by Tom Deitz
“Damn!” David gritted in frustration. “You’re sick man, you could at least have let me do it!”
“But I’m Lord of the Ulunsuti,” Alec replied with a return of the disarming calm. “It’s my responsibility.”
“Alec—” David began, all confusion. Then, “Oh hell, go ahead, I reckon.”
Alec smiled grimly, and David watched with a mixture of fascination, horror, relief, and guilt as his best friend flung away his makeshift knife, then carefully maneuvered the ulunsuti from his pocket and deposited it in his bleeding palm. He held it there for a moment, then shifted position so that he could rest his arm on his knee. His already pale face had grown whiter yet, but the crystal had started to glow.
Lightning struck once, close by, and he almost lost his grip, but David’s hand on his wrist steadied him, then slowly withdrew. For an instant there was only the flash of lightning and the sting of rain; the rumble of thunder and the howl of mage-born wind.
“How’re you doin’, bro?” David whispered when he could stand the wait no longer.
Alec shrugged minutely. “It doesn’t hurt, though I can sorta feel the cut. It’s just a kind of drawing. Really, it’s not much different from giving blood, ’cept you don’t have to worry about a needle wiggling around in your arm.”
“Gross,” said Liz, who had always had trouble with needles.
David felt utterly helpless, but finally acted on his frustrated need to do something by wrapping one arm around Alec’s shoulders and hugging him close. Liz was already curled in the crook of his other arm.
“Let me know when you need fire,” Fionchadd urged, squatting opposite, back to the wind.
Alec shrugged again and continued to gaze at the crystal. It was definitely glowing now, assuming an emberlike ruddiness. It was hard to tell more in the uncertain light, but maybe a minute later Alec took a deep breath and said, “I think it’s done…I don’t feel anything else. In fact, I think it’s already closed the wound itself.”
David stared at Alec’s hand, trying to see the gash beneath the ulunsuti. As best he could tell the trickle that had dripped slowly from between his friend’s fingers was gone. So was the small pool he was certain he had seen in the cupped palm before.
“Okay, Finno,” Alec breathed a little shakily. “Do your stuff.”
The Faery nodded and brought his hands together close before him. He shut his eyes, uttered a Word and brought fire from his living flesh: tiny sparks and flames that leapt and danced in the driving wind.
“Hurry,” Fionchadd exhorted them. “This is difficult to maintain in this weather.”
Alec wasted no time. He took the ulunsuti with both hands and set it into the fire in the Faery’s palm.
“Now, quick, think of our goal—you’ve been there, Finno, you get to drive.”
“But…two things to focus on! I cannot…”
“You can!” David insisted.
The Faery closed his eyes—and evidently succeeded, because one moment there was only the crystal kindling brightly in his hand, and the next an arch of crimson fire seared the storms of the Faery night.
David and Liz scooted backward in alarm. Alec stayed squatted where he was, letting the light bathe his face, staring at his hand where only a thin line now remained; while Fionchadd slowly lowered the ulunsuti—flame and all—to the ground and sidled around to crouch beside them.
Through the gate—where before there had been wind-whipped forest—was now only night and storm; war; and ships blazing in the heavens and on the sea. Except that exactly in the middle a vast airship gleamed orange-yellow, as if it were wrought of copper or gold. Immediately behind its dragon-beaked prow a woman stood, wrapped in a billowing cloak of the same shimmering gold as the thrashing sail behind her. She was staring straight at them, and as they watched, her face expanded to fill the entire arch, like a long-shot panning to a close-up in a film. Her eyes were aflame with fury.
“Ilionin!” Fionchadd shouted, his voice rising clear above the thunder.
“Ilionin!” came Alec’s half-screamed echo—and suddenly the gate collapsed upon them, and they were in a storm of a different kind.
*
Perhaps because they had teleported within the same World, David was aware of far less pain of transition this time. It wrapped him, ripped him apart, but before he could cry out, it had ended.
