The End of the Game (27 page)

The song had not been much appreciated by the rest of the audience. The singer quickly went to something else, and the competition went on.

At last the judges spoke, the prizes were given, and the dinner was over. He, Peter, left by the front door which led from the balcony to the courtyard steps; I from the great door which led inward to the living areas and classrooms. I would never see him again. I wanted to scream, and faint, and carry on. I wanted to have a tantrum.

Instead, I went to Silkhands’ room. She didn’t mind the students coming to see her occasionally.

“The singer sang directly to you and some young Gamesman, Silkhands. What was that about?”

“I wish I knew, Jinian. He’s been singing about wind and Healers and such nonsense all week. I hear him first thing in the morning.” She gestured to her window, which overlooked the courtyard. “Infuriating!”

“And you have no idea what it’s about?”

“None. Peter may, of course. I’ll have to ask him.”

“Was that your friend? At the middle table?”

“Friend? Peter? Oh ... well, yes. I suppose. Isn’t that funny. Peter is a friend, of course, but I’ve always thought of him as a kind of brother. Perhaps to take the place of the one I lost.” And she smiled at me, her own sweet, tremulous smile. And I smiled at her, my own gleeful, dangerous smile.

Brother, was he? Oh, glorious. Still.

“He’s very good looking.”

“Isn’t he! He’s grown so this past year. It quite surprised me. Not a little boy anymore.”

“Where does he come from?”

“Bright Demesne. The Wizard Himaggery’s Demesne. At the upper end of Lake Yost.”

“And is he a Wizard?”

“No. Shifter. Thank the Eleven.” Of course. She had talked of him before. I just hadn’t made the connection. Shifter. I began to remember the stories she had told me. She had gone to Bannerwell in his behalf and had been held there, threatened with death by Prince Mandor and the Demon Huld. Peter, Shifter, had saved her. It all popped into my head. Strange. When she had told me those tales, it had been like hearing stories told by the old dams. I had not thought of them as real.

“He’s the one who conquered Bannerwell,” I said.

“Yes. And after I came here, he went into the north-lands to find his mother—have I spoken of her? Mavin Manyshaped? A very strange person, Jinian, very strange indeed—and while there was instrumental in destroying the place of the Magicians. Of course we all saw that! Who did not? Smoke rising halfway up the sky and ash which made the sun turn red! That was while you were in the Forest of Chimmerdong.”

“Ah,” I said intelligently. “I heard something or other about great Gamesmen held by the Magicians.”

“A hundred thousand of them,” she said promptly. Well, then she had been in touch with someone near to Peter to know all this. “A hundred thousand great Gamesmen held frozen under the mountain. And no one knows how to restore them. A terrible tragedy. Himaggery is quite distraught over it.” And she went on then to tell me more about them, and Peter, and Windlow the Seer, until I felt I had all his history tight in my mind.

So I knew who he was. And where he lived, at least from time to time. And now I had only to figure out how to bring myself to his attention. He might be a bit taken with Silkhands just now—and she was very lovely, that I will admit—but she obviously thought of him as a sibling.

In an instant, my complacency was shattered, for she said, “I’m glad you dropped in, Jinian. There are new rumors of trouble in the northlands. Before things get any worse, we should get ourselves to Reavebridge. I thought we’d start within the next few days, and I wanted to ask if you need any help getting ready to leave.”

Next few days. Next few days. What matter that I knew where he might live, or his name, if we were to go north day after tomorrow? What could I say? I nodded, mute, feeling myself falling away into thin shreds, as she went on.

“It would be good to have Peter with us on the trip. Perhaps he will be going in that direction. Or perhaps I can inveigle him to join us. You’d like that, Jinian. He’s a good companion.”

I took it for a promise, slipping away early the next morning to give the dams the news. Murzy quirked her lips at me, smiling with her eyes. Cat looked slantwise, tight-lipped, as though to consign all love and lovers to some far-off pit, shaking her head the while. Margaret rejoiced with me.

“So you know who he is! And what he is, and that a proper Gamesman. Well, and to think of it. Strange that he, too, is going north.”

