Free The Wandering Fire by Guy Gavriel Kay Page B

and Dave glanced at it, then all three of them looked, instinctively, at Paul.
    Scarcely pausing to acknowledge the tapestry, he moved quickly to the unguarded doorway. There had been a guard the last time, Jennifer remembered, and Matt Sören had thrown a knife.
    This time, Paul stepped into the corridor and called softly. There was a noisy clatter of weaponry, and a moment later a terrified boy, in gear a size too large for him, came forward down the corridor with a bow drawn none too steadily.
    “I know you,” said Paul, ignoring the bow. “You’re Tarn. You were the King’s page. Do you remember me?”
    The bow was lowered. “I do, my lord. From the ta’bael game. You are . . .” There was awe in the boy’s face.
    “I am Pwyll, yes,” Schafer said simply. “Are you a guard now, Tarn?”
    “Yes, my lord. I am too old to be a page.”
    “So I see. Is the High King in the palace tonight?”
    “Yes, my lord. Shall I—”
    “Why don’t you lead us to him,” Paul said. It was Kevin who heard, and remembered hearing before, the crisp tone in Schafer’s voice. There had been an undeniable tension between Paul and Aileron when last they had met. Apparently it still existed.
    They followed the boy through a web of corridors and down one drafty flight of stone stairs before they came at length to a pair of doors that only Paul remembered.
    Tarn knocked and withdrew; after a startled glance, a tall guard admitted them.
    The room had changed, Paul saw. The gorgeous wall hangings had been taken down, and in their place had been hung a sequence of maps and charts. Gone too were the deep armchairs he remembered; in their place were a number of hard wooden seats and a long bench.
    The chessboard with its exquisitely carved pieces was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a huge table stood in the middle of the room and on it lay an enormous map of Fionavar. Bent over the map, his back to the door, stood a man of average height, simply dressed in brown, with a fur vest over his shirt against the cold.
    “Who is it, Shain?” the man said, not pausing in his scrutiny of the map.
    “If you turn around you can see for yourself,” Paul Schafer said before the guard could make reply.
    And, very fast, Aileron did turn, almost before Paul’s voice died away. His eyes above the beard blazed with an intensity three of them remembered.
    “Mórnir be praised!” the High King exclaimed, taking a few quick steps toward them. Then he stopped and his face changed. He looked from one to another. “Where is she?” cried Aileron dan Ailell. “ Where is my Seer? ”
    “She’s coming,” Kevin said, moving forward. “She’s bringing someone with her.”
    “Who?” Aileron snapped.
    Kevin looked at Paul, who shook his head. “She’ll tell you herself, if she succeeds. I think it is hers to tell, Aileron.”
    The King glared at Paul as if minded to pursue it further, but then his face softened. “Very well,” he said. “So long as she is coming. I have . . . very great need of her.” After a moment a wry tone came into his voice. “I am bad at this, am I not? You deserve a fairer greeting, all of you. And is this Jennifer?”
    He came to stand before her. She remembered his brother and their first meeting. This one, austere and self-contained, did not call her a peach, nor did he bend to kiss her hand. Instead, he said awkwardly, “You have suffered in our cause, and I am sorry for it. Are you well now?”
    “Well enough,” she said. “I’m here.”
    His eyes searched hers. “Why?” Aileron asked.
    A good question and one nobody had asked her, not even Kim. There was an answer, but she wasn’t about to give it now to this abrasive young King of Brennin. “I’ve come this far,” she said levelly, meeting his look with her own light green eyes. “I’ll stay the course.”
    Men better versed in dealing with women had broken off a stare when faced with Jennifer’s gaze. Aileron turned away. “Good,” he said, walking