The first thing he noticed was the cessation of cold rain and noise, replaced with dry warmth and a distant sussuration that might be the muffled storm. The second was that everywhere he looked—at deck, or rail, or sail, or at the warriors that surrounded him—he saw gold or yellow or orange. It reminded him of when he had awakened in Morwyn’s Room Made of Fire, except here the color scheme had shifted down the spectrum.
Even the woman who was glaring at him reminded him of Morwyn. She was tall—at least as tall as most of the orange-liveried spearmen—and very beautiful, though rather hard-faced, which did not surprise him. She looked even more competent than Morwyn too, and that was saying a great deal. Her eyes were green, her short-clipped hair red-gold; her nose was strong and straight and her chin narrow but square. Almost a masculine face, were it not for the curves of lips and cheeks.
Beneath the golden cloak she wore a long, open robe of orange brocaded in yellow, over scale armor that looked to be made of gold inlaid with copper and bronze. She wore no helm and carried no weapons, but a pair of the spearmen held what were probably them, if the design, workmanship, and material of the crowned cap-helm, broadsword, and shield were any indication.
The woman snapped an order and turned without ceremony, ducking the boom, and striding toward the low cabin aft. Follow! prodded David’s mind as the guards encircled them, spears at ready.
An instant later, they made their way down a short flight of cedar wood steps and entered what was probably the captain’s cabin, to judge by the rich orange carpet, gold-figured tapestries, tawny furs, and carved ruddy wood with which it was decorated—none of which were a match for the woman who now glowered from a gilded copper chair before them, obviously highly irritated and perplexed.
Equally obvious, war was still raging, for there were shouts above deck, and odd thumps, and every now and then a sudden abrupt movement hastily compensated for, though if it bothered the guards that now flanked the woman, they gave no sign.
“Speak quickly,” the woman barked. “Who are you? Why have you come here?”
“To end this war,” Fionchadd replied simply, stepping out where he’d been standing rather unobtrusively behind David.
“And who are you to propose such a thing, Faery boy? Who are you who consorts so freely with mortals?”
“Mortals who use Power, if you had not noticed,” Fionchadd gave her back, not in the least cowed. “Also, I am the cause of all this.”
The woman stared at him skeptically. “You? A sorry-looking thing like yourself?”
Fionchadd drew himself up to his full height, suddenly every inch the elven prince in spite of the tattered gray wool breeches that were his only garment. “You would not look well either…Aunt Ilionin, had you been tortured with Iron for half a year’s seasons, nearly cooked alive in a Mortal chariot, then almost drowned—and finally thrashed about by ill-wrought weather. And let me add that surely you could have ordered the lightning better.”
“The intent is to destroy vessels, not soldiers,” the woman shot back. And then froze, and peered at him intently. “Aunt,” she whispered suddenly, as if the word were new to her. “Yet…yet…yes! You are Fionchadd!” With a smile like sunlight dispelling morning fog, the woman rushed forward to embrace her nephew.
“So my mother, your sister’s daughter named me,” Fionchadd replied dryly, when he had disentangled himself from the mass of armor and silk. “I generally manage a better appearance than this,” he added with a chuckle.
“That can be remedied easily enough,” Ilionin shot back airily, returning to her seat. “Amor, Astrid, fetch clothing, and food—wine too
, for our…”
“Guests,” Fionchadd finished for her. “Mortals, aye, but they are the ones who rescued me from Finvarra and brought me here.”
Ilionin’s eyes narrowed again. “Sit,” she commanded brusquely, indicating a series of low, cushioned benches built into the walls. “Now what is this about Mortals bringing you here? Some Power of which we are unaware?”
“Aye,” Fionchadd replied quickly. “A Power Uncle Finvarra would pay dearly for, since it holds the secret of travel without Tracks.”
“This we know as well,” Ilionin said. “Long have our ships passed at will between the World Walls.”
“But not instantaneously from place to place,” Fionchadd noted carefully.
