Kay, Guy Gavriel - The Wandering Fire

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PART I—The Warrior
Chapter 1
Winter was coming. Last night’s snow hadn’t melted and the bare trees
were laced with it. Toronto woke that morning to see itself cloaked and made
over in white, and it was only November.
Cutting across Nathan Philips Square in front of the twin curves of the
City Hall, Dave Martyniuk walked as carefully as he could and wished he’d worn
boots. As he maneuvered toward the restaurant entrance on the far side, he saw
with some surprise that the other three were already waiting.
“Dave,” said sharp-eyed Kevin Laine. “A new suit! When did this happen?”
“Hi, everyone,” Dave said. “I got it last week. Can’t wear the same
corduroy jackets all year, can I?”
“A deep truth,” said Kevin, grinning. He was wearing jeans and a
sheepskin jacket. And boots. Having finished the obligatory apprenticeship
with a law firm that Dave had just begun, Kevin was now immersed in the
equally tedious if less formal six-month Bar Admission course. “If that is a
three-piece suit,” he added, “my image of you is going to be irrevocably
shattered.”
Wordlessly, Dave unbuttoned his overcoat to reveal the shattering navy
vest beneath.
“Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” Kevin exclaimed, crossing
himself with the wrong hand while making the sign against evil with the other.
Paul Schafer laughed. “Actually,” Kevin said, “it looks very nice. Why didn’t
you buy it in your size?”
“Oh, Kev, give him a break!” Kim Ford said. “It is nice, Dave, and it
fits perfectly. Kevin’s feeling scruffy and jealous.”
“I am not,” Kevin protested. “I am simply giving my buddy a hard time. If
I can’t tease Dave, who can I tease?”
“It’s okay,” said Dave. “I’m tough, I can take it.” But what he was
remembering in that moment was the face of Kevin Laine the spring before, in a
room in the Park Plaza Hotel. The face, and the flat, harshly mastered voice
in which he’d spoken, looking down at the wreckage of a woman on the floor:
“To this I will make reply although he be a god and it mean my death.”
You gave some latitude, Dave was thinking, to someone who’d sworn an oath
like that, even if his style was more than occasionally jarring. You gave
latitude because what Kevin had done that evening was give voice, and not for
the only time, to the mute rage in one’s own heart.
“All right,” said Kim Ford softly, and Dave knew that she was responding
to his thought and not his flippant words. Which would have been unsettling,
were she not who she was, with her white hair, the green bracelet on her
wrist, and the red ring on her finger that had blazed to bring them home.
“Let’s go in,” Kim said. “We’ve things to talk about.”
Paul Schafer, the Twiceborn, had already turned to lead them through the
door.
How many shadings, Kevin was thinking, are there to helplessness? He
remembered the feeling from the year before, watching Paul twist inward on
himself in the months after Rachel Kincaid had died. A bad time, that was. But
Paul had come out of it, had gone so far in three nights on the Summer Tree in
Fionavar that he was beyond understanding in the most important ways. He was
healed, though, and Kevin held to that as a gift from Fionavar, some
recompense for what had been done to Jennifer by the god named Rakoth Maugrim,
the Unraveller. Though recompense was hardly the word; there was no true
compensation to be found in this or any other world, only the hope of
retribution, a flame so faint, despite what he had sworn, it scarcely burned.
What were any of them against a god? Even Kim, with her Sight, even Paul, even
Dave, who had changed among the Dalrei on the Plain and had found a horn in
Pendaran Wood.
And who was he, Kevin Laine, to swear an oath of revenge? It all seemed
so pathetic, so ridiculous, especially here, eating fillet of sole in the
Mackenzie King Dining Room, amid the clink of cutlery and the lunchtime talk
of lawyers and civil servants.
“Well?” said Paul, in a tone that made their setting instantly
irrelevant. He was looking at Kim. “Have you seen anything?”
“Stop that,” she said. “Stop pushing. If anything happens I’ll tell you.
Do you want it in writing?”
“Easy, Kim,” Kevin said. “You have to understand how ignorant we feel.
You’re our only link.”
“Well, I’m not linked to anything now, and that’s all there is to it.
There’s a place I have to find and I can’t control my dreaming. It’s in this
world, that’s all I know, and I can’t go anywhere or do anything until I find
it. Do you think I’m enjoying this any more than you three are?”
