The Starfollowers of Coramonde (7 page)

The wizard
spun, consternation on his face, shouting “No!”

Gil was blown
back off the bench with enormous force by something that had suddenly come into
the room. He twisted to avoid landing on his injured side, but was still jarred
by shooting pain. He sat up awkwardly to a hair-raising scene, with those feelings
so characteristic of his Coramonde experience, utter astonishment mixed with
stark terror.

Between Andre
and Gil a ball of swirling transplendence hung, a miniature sun. Andre had
taken in the situation—which Gil hadn’t sorted out yet—and acted. Putting the
baby back in the dry-sink he began mystic passes, uttering words from a dead
language. As he did, he backed away, deliberately shoving the dry-sink toward
the door with his legs and plump buttocks, wishing he hadn’t left the occult
jewel Calundronius with his sister.

Gil found
time to think,
He’s such a homey little guy, balding and fat. You forget
he’s the man of action.

Andre’s spell
had been hasty or incomplete. The entity sizzled, and lashed out at him,
knocking him sideways. The baby began wailing, attracting the thing’s
attention. It floated in that direction.

Gil grabbed
for his pistol, then stopped. It wasn’t likely to do much good. Andre was still
groggy. As a tendril of energy edged into the dry-sink, the child’s complaint
shifted register from dismay to rage

Blazetongue,
still lying against the bench, flared incandescent. Flame licked up and down
its glowing blade.

The being
instantly pulled back, compressing into an alarmed ball. Gil snatched up
Blazetongue, leaping sparks singeing his hands. The bench had begun to burn
where the sword had rested against it.

Gil circled,
the short-hairs of his neck on end with electricity, trying to get between the
child and the thing that hovered near it. Instead, the thing floated over the
dry-sink and retreated to the far wall, dangerously at bay, gathering itself to
strike out. He followed, waving the weapon dubiously. Putting himself to block
the baby from immediate harm, he tried to decide what to do.

A hand on his
shoulder; Andre. The hand was steady as stone, its grip imperatively strong.
Gil gave him room. Andre moved nearer the being, pointed his index finger at
it. It swelled to attack. He roared a string of syllables that meant nothing to
the American, and the intruder was rent like smoke in the wind. It pulled
itself together again, radiating its perturbation. Gil waved Blazetongue,
cheering. “Eat him up, deCourteney!”

Wrath,
usually a stranger to Andre’s face, had transformed it. His lips quivered, his
eyes slitted, but the finger was unswerving. He loosed the string of syllables
again. This time the being was dissipated beyond its ability to recover,
dismissed.

It was the
old, unscary Andre who took the baby to his shoulder, to soothe her. Gil
watched fire die along Blazetongue.

“What—what
was that thing?” he got out finally. The wizard ignored him. “Y’know, Andre,
you could have just said you didn’t want to give out the burning spell. You
didn’t have to lie.”

The
thaumaturge came to him, bouncing up and down a fraction, which the baby
enjoyed. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“The goddam
sword’s
what I’m talking about, man! You did one helluva job just now, but you were
still jazzing me about not knowing the spell of the sword.”

Andre stopped
bouncing. Gil tensed.

“Let me
inform you of two facts,” the wizard said. “The first is that what you saw was
a guardian entity. It appeared when you meddled with Rydolomo’s seal; it was to
avoid just such an accident that I forebore to wear Calundronius today. Next
time you go poking about such perils, I should be grateful if you would arrange
to deal with whatever problems arise by yourself.”

Gil eyed the
disturbed seal of Rydolomo guiltily. Andre plodded on. “And the second item is
that, as I said, I do not know the conjuration for the fire of Blazetongue. Do
I make myself quite lucid?”

“So, who lit
it up? ’Cause
I
sure as hell didn’t.”

Andre smiled
smugly and patted the baby’s back. She burped softly. Gil stared in disbelief
from wizard to child and back.

“You’re
kidding. Aren’t you? Kidding?”

The other
sighed. “I am not certain how, yet it was indisputably she. Now, I presume you
have no objections to my cleaning up here. You have, I take it, other things to
which you should be attending?”

“I’m going.
I’ve gone.”

In the
stairwell, he blew thoughtfully on his blistering hands.
One other item’s
for damn sure; the next thing I unseal’s going to have a drink inside it.

