Kingfisher (14 page)

“Reveal what, exactly?” Leith asked in his deep, sinewy voice that Pierce was coming to love. “Lord Skelton?”

“The landscape of the heart.”

There was a little silence that sounded, Pierce thought, bewilderingly like a comment. Then the king murmured, “Indeed an unpredictable place.” His eyes went to his daughter. “And you, Isolde? Are you joining Niles Camden's expedition?”

She shook her fair head, her face, unlike her father's, expressing exactly what she thought. “I am so underwhelmed by Niles's ambitions. I've made plans to travel with Maggie Leighton. We haven't yet decided where to start looking.”

“Good.”

“I want to go,” Prince Roarke said, taking his knife to the small bird on his plate. “There's something compelling about this quest, even if, as Lord Skelton says, you may not know
what you're looking for until you see it, and if you look for its power, you may miss it entirely. It's like taking the wyvern in the north. Maybe you glimpse the ancient memory of it, maybe not. But you bring home its shadow in your heart and the feeling that you have been seen.”

The king's face loosened toward a smile. “I do remember that. It's something you never forget. But no. You've been away from court long enough. I want you here with me.”

Prince Roarke looked at him silently, surprised. The king regarded his youngest son, who had scarcely said a word after greeting Pierce. Prince Daimon, busily deboning his bird with a culinary precision and eating very little of it, laid down his fork and met his father's eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “I will go. I'm not yet sure where. Or with whom.”

Expression flowed through the king's eyes, surfaced on his face, complex and fleeting; he studied Daimon with a stranger's scrutiny, as though, in that moment, he did not recognize his son.

Daimon's eyes dropped, hid from the wyvern's gaze, and from the magus, who, frowning vaguely, seemed to be trying to remember something else lost in the mists of time and history, and whether or not it might in any way be important.

“Well,” he breathed finally, “what will come will come. We shall see in the end what shape, what face it takes.” His tangled brows knotted suddenly; he shifted the glasses on his nose, looking pained. “You need,” he said to Pierce, “to call your mother.”

—

T
he next afternoon, Pierce stood between his father and his brother among hundreds of knights in the sanctum of the god Severen. Like Val, he wore the dark uniform and the quilted jacket embroidered with the sign of Leith's family: a black swan floating on a silver-blue lake, silhouetted against a full moon edged with a circle of stars. The sanctum was a huge, diamond-shaped structure whose great colored windows were so rich with coiling seams of silver and gold that light reflecting off them burned Pierce's eyes and inspired the tears that were his first gift to the god. Through centuries, its lofty walls had acquired a crust of wealth that astonished the eye in every possible shape and from every possible cranny. In the center a great fountain shot sacred water upward through a lavishly decorated pipe, imitating the perpetual, vigorous power of the Severen River.

Mystes Ruxley, high above the gathering on an ornate, gilded pulpit, also endlessly imitated that flow.

“You will at all times uphold the laws of Wyvernhold. You will use all weapons in the name of the god Severen, and lead your quest in a manner that reflects the ancient traditions of this land and its king. You will . . .”

Pierce's thoughts strayed to the small town on Chimera Bay that, no matter how far he traveled, would not let him go. Random memories surfaced: the strange ritual in the ghost of the old hotel; the past that clung there, a collection of fractured relics and small mysteries; the young woman with her smiling green eyes, her flowing golden hair and generous smile, those eyes reddened, heavy with unshed
tears. Trapped in a fairy tale, she seemed to him, by the chef who refused to show his face. Again Pierce felt the pull of her, even across the distance, and his impulse to step once more onto that convoluted, obsessive path to her door.

“Go in peace, return safely with what you find, for every one of you, searching for such a prize will, according to the magus Lord Skelton, bring back what you need most. In the name of the god Severen, and with King Arden's sufferance, go into the world with courage, humility, and the worthiest of intentions. As Lord Skelton might say, and probably did: Follow your heart, and you will always know where you are. This Assembly is ended. Praise Severen.”