“Can’t you send us back?” Dave asked, unwisely.
“I am not a goddamned subway system!” Kim snapped. “I got us out because
the Baelrath was somehow unleashed. I can’t do it on command.”
“Which means we’re stuck here,” Kevin said.
“Unless Loren comes for us,” Dave amended.
Paul was shaking his head. “He won’t.”
“Why?” Dave asked.
“Loren’s playing hands-off, I think. He set things in motion, but he’s
leaving it up to us, now, and some of the others.”
Kim was nodding. “He put a thread in the loom,” she murmured, “but he
won’t weave this tapestry.” She and Paul exchanged a glance.
“But why?” Dave persisted. Kevin could hear the big man’s frustration.
“He needs us—or at least Kim and Paul. Why won’t he come for us?”
“Because of Jennifer,” said Paul quietly. After a moment he went on. “He
thinks we’ve suffered enough. He won’t impose any more.”
Kevin cleared his throat. “As I understand it, though, whatever happens
in Fionavar is going to be reflected here and in the other worlds too,
wherever they are. Isn’t that true?”
“It is,” said Kim calmly. “It is true. Not immediately, perhaps, but if
Rakoth takes dominion in Fionavar he takes dominion everywhere. There is only
one Tapestry.”
“Even so,” said Paul, “we have to do it on our own. Loren won’t demand
it. If the four of us want to go back, we’ll have to find a way ourselves.”
“The four of us?” Kevin said. So much helplessness. He looked at Kim.
There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just
don’t know. She won’t see the three of you. She never goes out of the house.
She talks to me about work and the weather, and the news, and she’s, she—”
“She’s going ahead with it,” Paul Schafer said.
Kimberly nodded.
Golden, she had been, Kevin remembered, from inside the sorrow.
“All right,” said Paul. “It’s my turn now.”
Arrow of the God.
She’d had a peephole placed in the door so she could see who was
knocking. She was home most of the day, except for afternoon walks in the park
nearby. There were often people at the door: deliveries, the gas man,
registered mail. For a while at the beginning there had been, fatuously,
flowers. She’d thought Kevin was smarter than that. She didn’t care whether or
not that was a fair judgment. She’d had a fight with Kim about it, when her
roommate had come home one evening to find roses in the garbage can.
“Don’t you have any idea how he’s feeling? Don’t you care?” Kimberly had
shouted.
Answer: no, and no.
How could she come to such a human thing as caring, any more? Numberless,
the unbridged chasms between where she now was, and the four of them, and
everyone else. To everything there yet clung the odor of the swan. She saw the
world through the filtered unlight of Starkadh. What voice, what eyes seen
through that green distortion, could efface the power of Rakoth, who had
shoveled through her mind and body as if she, who had once been loved and
whole, were so much slag?
She knew she was sane, did not know why.
One thing only pulled her forward into some future tense. Not a good
thing, nor could it have been, but it was real, and random, and hers. She
would not be gainsaid.
And so, when Kim had first told the other three, and they had come in
July to argue with her, she had stood up and left the room. Nor had she seen
Kevin or Dave or Paul since that day.
She would bear this child, the child of Rakoth Maugrim. She intended to
die giving birth.
She would not have let him in, except that she saw that he was alone, and
this was sufficiently unexpected to cause her to open the door.
Paul Schafer said, “I have a story to tell. Will you listen?”
It was cold on the porch. After a moment she stepped aside and he
entered. She closed the door and walked into the living room. He hung up his
coat in the hall closet and followed her.
She had taken the rocking chair. He sat down on the couch and looked at
her, tall and fair, still graceful though no longer slim, seven months heavy
with the child. Her head was high, her wide-set green eyes uncompromising.
“I walked away from you last time, and I will again, Paul. I will not be
moved on this.”
“I said, a story,” he murmured.
“Then tell it.”
So he told her for the first time about the grey dog on the wall of Paras
Derval and the fathomless sorrow in its eyes; he told her about his second
night on the Summer Tree, when Galadan, whom she also knew, had come for him,
and how the dog had appeared again, and of the battle fought here in the
Mórnirwood. He told her about being bound on the Tree of the God, and seeing
the red moon rise and the grey dog drive the wolf from the wood.