“Not strange,” snarled Cat. “Part of the Pattern. Jinian summons Peter with Lovers Come Calling. Kelver summons Jinian with an alliance. Jinian summons Silkhands to accompany her. Silkhands summons Peter. A kind of round dance. Though what it dances ‘round still eludes us, there in the northlands somewhere.”

Her words brought back something I had forgotten until that instant. Bloster, heading away north with all that was left of Daggerhawk Demesne. Bloster’s words at the edge of Chimmerdong. “Do any of you know anything about the Dream Miner and the Storm Grower?”

They became very still, in the manner of creatures so startled they do not move for fear of attracting attention. After a silence, Cat said, “Shhh. Jinian, don’t speak of them loudly. Not even here.”

“Who or what?” I demanded, though more quietly. “They plot my death!”

They hesitated, even Murzemire Hornloss, who seldom suffered tongue loss. It was Cat who spoke at last. “We have spoken of those Wizards who destroy in order to gain power. The things they choose to destroy sometimes appear randomly chosen. As are the things we choose to build with—they, too—would appear randomly chosen to those unfamiliar with our art. Would a layman know why we lay an owl’s feather upon a black stone? Why we set our heels upon a bridge sometimes, or place a stem of maiden bells beneath the spray of a fall? We have a reason. So, if Dream Miner and Storm Grower have marked you for destruction, they have a reason. It is said they dwell in the north. If they plot your death, they do not do it idly and you will be walking toward it.” She looked at the others. Grave faces all around.

“But that is where Peter is going.” As I recall, I said it calmly, without foreboding. But then, I have never been thought to have a Seer’s Talent.

Murzy did, and what she said was, “Why must Storm Grower and Dream Miner have everything their own way? Perhaps we have walked in fear of them too long.”

Silence. Finally a sigh from Cat. “True, Murzemire. Though the very thought chills me.”

Margaret looked at me with love in her face. “Go, Jinian. Return to us when you can. Or perhaps we will find you first.”

“I wish there were time to see to your clothes before you go,” said Bets predictably, completely destroying the melancholy mood we had all fallen into.

Dodie was out in the countryside learning herbary with Sarah, so I could not even tell them farewell. Those who were there, I kissed good-bye, not really understanding the separation was to start at once.

19

We left a few days later, after such a flurry of preparation as left me no time to see the dams again. The words of the Oracle had not been forgotten. Nothing pertaining to Peter was ever forgotten so far as I was concerned. “Let him save your life a time or two,” the Oracle had said. “I see something unpleasant in the way of groles or Ghouls.” Groles I had not seen. Ghouls I had. I preferred not to see one again, but this trip northward might be the opportunity the Oracle had in mind. In which case Peter’s life, and mine, might be endangered.

I strapped Bartelmy’s gift scabbard to my thigh, high beneath my skirts, where it could be reached through a slit pocket, then stood for a long time looking at the weapon it would hold. It was an ugly thing still, breathing with a palpable menace, a hard, horrid chill. But ... but I had labored hard for the Dagger of Daggerhawk Demesne, risked my life for it, been dangled and threatened, all to have the tool to save Peter’s life and my own should it be needed. Would it be needed? I had only the Oracle’s word, and the Oracle never told all the truth.

At last I slipped it into the scabbard, recoiling as the pommel touched me. It lay angrily against my skin, an intimate hostility. After a few hours, I grew accustomed to the feeling. It was never less than discomfort.

And in the brightness of a morning Silkhands and I got into the light carriage that was to carry us north, waved farewell to Queen Vorbold (on whose face I read definite indications of relief), and were trotted out onto the road north.

Peter later wrote an account of that time. I have read it, being alternately amazed and amused. I do not remember saying some of the words he attributes to me. And though in the main it is an accurate enough account, from my point of view, things were not quite as Peter recorded them.

Since this trip was to offer an opportunity for Peter to save my life, it was obvious that I had to be careless enough to put my life at risk. I knew from Silkhands’ chatter that Peter was being harassed by some enemy, possibly that same Huld who had caused him so much trouble in the past. Both Silkhands and I knew that someone out in the wide world very much wanted me dead and gone. Despite this, neither of us spoke to Queen Vorbold about it, and we set out in a light carriage with only two guardsmen, both of them old, ready for retirement, and half-blind.