The knights did so with such enthusiasm that the phrase bounced from wall to wall and even overwhelmed, for an instance, the incessant voice of the river god. Pierce felt a hand grip his shoulder; he turned his head, met Leith's smiling eyes. He followed his father and his brother out of the sanctum into the long shadows and bright, sun-streaked late afternoon of Severluna, and he wondered what he could possibly find of value on this quest that he did not already, amazingly, possess.

Late that night, he finally called his mother.

N
ews about the Assembly reached Calluna's sanctum in piecemeal fashion. Short of listening through a keyhole, Perdita had to wait for Gareth to reappear, which he finally did late in the evening after the Assembly ended. They slipped out of the palace, away from knights and acolytes, to a quiet, discreet pub to talk. From Gareth, the princess heard the incredible tale of the secret son of Leith Duresse, whose wife Heloise had kept from him all those years.

“We actually met him,” Gareth told her, looking amazed. “Prince Roarke and Bayley and I, when we got lost on Cape Mistbegotten, coming home from the north. The sorceress who cooked our lunch was Pierce's mother. Now he is going off questing with his newfound father and brother.”

“And you?” Perdita asked grimly, fascinated as well but refusing to be distracted. “Are you going off, too?”

He gave her a rueful look that was overshadowed by a
vision. She recognized that distancing between them, the feeling that part of him had already left her. “Yes,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“You just got back from the north!”

“I know.”

“That time it was for a falcon—”

“The winter merlin.”

“This time—for what? Exactly?”

“Nobody seems to know, exactly. It's hard to explain.”

She took a cold swallow of beer and eyed him dourly. “Try.”

He did, earnestly but not very coherently, through another beer, and most of what was left of the night. They parted company in the morning, he to pack, she to Calluna's sanctum, where she had the first shift of the day keeping watch, among the pools and fountains and flickering candles, over the ancient peace of the goddess. She opened the chamber door to change into her robe and found herself face-to-face with Leith Duresse.

She froze on the threshold; he blushed; the queen said quickly, “Close the door.”

Perdita did so, a bit crossly, guessing that he had been telling the queen much the same thing she had listened to for half the night. “Good morning, Sir Leith. In a few minutes, it will be my duty as Calluna's guardian to tell you to leave this holy place, where no one dedicated to the god Severen is permitted to cast a shadow or loose a breath in the goddess's sanctum. I hear you are going off on this quest as well?”

“Only reluctantly, Princess,” he said, and added with wry
honesty, “I'm too old to go looking for such mystical powers. I would have to relive my life.”

She nodded, hearing as well what he didn't say. “The king wants you to go.”

She looked beyond him at the queen, who was adrift beside the window, her hair disheveled, her expression unsettled.

Genevra said, “I asked Leith to come here before he left, to give us details about the Assembly. It seems to have been confusing, well-intentioned, and entirely mystifying.”

“Father didn't tell you?”

“It probably didn't cross Arden's mind that we might want to know.” She looked quickly at Leith, as though, far away, she had heard a footstep turn their way. “You should go.”

“I will see you before we leave.”

“Yes.”

“Take the tower stairs,” Perdita advised. “Aunt Morrig hovers near the inner stairway to check on the acolytes. Just don't breathe,” she reminded him dryly, as he slipped out across the goddess's tranquil antechamber. Perdita closed the door behind him, met the queen's eyes long enough to recognize her own expression in them, mingling love, exasperation, and the aftermath of a very short night.

The queen opened the wardrobe, handed Perdita the long turquoise guardian's robe, with its collar and cuffs of mossy green. “So Gareth is going as well,” she said.

“Yes,” the princess sighed, drawing the robe over her clothes. She kicked off her shoes; the queen handed her sandals. Perdita sat down to put them on, and added tightly, “From his description of whatever it is he's searching for,
he's very likely to find it, perfect, gentle knight stuffed full of rectitude as he is. There will be no room left for me.”

“Don't worry,” the queen said, a rare, cold glint in her eyes. “Nothing involving Severen ever had much to do with perfection.”

Perdita finished tying her sandals, sat for a moment gazing at them. Memory pursued memory; she retraced them, shod in Calluna's sandals, and remembered what had gotten misplaced in the past chaotic days.