He told her of Dana. And Mórnir. The powers shown forth that night in
answer to the Darkness in the north. His voice was deeper than she remembered;
there were echoes in it.
He said, “We are not in this alone. He may break us into fragments in the
end, but he will not be unresisted, and whatever you may have seen or endured
in that place you must understand that he cannot shape the pattern exactly to
his desire. Or else you would not be here.”
She listened, almost against her will. His words brought back words of
her own, spoken in Starkadh itself: You will have nothing of me that you do
not take, she had said. But that was before. Before he had set about taking
everything—until Kim had pulled her out.
She lifted her head a little. “Yes,” Paul said, his eyes never leaving
her face. “Do you understand? He is stronger than any of us, stronger even
than the God who sent me back. He is stronger than you, Jennifer; it is not
worth saying except for this: he cannot take away what you are.”
“I know this,” said Jennifer Lowell. “It is why I will bear his child.”
He sat back. “Then you become his servant.”
“No. You listen to me now, Paul, because you don’t know everything
either. When he left me . . . after, he gave me to a Dwarf. Blod was his name.
I was a reward, a toy, but he said something to the Dwarf: he said I was to be
killed, and that there was a reason.” There was cold resolution in her voice.
“I will bear this child because I am alive when he wished me dead—the child is
random, it is outside his purposes.”
He was silent a long time. Then, “But so are you, in and of yourself.”
Her laugh was a brutal sound. “And how am I, in and of myself, to answer
him? I am going to have a son, Paul, and he will be my answer.”
He shook his head. “There is too much evil in this, and only to prove a
point already proven.”
“Nonetheless,” said Jennifer.
After a moment his mouth crooked sideways. “I won’t press you on it,
then. I came for you, not him. Kim’s already dreamt his name, anyhow.”
Her eyes flashed. “Paul, understand me. I would do what I am doing
whatever Kim said. Whatever she happened to dream. And I will name him as I
choose!”
He was smiling, improbably. “Stick around and do that then. Stay with us,
Jen. We need you back.” Only when he spoke did she realize what she’d said.
He’d tricked her, she decided, had goaded her quite deliberately into
something unintended. But she couldn’t, for some reason, feel angry. Had this
first tenuous spar he’d thrown across to her been a little firmer she might,
in fact, have smiled.
Paul stood up. “There is an exhibition of Japanese prints at the Art
Gallery. Would you like to see it with me?”
For a long time she rocked in the chair, looking up at him. He was dark-
haired, slight, still frail-seeming, though not so much as last spring.
“What was the dog’s name?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
After another moment she rose, put on her coat, and took her first
careful step on the first bridge.
Dark seed of a dark god, Paul was thinking, as he tried to simulate an
interest in nineteenth-century prints from Kyoto and Osaka. Cranes, twisted
trees, elegant ladies with long pins in their hair.
The lady beside him wasn’t talking a great deal, but she was there in the
gallery, and it was not a small grace. He remembered the crumpled figure she
had been seven months before, when Kim had brought them desperately from
Fionavar with the wild, blazing power of the Baelrath.
This was Kim’s power, he knew: the Warstone and the dreams in which she
walked at night, white-haired as Ysanne had been, two souls within her, and
knowledge of two worlds. It had to be a difficult thing. The price of power,
he remembered Ailell the High King telling him, the night they played their
game of ta’bael. The night that had been overture to the three nights that
became his own hard, hardest thing. The gateway to whatever he now was, Lord
of the Summer Tree.
Whatever he now was. They had moved into the twentieth century now: more
cranes, long, narrow mountain scenes, low boats riding on wide rivers.
“The themes don’t change much,” Jennifer said.
“Not much.”
He had been sent back, he was Mórnir’s response, but he had no ring with
which to burn, no dreams down which to track the secrets of the Tapestry, not
even a horn such as Dave had found, no skylore like Loren, or crown like
Aileron; not even—though he felt a chill at the thought—a child within him
like the woman at his side.
And yet. There had been ravens at his shoulder in the branches of the
Tree: Thought and Memory were their names. There had been a figure in the
clearing, hard to see, but he had seen horns on its head and seen it bow to
him. There had been the white mist rising up through him to the sky in which a
red moon sailed on new moon night. There had been rain. And then the God.