Thou’rt slave to fate, chance,
kings and desperate men.

John Donne

“Death, Be Not Proud”

ON his way to Springbuck’s study
the next day Gil met Van Duyn.

“MacDonald,
I, ah—”

“You craved
my presence?”

The scholar
agreed wryly. “There’re things you and I should clear up; it may be awhile
before we see one another again.”

They found a
window seat. Gil sat gingerly, protecting his shoulder. His occult contact with
Dunstan, and the belief that he was on the right track, had calmed him. He’d
been able to sleep, a dreamless rest that had refreshed him. The lacerating
feeling of futility was gone.

Van Duyn
rubbed his hands. He wasn’t sure he credited his countryman’s alleged
samadhi
-experience,
his Enlightenment. “Katya is going back to Freegate. With her country on a
wartime footing she has little option. I’ve decided to go with her. The
Highlands Province will be untenable so long as Shardishku-Salamá engages in
Fabian policies. I will do what I can for Katya and Reacher. I am taking the
contiguity device. I was separated from it once, to my sorrow. I won’t risk
leaving it here. But before we part, it’s only fair to offer you one last
opportunity to leave the Crescent Lands.”

Van Duyn’s
machine was the only certain way back to their home Reality. The deCourteneys’
spells might suffice, but would be hazardous. Gil considered for a moment.

“I can’t,
just now. I’ll have to take a raincheck.”

“The choice
is yours.”

“Thanks for
asking though. I remember, before I returned to Coramonde, I threw together the
stuff I was bringing here with me. My brother Ralph wandered in when I had it
all laid out, the traveling gear, guns and all. Right away he flashed on it
that I was heading ’way out into the tall timber someplace. I almost told him
how far short that fell, but he’d never have bought it. He knew me though; I
had nothing to keep me back there. Oh, I’ll go back one day, but there’s no
rush.”

“I see. By
the way, you shouldn’t have gone off so quickly the other day. Not all
Reacher’s news was so unfortunate. He brought General Stuart back from Freegate
with him.”

“Jeb?
Outstanding!” Jeb Stuart was the name Gil had given the war-horse assigned him
from the stables of Freegate. Jeb had borne up well under travails of the
thronal war.

“The King
thought you’d want him. Now, I suggest we join the others.”

They
assembled in Springbuck’s airy, high-windowed study, where long slants of
sunlight irradiated the stained-glass scenes and breathed life into the
tapestries and selected pieces of sculpture.

Hightower and
the deCourteneys were present, with the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
Katya and Reacher.
Gil settled into a chair, making his shoulder comfortable, and Van Duyn sat and
fiddled with his glasses. The last participant arrived, Angorman,
Saint-Commander of the Order of the Axe.

Gil had been
introduced to him earlier. The Order was one of two rival sects of
warrior-priests sworn in worship and errantry to the female deity called the
Bright Lady. The Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, the other sect, was an older
organization whose Divine Vicar Balagon was at odds with Angorman on a running
basis. Outright violence between the two groups was absolutely prohibited, and
so occurred only rarely. But there was an ongoing, pious antagonism.

Angorman
greeted them all and eased himself with a grunt into the last vacant seat. He
was dressed in his usual brown forager’s cloak, an old man bald as an egg
except for thick, flaring white eyebrows. He retained his wide-brimmed slouch
hat with the brassard of the Order on its high crown, an axehead superimposed
on a crescent moon, worked in heavy silver. The Saint-Commander rested his
famous greataxe against his chair. Gil recalled its name, Red Pilgrim. Six feet
of wooden haft, braced with iron langets, held a double-flanged bit, gracefully
curved to lend cutting power and leverage.

Springbuck
had shucked the hated robes of state. Barefoot among the furs and pelts, he
wore loose, soft trousers and sash, and a wraparound jacket. The hilt of the
Hibben bowie nosed from his waistband.

Gabrielle sat
at the
Ku-Mor-Mai’s
right, in deep conversation with Andre. Seeing her,
Gil unconsciously put a finger to the chain around his neck. After the tarot
seance, she’d taken the Ace of Swords from the deck, put it on a fine chain and
given it to him, saying it was truly his. He’d accepted it reluctantly,
committing himself to something he didn’t understand. It was not made of paper
or parchment, but a flexible material he couldn’t identify.

