.”
“He was good, Kim. You were right,” Jennifer Lowell said. They were standing
by their seats, waiting for the exiting crowd to thin. Kim Ford was flushed with
excitement.
“Wasn’t he?” she asked them all, rhetorically. “What a terrific speaker!”
“Your brother was quite good, I thought,” Paul Schafer said to Dave quietly.
Surprised, Dave grunted noncommittally, then remembered something. “You
feeling okay?”
Paul looked blank a moment, then grimaced. “You, too? I’m fine. I just needed
a day’s rest. I’m more or less over the mono.” Dave, looking at him, wasn’t so
sure. None of his business, though, if Schafer wanted to kill himself playing
basketball. He’d played a football game with broken ribs once. You survived.
Kim was talking again. “I’d love to meet him, you know.” She looked wistfully
at the knot of autograph-seekers surrounding Marcus.
“So would I, actually,” said Paul softly. Kevin shot him a questioning look.
“Dave,” Kim went on, “your brother couldn’t get us into that reception, could
he?”
Dave was beginning the obvious reply when a deep voice rode in over him.
“Excuse me, please, for intruding.” A figure little more than four feet tall, with
a patch over one eye, had come up beside them. “My name,” he said, in an accent
Dave couldn’t place, “is Matt Sören. I am Dr. Marcus’s secretary. I could not help
but overhear the young lady’s remark. May I tell you a secret?” He paused. “Dr.
Marcus has no desire at all to attend the planned reception. With all respect,” he
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said, turning to Dave, “to your very learned brother.”
Jennifer saw Kevin Laine begin to turn himself on. Performance time, she
thought, and smiled to herself. Laughing, Kevin took charge. “You want us to
spirit him away?”
The Dwarf blinked, then a basso chuckle reverberated in his chest. “You are
quick, my friend. Yes, indeed, I think he would enjoy that very much.” Kevin
looked at Paul Schafer. “A plot,” Jennifer whispered. “Hatch us a plot,
gentlemen!”
“Easy enough,” Kevin said, after some quick reflection. “As of this moment,
Kim’s his niece. He wants to see her. Family before functions.” He waited for
Paul’s approval.
“Good,” Matt Sören said. “And very simple. Will you come with me then to
fetch your . . . ah . . . uncle?”
“Of course I will!” Kim laughed. “Haven’t seen him in ages.” She walked off
with the Dwarf towards the tangle of people around Lorenzo Marcus at the front
of the hall.
“Well,” Dave said, “I think I’ll be moving along.”
“Oh, Martyniuk,” Kevin exploded, “don’t be such a legal drip! This guy’s world-
famous. He’s a legend. You can study for Evidence tomorrow. Look, come to my
office in the afternoon and I’ll dig up my old exam notes for you.”
Dave froze. Kevin Laine, he knew all too well, had won the award in Evidence
two years before, along with an armful of other prizes.
Jennifer, watching him hesitate, felt an impulse of sympathy. There was a lot
eating this guy, she thought, and Kevin’s manner didn’t help. It was so hard for
some people to get past the flashiness to see what was underneath. And against
her will, for Jennifer had her own defences, she found herself remembering what
love-making used to do to him.
“Hey, people! I want you to meet someone.” Kim’s voice knifed into her
thoughts. She had her arm looped possessively through that of the tall lecturer,
who beamed benignly down upon her. “This is my Uncle Lorenzo. Uncle, my
room-mate Jennifer, Kevin and Paul, and this is Dave.”
Marcus’s dark eyes flashed. “I am,” he said, “more pleased to meet you than
you could know. You have rescued me from an exceptionally dreary evening. Will
you join us for a drink at our hotel? We’re at the Park Plaza, Matt and I.”
“With pleasure, sir,” Kevin said. He waited for a beat. “And we’ll try hard not
to be dreary.” Marcus lifted an eyebrow.
A cluster of academics watched with intense frustration in their eyes as the
seven of them swept out of the hall together and into the cool, cloudless night.
And another pair of eyes watched as well, from the deep shadows under the
porch pillars of Convocation Hall. Eyes that reflected the light, and did not blink.
It was a short walk, and a pleasant one. Across the wide central green of the
campus, then along the dark winding path known as Philosopher’s Walk that
twisted, with gentle slopes on either side, behind the law school, the Faculty of
Music, and the massive edifice of the Royal Ontario Museum, where the dinosaur
bones preserved their long silence. It was a route that Paul Schafer had been
carefully avoiding for the better part of the past year.
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