he was brought to the High King’s antechamber, where a number of people waited for him, and in that place he was presented by Aileron, his brother, to Arthur Pendragon.
And nothing happened.
Paul Schafer, standing next to Kim, had seen her pale when Diarmuid came into the room. Now, as the Prince bowed formally to Arthur and the Warrior accepted it with an unruffled mien, he heard her draw a shaky breath and murmur, from the heart, “Oh, thank God.”
A look passed between her and Loren, who was on the far side of the room, and in the mage’s countenance Paul read the same relief. It took him a moment, but he put it together.
“You thought he was the third one?” he said. “Third angle of the triangle?”
She nodded, still pale. “I was afraid. Don’t know why now. Don’t know why I was so sure.”
“Is that why you wanted us to wait?”
She looked at him, grey eyes under white hair. “I thought it was. I knew we had to wait before going to the hunt. Now I don’t know why.”
“Because,” came a voice, “you are a true and loyal friend and didn’t want me to miss the fun.”
“Oh, Kev!” She wheeled and gave him a very un-Seerlike hug. “I missed you!”
“Good,” said Kevin brightly.
“Me too,” Paul added.
“Also good,” Kevin murmured, less flippantly.
Kim stepped back. “You feeling unappreciated, sailor?”
He gave her a half smile. “A bit superfluous. And now Dave’s fighting an urge to bisect me with his axe.”
“Nothing new there,” Paul said dryly.
“What now?” Kim asked.
“I slept with the wrong girl.”
Paul laughed. “Not the first time.”
“It isn’t funny,” Kevin said. “I had no idea he liked her, and anyhow, she came to me. The Dalrei women are like that. They call the shots with anyone they like until they decide to marry.”
“Have you explained to Dave?” Kim asked. She would have made a joke but Kevin did look unhappy. There was more to this, she decided.
“He’s a hard man to explain things to. Hard for me, anyway. I’ve asked Levon. It was his sister.” Kevin indicated someone with a sideways nod of his head.
And that, of course, was it.
Kim turned to the handsome, fair-haired Rider standing just behind them. There had been a reason for waiting for this party, and it wasn’t Diarmuid or Kevin. It was this man.
“I have explained,” Levon said. “And will do so again, as often as necessary.” He smiled; then his expression grew sober and he said to Kim, “Seer, I asked if we might talk, a long time ago.”
She remembered. The last morning, before the Baelrath had blazed and her head had exploded with Jennifer’s screams and she had taken them away.
She looked at her hand. The ring was pulsing; only a very little, but it was alive again.
“All right,” she said, almost curtly. “You too, Paul. Kev, will you bring Loren and Matt?”
“And Davor,” Levon said. “Diarmuid too. He knows.”
“My room. Let’s go.” She walked out, leaving them to follow her. Her and the Baelrath.
“The flame will wake from sleep,
The Kings the horn will call,
But though they answer from the deep,
You may never hold in thrall
Those who ride from Owein’s Keep
With a child before them all.”
Levon’s voice faded away. In the silence Kim became aware, annoyingly, of the same faint static she’d heard two nights ago; again it was from the east. Gwen Ystrat, she decided. She was getting herself tuned in to whatever sendings the priestesses were throwing back and forth out there. It was a nuisance and she pushed it from her mind. She had enough to worry about, starting with all these men in her bedroom. A frustrated woman’s dream, she thought, unable to find it amusing.
They were waiting for her. She kept silent and let them wait. After a moment it was Levon who resumed—it was his idea, after all. He said, “I learned that verse from Gereint as a boy. I remembered it last spring when Davor found the horn. Then we located the tree and the rock. And so we know where Owein and the Sleepers are.” He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “We have the horn that calls them and… and it is my guess that the Baelrath roused is the flame that wakes them.”
“It would fit,” said Diarmuid. He had kicked off his boots and was lying on her bed. “The Warstone is wild, too. Loren?”
The mage, by exercise of seniority, had claimed the armchair by the window. He lit his pipe methodically and