Andre was
sitting tailor-fashion on Springbuck’s tall writing table. Gil saw that the
protector-suzerain had been working again on
The Antechamber Ballads,
a
collection of poetry, essays and autobiographical writings.

Angorman
spoke. “Blazetongue is our subject first, is it not? It belongs in Veganá, we
know. It is therefore an object of the Bright Lady, for they follow the Blessed
Way down there. It is hence of interest to my Order to see the sword—and the
child—safely back where they belong.”

Gil sat up.
“Child? You mean you want the kid to go? How can I—”

“We!”
Angorman interjected.
“We
will accomplish this. The baby did conjure the
fire of Blazetongue. By that we know she must be of the royal house of Veganá;
only they command the sword’s enchantment by inherent right.”

So, Angorman
was in the party. Gil turned to Springbuck. “What d’you say? How’d
you
like to pack a kid around with you?”

“Have you
forgotten? I have already traveled with her.”

“Oh. Yeah,
but that was ’way before, when there was no choice. This is now, and this is
me.”

“I shall be
responsible for the infant,” Angorman declared, “and so you need not fear for
her.” His gnarled, sinewy hands played along the length of Red Pilgrim like
some musician exercising before concert. “She shall be safe.”

Gil slumped.
If he backed out now he’d lose his best crack at finding Bey and Dunstan. It
was a simple go/no-go.

He lost the floor
to Andre. “Gil, is it not clear, after all she has been through, held captive
along with Gabrielle in Arnon’s halls, that she will never be safe anywhere but
with her own people? There are impetuses at work here that are not to be
questioned. Attempts to harm or recapture her may be foiled simply by dint of
quick, quiet departure. Does that alter your attitude?”

“Dunno.” He
thought of Dunstan. He couldn’t afford to debate, or delay. “I suppose so.”

Angorman
said, “Andre and I envision a small party, several members and no more. Going
quickly, inconspicuously, we go safest.”

“That would
be okay.” Without enough men to insure safety, there was no point overburdening
themselves.

“Then,”
Gabrielle cut in with her lovely, mocking smile, “you have accepted your first
two-bard commission.”

“My what? My
too-what?”

Angorman
cracked a vestigial smile of his own. “A ‘two-bard commission’ is something of
an insider’s jest in my Order. It denotes an errand of service so arduous that
one poet alone could never recount it all. But of course, the Lady deCourteney
was speaking humorously.”

Gil let it
pass. “Who would be in charge? There’s only one Walking Boss.”

“Andre,”
Springbuck answered, before Angorman could speak. The Saint-Commander
considered the
Ku-Mor-Mai
from beneath bushy brows, then the American,
then concurred.

The wizard
coughed. “Well of course, I should be happy for both Gil’s advice and the
counsel of Lord Angorman.”

Gil looked
glum, but knew he would have made even more concessions.

Andre was
tolling the fingers of his left hand. “We shall need maps and extra clothing,
since we won’t be far enough south soon enough to avoid cold weather. Food,
weapons, medicines and general provisions. My Lord Angorman, how does this
sound: Gil, yourself, me, the child and one or two others, with two pack-horses
besides our own mounts?”

“Quite
sufficient. Gil?”

“Okay. What
about the rest of you?”

The Snow
Leopardess responded, “Coramonde and Freegate may still have to go to war
against Salamá, in two lines of advance. We of the Free City would thrust south
along the eastern coast of the Central Sea, while Coramonde takes to the ocean,
perhaps in league with the Mariners.”

“When?”

“We are not
certain,” Springbuck admitted. “Soon, we think. Every day the writ of Earthfast
erodes a little more. Preparations have already begun.” He tugged a bell cord.

A servant
entered, bearing a Faith Cup. The
Ku-Mor-Mai
took the deep, ornamented
chalice with two hands, drank, and passed it to Gabrielle. She sipped and
passed it to her brother, her green eyes never leaving Springbuck’s.

Gil watched
the Faith Cup make its ritualistic way around their circle. Andre was earnest
and sober in drinking, but Katya took a flamboyant hoist. Reacher contemplated
for a moment, then drank. Van Duyn took his draught indifferently, and handed
it to Gil.