Guy Kay - The Summer Tree

The tragedy of Ailell dan Art lay in what he had fallen from. The haggard man with the wispy, snow-white beard and blurred, cataract-occluded gaze showed little of the giant warrior, with eyes like a noonday sky, who had taken the Oak Throne fifty years before. Gaunt and emaciated, Ailell seemed to have been stretched thin by his years, and the expression with which he peered forward to follow their approach was not welcoming.

To one side of the King stood Gorlaes. The broad-shouldered Chancellor was dressed in brown, with his seal of office hung about his neck and no other ornament. On the other side of the throne, in burgundy and white, stood Diarmuid, the King’s Heir of Brennin. Who winked when her gaze lingered. Kim turned away abruptly to see Metran, the First Mage, making his slow wheezing way, attendant solicitously at hand, to stand with Loren just in front of them.

Seeing Paul Schafer gazing intently at the King, she turned back to the throne herself, and after a pause she heard her name being spoken in introduction. She stepped forward and bowed, having decided earlier that under no circumstances was she going to try anything so hazardous as a curtsy. The others followed suit. Jennifer did curtsy, sinking down in a rustle of green silk, and rising gracefully as an appreciative murmur ran through the hall.

“Be welcome to Brennin,” the High King said, leaning back in his throne. “Bright be the thread of your days among us.” The words were gracious, but there was little pleasure in the low desiccated tones in which they were spoken. “Thank you, Metran, Loren,” the King said, in the same voice. “Thank you, Teyrnon,” he added, nodding to a third man half hidden beyond Loren.

Metran bowed too low in response and almost toppled over. His aide helped him straighten. Someone snickered in the background.

Loren was speaking. “We thank you for your kindness, my lord. Our friends have met your son and the Chancellor already. The Prince was good enough to make them guest-friends of your house last night.” His voice on the last phrase was pitched to carry.

The King’s eyes rested for a long moment on those of Loren, and Kim, watching, changed her mind. Ailell might be old, but he certainly wasn’t senile—the amusement registering in his face was far too cynical.

“Yes,” said the King, “I know he did. And herewith I endorse his doing so. Tell me, Loren,” he went on in a different tone, “do you know if any of your friends play ta’bael?”

Loren shook his head apologetically. “Truly, my lord,” he said, “I never thought to ask. They have the same game in their world, they call it chess, but—”

“I play,” said Paul.

There was a short silence. Paul and the King looked at each other. When Ailell spoke, his voice was very soft. “I hope,” he said, “that you will play with me while you are with us.”

Schafer nodded by way of response. The King leaned back, and Loren, seeing this, turned to lead them from the hall.

“Hold, Silvercloak!”

The voice was icily imperious. It knifed into them. Kim quickly turned left to where she’d noticed a small grouping of women in grey robes. Now that cluster parted and a woman walked forward towards the throne.

All in white she was, very tall, with red hair held back by a circlet of silver on her brow. Her eyes were green and very cold. In her bearing as she strode towards them was a deep, scarcely suppressed rage, and as she drew near, Kimberly saw that she was beautiful. But despite the hair, which gleamed like a fire at night under stars, this was not a beauty that warmed one. It cut, like a weapon. There was no nuance of gentleness in her no shading of care, but fair she was, as is the flight of an arrow before it kills.

Loren, checked in the act of withdrawing, turned as she approached—and there was no warmth in his face, either.

“Have you not forgotten something?” the woman in white said, her voice feather-soft and sinuous with danger.

“An introduction? I would have done so in due course,” Loren replied lightly. “If you are impatient, I can—”

“Due course? Impatient? By Macha and Nemain you should be cursed for insolence!” The red-haired woman was rigid with fury. Her eyes burned into those of the mage.

Who endured the look without expression. Until another voice interceded in rich, plummy tones. “I’m afraid you are right, Priestess,” said Gorlaes. “Our voyager here does at times forget the patterns of precedence. Our guests should have been presented to you today. I fear—”

“Fool!” the Priestess snapped. “You are a fool, Gorlaes. Today? I should have been spoken to before he went on this journey. How dare you, Metran? How dare you send for a crossing without leave of the Mother? The balancing of worlds is in her hands and so it is in mine. You touch the earthroot in peril of your soul if you do not seek her leave!”

Metran retreated from the enraged figure. Fear and confusion chased each other across his features. Loren, however, raised a hand and pointed one long, steady finger at the woman confronting him. “Nowhere,” he said, and thick anger spilled from his own voice now, “nowhere is such a thing written! And this, by all the gods, you know. You overreach yourself, Jaelle—and be warned, it shall not be permitted. The balance lies not with you—and your moonlit meddling may shatter it yet.”

The Priestess’s eyes flickered at that—and Kim suddenly remembered Diarmuid’s reference the night before to a secret gathering.

And it was Diarmuid’s lazy voice that slid next into the charged silence. “Jaelle,” he said, from by his father’s throne, “whatever the worth of what you say, surely this is not the time to say it. Lovely as you are, you are marring a festival with your wrangling. And we seem to have another guest waiting to be greeted.” Stepping lightly from the dais, he walked past all of them, down to the end of the hall, where, Kim saw as she turned to watch, there stood another woman, this one white-haired with age and leaning on a gnarled staff before the great doors of Ailell’s hall.

“Be welcome, Ysanne,” said the Prince, a deep courtesy in his tone. “It is long since you have graced our court.” But Kim, hearing the name spoken, seeing the frail figure standing there, felt something touch her then, like a finger on the heart.

A current of sound had begun to ripple through the gathered courtiers, and those lining the spaces between the pillars were crowding backwards in fear. But the murmur was only faint background for Kim now, because all her senses were locked onto the seamed, wizened figure walking carefully towards the throne on the arm of the young Prince.

“Ysanne, you should not be here.” Ailell, surprisingly, had risen to speak, and it could be seen that, even stooped with years, he was the tallest man in the room.

“True enough,” the old woman agreed placidly, coming to a halt before him. Her voice was gentle as Jaelle’s had been harsh. The red-haired Priestess was gazing at her with a bitter contempt. “Then why?” Ailell asked softly. “Fifty years on this throne merits a journey to pay homage,” Ysanne replied. “Is there anyone else here besides Metran and perhaps Loren who well recalls the day you were crowned? I came to wish you bright weaving, Ailell. And for two other things.” “Which are?” It was Loren who asked. “First, to see your travelers,” Ysanne replied, and turned to face Paul Schafer.

His responding gesture was brutally abrupt. Throwing a hand in front of his eyes, Schafer cried out, “No! No searching!”

Ysanne raised her eyebrows. She glanced at Loren, then turned back to Paul. “I see,” she said. “Fear not, then, I never use the searching—I don’t need it.” The whispering in the hall rose again, for the words had carried.