And there was still the God. At night, sometimes, he could feel the tacit
presence, immense, in the rush and slide of his blood, the muffled thunder of
his human heart.
Was he a symbol only? A manifestation of what he had been telling
Jennifer: the presence of opposition to the workings of the Unraveller? There
were worse roles, he supposed. It gave him a part to play in what was to come,
but something within—and there was a god within him—said that there was more.
No man shall be Lord of the Summer Tree who has not twice been born, Jaelle
had said to him in the sanctuary.
He was more than symbol. The waiting to learn what, and how, seemed to be
part of the price.
Almost at the end now. They stopped in front of a large print of a river
scene: boats being poled along, others unloading at a crowded dock; there were
woods on the far side of the stream, snow-capped mountains beyond. It was
badly hung, though; he could see people behind them reflected in the glass,
two students, the sleepy guard. And then Paul saw the blurred reflection in
the doorway of a wolf.
Turning quickly on a taken breath he met the eyes of Galadan.
The Wolflord was in his true shape, and hearing Jennifer gasp Paul knew
that she, too, remembered that scarred, elegant force of power with the silver
in his dark hair.
Grabbing Jennifer’s hand, Paul wheeled and began to move quickly back
through the exhibition. He looked over his shoulder: Galadan was following, a
sardonic smile on his face. He wasn’t hurrying.
They rounded a corner. Mumbling a swift prayer, Paul pushed on the bar of
a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. He heard a guard shout behind him, but no
alarm sounded. They found themselves in a service corridor. Without saying a
word, they clattered down the hallway. Behind them Paul heard the guard shout
again as the door opened a second time.
The corridor forked. Paul pushed open another door and hurried Jennifer
through. She stumbled and he had to hold her up.
“I can’t run, Paul!”
He cursed inwardly. They were as far from the exit as they could be. The
door had taken them out into the largest room in the gallery, Henry Moore’s
permanent sculpture exhibit. It was the pride of the Art Gallery of Ontario,
the room that placed it on the artistic map of the world.
And it was the room in which, it seemed, they were going to die.
He helped Jennifer move farther away from the door. They passed several
huge pieces, a madonna and child, a nude, an abstract shape.
“Wait here,” he said, and sat her down on the broad base of one of the
sculptures. There was no one else in the room—not on a weekday morning in
November.
It figures, he thought. And turned. The Wolflord walked through the same
door they had used. For the second time he and Galadan faced each other in a
place where time seemed to hang suspended.
Jennifer whispered his name. Without taking his eyes from Galadan he
heard her say, in a voice shockingly cold, “It is too soon, Paul. Whatever you
are, you must find it now. If not, I will curse you as I die.”
And still reeling from that, he saw Galadan raise a long slender finger
to a red weal on his temple. “This one,” said the Lord of the andain, “I lay
at the root of your Tree.”
“You are lucky,” Paul said, “to be alive to lay it anywhere.”
“Perhaps,” the other said, and smiled again, “but no more fortunate than
you have been until now. Both of you.” There was, though Paul had not seen it
come, a knife in his hand. He remembered that knife. Galadan moved a few steps
closer. No one, Paul knew, was going to enter the room.
And then he knew something more. There was a deep stirring, as of the
sea, within him, and he moved forward himself, away from J ennifer, and said,
“Would you battle the Twiceborn of Mórnir?”
And the Wolflord replied, “For nothing else am I here, though I will kill
the girl when you are dead. Remember who I am: the children of gods have knelt
to wash my feet. You are nothing yet, Pwyll Twiceborn, and will be twice dead
before I let you come into your force.”
Paul shook his head. There was a tide running in his blood. He heard
himself say, as if from far off, “Your father bowed to me, Galadan. Will you
not do so, son of Cernan?” And he felt a rush of power to see the other
hesitate.
But only for a moment. Then the Wolflord, who had been a force of might
and a Lord of the mighty for past a thousand years, laughed aloud and, raising
his hand again, plunged the room into utter darkness.
“What son have you ever known to follow his father’s path?” he said.
“There is no dog to guard you now, and I can see in the dark!”
The surging of power stopped within Paul.