“Hold on here a minute,” Alec inserted. “I hate to say this Finno, but…well, it sounds to me like you’re bargaining with the ulunsuti—and it’s not yours to bargain with. I mean you ought to ask, at least,” he added.
“I am set straight,” Fionchadd replied, grinning both at his friend and his wary aunt.
“As well you should be,” Ilionin told him sharply. “If it is not yours to give, it certainly is not yours to bargain with. And yet,” she added, “I am curious. Might I see this thing?”
Alec shook his head. “’Fraid not. It’s back on shore. We kinda left—”
“There you are wrong, my friend,” Fionchadd interrupted, unfolding his hand to reveal the ulunsuti. “I retrieved it as the gate collapsed.”
“Finno!” Alec spat in exasperation, snatching away the crystal.
David could contain himself no longer. “Never mind the damned ulunsuti, lady,” he cried, rising and striding forward until scarcely a yard lay between them. “What about the bloody war? I mean we…well, we went to a lot of trouble to try to free Finno, partly ’cause he’s our friend, but partly ’cause we’ve got to end this blessed war somehow! It’s sloppin’ over into our World bad, hurtin’ lots of people; and it’s threatenin’ another World—one closer to your own, I think. The one…the one on the other side of the Burning Sea.”
“The Burning Sea?” Ilionin’s expression was suddenly intense. “You mean the land where the red folk dwell?” David’s nodded. “Galunlati. It’s bad there, real bad. Not your doing, not really—mostly Lugh’s, I think. He’s drawin’ on a lot of Power to protect his borders and keep off Finvarra’s storms—least I suspect that’s what started it. But he’s been usin’ some kinda magic spear as well, and that’s when all hell really started breakin’ loose, ’cause every time he uses it, I’m afraid”—he paused, swallowed—“that is, we’re afraid it kinda overstresses the sun of that adjoining world we just told you about. And—”
“We intend to speak to him about that spear,” Ilionin interrupted, “when he has finished doing our work with it. Still, he does not seem remarkably responsible with his…toys.”
“Speak to him?” David spat, suddenly feeling weeks of frustration, anger, impatience—and three days with very little sleep suddenly strip aside all sense of propriety. “You need to stop him right now! He’s your ally, isn’t he? And you’re the big mojambo heavy hitters over here, aren’t you? ‘Could rule the Worlds if you chose,’ and all that—accordin’ to Morwyn. Right? So do it then: Stop him!”
“Why? He is doing a splendid job of decimating Finvarra’s hosts. If he did not, we would have to. There will be time enough to put him in his place when he has finished.”
“Dammit, woman, if I could show you I would.”
“You could!” she snapped. “If it is as you say, perhaps I will intercede. The fate of the Worlds is related, this we freely acknowledge.”
“Huh?” David replied, taken aback at her sudden change of demeanor.
She stared at him, anger and wonder ablaze in her eyes. “I could read your memory,” she said simply. “Everything you have seen, everything you have thought or felt would be laid bare. Then I will know the truth of what you say.”
David exchanged glances with Fionchadd, with Alec and Liz. “You won’t like it,” the Faery muttered. “But it would be the wisest thing. Ilionin is wise even among the Powersmiths, even Lugh and Finvarra know this. She will be able to understand things you have seen that even you do not. Everything Uki showed you, all he told you, she will also know.”
David sighed, took a deep breath. “Oh, why the hell not? At this point I’m too tired to care. Just look, and lock me up or toss me overboard, or whatever.”
“I do not think so,” Ilionin told him with unexpected gentleness. “I have heard of you, David Sullivan. And I do not think the rumors were short of the truth. I—”
A knock on the door was a guardsman bringing wine and food—bread, soft cheese, fruit, along with orange robes for the scantily clad Fionchadd and David. The boys donned them quickly, and all dived in greedily—except for David, who was almost consumed with impatience.
“You are not hungry?” Ilionin inquired.
“Not when we’ve still got a goddam war to stop! Let’s get to it, lady: Do it and get it over with!”