She looked up, found the queen watching her. “What is it?” Genevra asked. “What do you see?”

She had long ago stopped being surprised at her mother's unexpected leaps of perception. “I had a vision,” she answered thinly. “In Calluna's cave when I searched it. Under the last images in the stones at the very end of the passage: the goddess's face on one side, and her hands, across the river, letting water spill out of them. I saw Daimon's face, reflected in the river, looking up at her.”

The queen drew breath sharply, loosed an imprecation in the general direction of the river god. “My fault,” she said harshly. “I told Arden it was long past time to explain to Daimon who his mother was. Apparently—”

“Do you—”

“I don't. I never wanted to know. She died; I never had to live my life wondering who, among those I might meet every day, was Arden's lover and Daimon's mother. Now I want to know.”

“That's not all,” Perdita said slowly. “Daimon seems to be in love. And very short-tempered about it, as well as secretive.”

“Is she married?”

“He said no. He also said—” She hesitated, frowning. “Something that made me realize he knows more about his mother's family—and cares more—than seems likely. We used to tell each other everything. Now he barely talks to me. As if there are things he doesn't want me to know. Or anyone. He leaves the palace through back ways. He seems troubled.”

“Enough to draw the attention of the goddess,” Genevra said tightly. She stood silently a moment, arms folded, staring at the floor. “Who,” she said finally, drawing a solution out of a rumpled turquoise rug, “do we trust to follow him?”

“Me,” Perdita said promptly.

“No. I'm not sending another of my children into the wilds of Severluna. We have no idea where he goes. One of the knights, who can fight for him if need be.”

“They're going off questing.”

“Well, somebody must be questing around Severluna. Is Daimon?”

“I don't know. I'd guess, by the mood he's in, he wouldn't want to tear his heart away from what it wants. What about Sylvester Skelton? He finds lost things. He could watch Daimon in water.”

The queen mulled that over a moment, then shook her head. “The goddess has her eye on him; now so do we. Sylvester would tell the king; word would get out. I don't want to intrude so far into Daimon's life that I drive him away. Maybe he can work whatever this is out for himself. For now, I just want to know what it is. And I want him protected.”

A figure formed in the princess's memory, clad in antique
shining armor, wheeling a huge broadsword in the air at Daimon, pinning him down, then smiling genially at him afterward.

“Dame Scotia Malory.”

“Who?”

“I saw her fight, and I met her in Sylvester's tower, reading a book. She's very strong, competent, and she offered her services to the sanctum if we needed her.”

“Really? What made her do that?”

“Something I said. Something she heard that I didn't say.”

“Indeed,” the queen murmured, her tense face regaining some of its calm. There was a faint tap at the door then, followed by a cat scratch; Perdita stood abruptly.

“That would be Aunt Morrig, wondering why I'm not at my post.”

“Go, then,” the queen said softly. “I'll send for Dame Scotia.” She opened the door, smiling at the aged, inquisitive face behind it, peering into the chamber for the missing sanctum guardian.

Perdita took the customary station in the antechamber, seated upon a great stone among the smaller, candle-bearing river rocks taken from Calluna's cave. There, she could watch both the tower and the inner stairwells for intruders, the stones for guttering candles, and keep an eye out for glitches in the movement of waters gliding soundlessly down the walls. She could, as well, meditate upon the ancient, powerful face of the goddess on the sanctum wall. She could also, if so inclined, pay attention to the comings and goings in and out of the changing chambers along the far wall near the stairs. She did not see her mother leave. She did see the
tall, graceful young woman in knightly black who came up the inner stairs to knock on the queen's door.

Perdita was waiting for her beyond a curve in the stairwell when Dame Scotia came down.

She put a finger to her lips; Scotia closed her mouth, bowed her head silently, and waited.

“I'm coming with you,” the princess whispered.

“The queen warned me you would say that,” Dame Scotia said softly.

“Then I'll go alone.”

“Prince Daimon hardly knows me, Princess Perdita,” the knight answered, her brows crooked doubtfully. “If he sees you, he may take us in circles.”