In its place came something else, a quiet, a space as of a pool within a
wood, and he knew this, instinctively, to be the true access to what he now
was and would be. From within this calm he moved back to Jennifer and said to
her, “Be easy, but hold fast to me.” As he felt her grip his hand and rise to
stand beside him, he spoke once more to the Wolflord, and his voice had
changed.
“Slave of Maugrim,” he said, “I cannot defeat you yet, nor can I see you
in the dark. We will meet again, and the third time pays for all, as well you
know. But I will not tarry for you in this place.”
And on the words he felt himself dropping into the still, deep place, the
pool within, which uttermost need had found. Down and down he went, and,
holding tight to Jennifer, he took them both away through the remembered cold,
the interstices of time, the space between the Weaver’s worlds, back to
Fionavar.
Chapter 2
Vae heard the knocking at the door. Since Shahar had been sent north she
often heard sounds in the house at night, and she had taught herself to ignore
them, mostly.
But the hammering on the shop entrance below was not to be ignored as
being born of winter solitude or wartime fears. It was real, and urgent, and
she didn’t want to know who it was.
Her son was in the hallway outside her room, though; he had already
pulled on trousers and the warm vest she had made him when the snows began. He
looked sleepy and young, but he always looked young to her.
“Shall I go see?” he said bravely.
“Wait,” Vae said. She rose, herself, and pulled on a woolen robe over her
night attire. It was cold in the house, and long past the middle of the night.
Her man was away, and she was alone in the chill of winter with a fourteen-
year-old child and a rapping, more and more insistent, at her door.
Vae lit a candle and followed Finn down the stairs.
“Wait,” slie said again in the shop, and lit two more candles, despite
the waste. One did not open the door on a winter night without some light by
which to see who came. When the candles had caught, she saw that Finn had
taken the iron rod from the upstairs fire. She nodded, and he opened the door.
In the drifted snow outside stood two strangers, a man, and a tall woman
he supported with an arm about her shoulders. Finn lowered his weapon; they
were unarmed. Coming nearer, and holding her candle high, Vae saw two things:
that the woman wasn’t a stranger after all, and that she was far gone with
child.
“From the ta’kiena?” said Vae. “The third time.”
The woman nodded. Her eyes turned to Finn and then back to his mother.
“He is still here,” she said. “I am glad.”
Finn said nothing; he was so young it could break Vae’s heart. The man in
the doorway stirred. “We need help,” he said. “We are fleeing the Wolflord
from our world. I am Pwyll, this is Jennifer. We crossed here last spring with
Loren.”
Vae nodded, wishing Shahar were there instead of in the windy cold of
North Keep with his grandfather’s spear. He was a craftsman, not a soldier;
what did her husband know of war?
“Come in,” she said, and stepped back. Finn closed and bolted the door
behind them. “I am Vae. My man is away. What help can I offer you?”
“The crossing brought me early to my time,” the woman called Jennifer
said, and Vae saw from her face that it was true.
“Make a fire,” she said to Finn. “In my room upstairs.” She turned to the
man. “You help him. Boil water on the fire. Finn will show you where the clean
linen is. Quickly, both of you.”
They left, taking the stairs two at a time.
Alone in the candlelit shop, among the unspun wool and the finished
craftings, she and the other woman gazed at each other.
“Why me?” said Vae.
The other’s eyes were clouded with pain. “Because,” she said, “I need a
mother who knows how to love her child.”
Vae had been fast asleep only moments before; the woman in the room with
her was so fair she might have been a creature from the dreamworld, save for
her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” said Vae.
“I will have to leave him,” the woman said. “Could you give your heart to
another son when Finn takes the Longest Road?”
In daylight she might have struck or cursed anyone who said so flatly the
thing that twisted through her like a blade. But this was night and half a
dream, and the other woman was crying.
Vae was a simple woman, a worker in wool and cloth with her man. She had
a son who for no reason she could understand had been called three times to
the Road when the children played the prophecy game, the ta’kiena, and then a
fourth time before the Mountain went up to signal war. And now there was this.
“Yes,” said Vae, simply. “I could love another child. It is a son?”
Jennifer wiped away her tears. “It is,” she said. “But there is more. He
will be of andain, and I don’t know what that will mean.”