This was not unlike Silkhands. Healers tend to be a bit casual about security. I, however, looked the guards over cynically when we left, hoping they would not be victims in what was likely to occur.

As it happened, when the Ghoul came out of the woods, with a great troupe of staggering dead, the guards could make only a token resistance; both were injured immediately, one may have been killed. Silkhands was a Healer, not a fighter, and despite all my plots and plans, I was so surprised and horrified that I had all I could do to keep my hand away from the Dagger. Since the Ghoul made no immediate move to harm us, however, I concentrated on what was happening; counted the liches; and memorized the Ghoul’s face in the event I should meet him again.

Just as I was about to decide that using the Dagger would be prudent inasmuch as this wasn’t the occasion the Oracle had in mind, I heard Peter screaming—his voice always cracked when he was excited; it went on doing it until he was well into his twenties—screaming, “Ghoul’s Ghast Nine.” And then he swooped up the two of us, Silkhands and me, and carried us off to a treetop.

Unfortunately, he had used the last of his power in that swoop, while the Ghoul had plenty in reserve. We clung and kicked and cursed a bit, and finally Peter got a grip on one of the tiny Gamesmen he carried in his pocket—Buinel the Sentinel, it was—who stirred up a fire which burned up the Ghoul and the liches and very near barbecued us in the process. I didn’t, quite frankly, think it was terribly good planning on Peter’s part. Still, he had saved my life as the Oracle had suggested. Since he had saved Silkhands, too, however, it did not produce the desired effect.

We went on. Some of his enemies caught up with him in Three Knob, and I was able to suggest a stratagem that didn’t require his using the Gamesmen of Barish. I thought he might act more prudently and consistently if he were not used to calling on them all the time. Loving Peter was sometimes like loving a committee. He often went into these odd, silent conferences with himself, them, leaving one very much on the outside. It was obvious he would not be able to love anyone by himself as long as he carried the Gamesmen in his pocket and in his head. Finding a solution to their presence would have to come soon. It could not come soon enough, so far as I was concerned.

King Kelver turned out to be a strikingly handsome man, younger than I had expected. The first moment he set eyes upon us, I knew he preferred Silkhands to me. Part of that was my own doing. I had not wanted him to like me much. Still, it was a bit crushing to find one had succeeded so well. His feelings seemed to be returned by Silkhands. She looked at him in a way she had never looked at Peter.

I considered them both, Silkhands and the King, and twiddled my thumbs thinking of Murzy’s warning. “Never for anything small, chile,” she used to say. So far as I was concerned, it was not for anything small. I found the sixteen ingredients for the love potion with some trouble, found privacy with which to mix them with a little more trouble, and then—then threw them out, threw myself down on the bed, and cried for an hour or so. It was no good. Remembering the centipig, that horrible, witless lusting that was compelled rather than felt, I could not do it to either of them. Things would just have to take their course. After only a few days, I knew no potion was necessary. She was quite besotted with him. Seeing them together, I wondered how often potions were used between two who might have loved anyhow. Well, no matter. King Kelver would obviously not object to breaking the contract.

And once Silkhands was disposed of in such a friendly fashion, I allowed another occasion on which Peter could save my life. I had to appear to do a very foolish thing, of course, and had it not been for my special Talent, it would have been a foolish thing in truth. I was shut up in a housenut that was being eaten out by groles. This time was actually much less dangerous than the previous time, since groles are beasts and quite responsive to being talked to. I kept them well away from me until the last minute, though when Peter arrived they were chewing away at my perch with every appearance of eating me imminently. He rescued me very nicely, held me as though I were precious to him, realizing for the first time that I was female.

Had it not been for Peter’s old friend Chance, grumphing away in the background, my oath of celibacy might have been forgotten right then. From that point on, Peter began to have feelings for me. They were troubled feelings, yes. Uncertain feelings. Still, I thought in time he would come to love me a good deal. The whole matter might have been less complicated if there had not been that oath which still had two years to run.

We found the solution to the Gamesmen of Barish upon the heights of Bleer. Though he fought against it, Peter did the right thing. He and Silkhands raised them up, restoring them to themselves, and I was not even jealous. Silkhands saved his life in the process, so we all seemed even up with nothing owing to anyone.