“And you hardly know Daimon. How will you recognize what's important to him? Calluna showed his face to me, in her waters.” The princess added, at the knight's silence, “Maybe she knows I can help.”

“I may be dedicated to Severen by my status,” Scotia said finally, “but I'm not about to argue with the goddess. If Prince Daimon sees us, we can tell him we are questing together: both looking for the same thing for very different reasons.”

Perdita heard the sanctum door open and close softly above them. “Lady Seabrook,” she breathed. “She's on the prowl this morning. I'll see if Daimon is still in the palace. Meet me at the road nearest the sanctum tower in half an hour.”

Dame Scotia went down; the princess went up, rounding the curve just as Morrig appeared at the top.

“I'm here,” she said to the elderly, darkly clad figure
staring confusedly down at her. “I thought I heard forbidden voices on the stairs.”

“That's odd,” her great-aunt commented. “So did I.”

Instead of her well-known Greenwing, Perdita took one of the fast black sedans out of the garage that the knights donned like a second uniform when they drove. She picked up Dame Scotia and parked on the quiet, tree-lined side roads behind the palace. There they sat, arguing amicably about who should drive, and almost ignoring the sudden streak of black that curved around them, and away. Perdita started the engine hastily.

“He's in uniform,” Dame Scotia commented. “I wonder if he's questing.”

“He's after something,” Perdita agreed. “And he's liable to get stopped for speeding before he finds it. I wonder if he knows we're behind him . . .”

He led them on a long, winding chase through the city, once they left the palace grounds, by way of the truck routes, alleyways, and side streets of Severluna, thoroughly snarling the pathways that Perdita thought she knew so well, and revealing, after she thought she had seen everything at least twice, portions of the city she did not know existed. Some had been frozen in time, streets still cobbled, buildings low, thick-walled, and unfashionably ornate; the cars and buses on them seemed to have wandered in from the future and were involved in a rambling, futile search for the way back. Perdita stubbornly tracked the helmeted figure on the electric bike ahead of her, no matter how frequently he made his turns or how abruptly he sped up and left behind only the memory of where they had seen him last.

She always found him again.

“He's playing us,” Scotia said finally, calmly. “I've done that to fish.”

“Then why doesn't he just disappear? We must have driven through most of Severluna. If we are still in Severluna. I have no idea where we are. I wonder if even he knows. Now where did he go?”

Finally, the streets grew broader, less congested; the knight on the bike stopped his sudden veering, held a steadier path, as though finally he could see in the distance the object of his search. Intent on him, Perdita scarcely noticed the wealthier neighborhood she drove through, the parklike setting of stately trees, the gently curving streets that held no traffic now, only the strange little hut that appeared in the middle of the road as though it had dropped there from some tale.

“Ah—” Dame Scotia said; Perdita heard the astonishment in her voice.

She braked abruptly. They watched the figure in black speed past the guardhouse without generating any interest whatsoever from the guards chatting outside it.

“Either he's that familiar to them,” Perdita said incredulously, “or he's invisible.”

The sedan was not; the guards gestured it forward, looking into the tinted windows as the princess neared. They straightened quickly, waved her past. She drove on, her mouth tight, looking for the black-clad cyclist down footpaths, hiding in bushes, though without a thread of hope.

She yielded finally with a sigh, and said to the tactfully silent knight beside her, “All right. He may not know you, but he knows me far too well.”

“It seemed a very good idea,” Dame Scotia said fairly.

“But how did he know? And why, of all things, did he bother leading us on a wild-goose chase all over the city?” She slowed at another checkpoint, guards standing rigidly as she passed, and wound her way toward the palace garage. “He could have stopped and asked us not to follow. And he could have lost us easily enough a dozen times. What possessed him?” She watched another bike pass them, this one traveling at a more sedate speed. The rider, wearing jeans and boots, and a helmet with a familiar crest on it, did not glance at them as he passed, so intent was he on his own pursuits.

She braked again, sharply. They both turned to stare at his back as he followed a curve out of sight.

“That was Daimon,” Perdita said. Her voice shook. “That was the Wyvernbourne crest on his helmet and bike. That was his pale hair.”