Vae felt her hands trembling. Child of a god and a mortal. It meant many
things, most of them forgotten. She took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said.
“One thing more,” the golden woman said.
Vae closed her eyes. “Tell me, then.”
She kept them closed for a long time after the father’s name was spoken.
Then, with more courage than she would have ever guessed she had, Vae opened
her eyes and said, “He will need to be loved a great deal. I will try.”
Watching the other woman weep after that, she felt pity break over her in
waves.
At length Jennifer collected herself, only to be racked by a visible
spasm of pain.
“We had best go up,” said Vae. “This will not be an easy thing. Can you
manage the stairs?”
Jennifer nodded her head. Vae put an arm around her, and they moved
together to the stairway. Jennifer stopped.
“If you had had a second son,” she whispered, “what name would he have
had?”
The dreamworld, it was. “Darien,” she said. “For my father.”
It was not an easy thing, but neither was it a long one. He was small, of
course, more than two months early, but not as small as she had expected. He
was placed on her breast for a moment, afterward. Looking down for the first
time upon her son, Jennifer wept, in love and in sorrow for all the worlds,
all the battlegrounds, for he was beautiful.
Blinded, she closed her eyes. Then, once only, and formally, that it
should be done and known to be done, she said, “His name is Darien. He has
been named by his mother.” Saying so, she laid her head back upon the pillows
and gave her son to Vae.
Taking him, Vae was astonished how easily love came to her again. There
were tears in her own eyes as she cradled him. She blamed their blurring and
the shifting candlelight for the moment—no more than that—when his very blue
eyes seemed red.
It was still dark when Paul went out into the streets, and snow was
falling. Drifts were piling up in the lanes of Paras Derval and against the
shops and houses. He passed the remembered signboard on the Black Boar. The
inn was dark and shuttered, the sign creaked in the pre-dawn wind. No one else
was abroad in the white streets.
He continued, east to the edge of the town and then—though the going
became harder—north up the slope of the palace hill. There were lights on in
the castle, beacons of warmth amid the wind and blowing snow.
Paul Schafer felt a deep desire to go to those beacons, to sit down with
friends—Loren, Matt, Diarmuid, Coll, even Aileron, the stern, bearded High
King—and learn their tidings even as he shared the burden of what he had just
witnessed.
He resisted the lure. The child was Jennifer’s thread in this weaving,
and she was owed this much: he would not take that thread away by spreading
word throughout the land of a son born that day to Rakoth Maugrim.
Darien, she had named him. Paul thought of Kim saying, I know his name.
He shook his head. This child was something so unpredictable, so truly random,
it numbed the mind: what would be the powers of this newest of the andain, and
where, oh, where, would his allegiance fall? Had Jennifer brought forth this
day not merely a lieutenant but an heir to the Dark?
Both women had cried, the one who had given birth and the one who would
raise him. Both women, but not the child, not this fair blue-eyed child of two
worlds.
Did the andain cry? Paul reached down toward the still place, the source
of the power that had brought them here, for an answer but was not surprised
to find nothing there.
Pushing through the last swirling mound of snow he reached his
destination, drew a breath to steady himself, and pulled on the chain outside
the arched doorway.
He heard a bell ring deep within the domed Temple of the Mother; then
there was silence again. He stood in the darkness a long time before the great
doors swung open and the glow of candlelight spun out a little way into the
snowbound night. He moved sideways and forward to see and be seen.
“No farther!” a woman said. “I have a blade.”
He kept his composure. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “But you also have
eyes, I hope, and should know who I am, for I have been here before.”
There were two of them, a young girl with the candle and an older woman
beside her. Others, with more light, were coming forward as well.
The girl moved nearer, raising her light so that his face was fully lit
by the flame.
“By Dana of the Moon!” the older woman breathed.
摘要：

PARTI—TheWarriorChapter1Winterwascoming.Lastnight’ssnowhadn’tmeltedandthebaretreeswerelacedwithit.Torontowokethatmorningtoseeitselfcloakedandmadeoverinwhite,anditwasonlyNovember.CuttingacrossNathanPhilipsSquareinfrontofthetwincurvesoftheCityHall,DaveMartyniukwalkedascarefullyashecouldandwishedhe’dwo...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：155 页 大小：403.94KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-08

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