Ilionin sighed and set her mouth. “Perhaps you are correct. It would be best if you closed your eyes. And truly, it may not be as bad as my kinsman suggests—you are weary, that will make it easier. Try not to resist. Think of the time when this began, and I will read it with you.” David nodded, sat down, and flopped back against the wall. Ilionin knelt before him, resting her fingers on his wrists, which he had simply laid in his lap. Her touch was light but firm. He could feel the delicate prickle of her nails. “Now,” she whispered. “Begin.”
He swallowed, tried to recall. It was difficult, he discovered, to find the beginning, for so much had happened in between, but somehow he managed to make order from the chaos. He suspected Ilionin was helping there, establishing order among the whirling, disjointed impressions.
Sometimes it seemed she glossed over things. Other times, as when she relived with him his memory of Lugh’s unveiling of the spear or Sandy’s description of her unified-field-theory of Worlds or Uki’s despair at the status of his own land, she went far more slowly, and it was almost as if David experienced them again in real time.
And then, quite without warning, it was over.
David blinked, gazed into her eyes. Her face was grim and thoughtful. “I think,” she said finally, “that you are correct. I think it is time things changed.”
David heaved a sigh of relief.
“And what will happen now, Aunt?” Fionchadd asked, looking far better already. “I thought simply bringing me here would be enough. The war was over me, after all. Or has my mother…?”
“She is safe and well,” Ilionin told him absently. “You will see her shortly. As for the other, it was jealousy and greed that began this war—and the everlasting boredom that affects even our kin. It always is. You were an excuse, nothing more: tinder, but not the spark. Still, that does not change the situation now. I have learned more in the few moments I spent exploring your friend’s mind than I have in many years, and it troubles me. It should trouble Lugh, too—and Finvarra.”
“So all you have to do now is get them to listen,” Fionchadd said with a touch of sarcasm. “Neat trick, if you can manage.”
“You speak with the tones of a mortal,” Ilionin told him sharply. “And you are incorrect as well. They will not listen now, not in the heat of battle. I must therefore end the battle.”
“Which you cannot accomplish, or you would have done so long before now,” Fionchadd gave her back, “no matter what you told us earlier.”
“Which I could not do, but now can—with Alec McLean’s assistance. And permission,” she added wryly.
“Me?” Alec cried, starting from his place and upsetting a glass of wine in his lap. “Me?”
“You are lord of the magic crystal, are you not? And such Power I have seldom seen before. Already in David’s mind I have witnessed it in use, and from that surmised much more. And already I have a plan.”
Alec stared at her curiously.
“
I will bring them here,” she announced. “I will explain this thing—better, I will let David do it, if he will. I will have others know what I now know: that the fate of all the Worlds is one.”
David exchanged glances with Alec, gave him a quick high-five. “Come on bro, let’s get at it.”
*
Five minutes later the plan was in place. Though David wasn’t certain they would need it, he constructed a makeshift Power Wheel, using a few grains of Galunlati earth Alec had managed to salvage when they’d fled Stone Mountain. Once again, Alec would occupy the south and risk his own blood on promise of Powersmith healing if the crystal failed to perform that function. Once more Liz would act as anchor in the west, while David represented the north. Fionchadd, in the east—the direction of his homeland—would be the one to invoke the names. There was one change though: Ilionin stood behind her nephew, proud in her power, ready to do the one thing that would be different.
Flame rose up from a brazier in the center of the Wheel. Alec bit his lip, slit his unwounded palm, and let the ulunsuti drink deep of the Power that was in his blood. Rituals were repeated from Fionchadd’s memory. The crystal was thrust into the flame—and a gate opened: an arch of baleful red in the orange room.
This time, though, it showed two places at once. In one red-clad Lugh, Ard Rhi of Tir-Nan-Og, stood proud if a little harried in the prow of his flying silver flagship, long mustache beating against his golden cheek-guards, yellow embroidered sun-disc rippling upon the crimson silk sail behind him as he held the spear aloft and scanned the skies and the waters with eyes grown narrow and wary.
