He did react, and she was sorry for the thought behind her words. A hand came up to cover his mouth, a curious gesture in such a man. "No," he breathed. "Oh, Ysanne, no!" She could hear the loss.

"You understand what she has done?" she asked. There was a catch in her voice; she controlled it. There was so much pain.

"I know what the dagger does, yes. I didn't know she had it here. She must have come to love you very much."

"Not just me. All of us." She hesitated. "She dreamt me twenty-five years ago. Before I was born." Did that make it easier? Did anything?

His eyes widened. "That I never knew."

"How could you?" He seemed to regard gaps in his awareness as deeply felt affronts. But there was something else that had to be said. "There is more," Kim said. His name is not to be spoken, she thought, then: "Your father died this afternoon, Aileron."

There was a silence.

"Old news," the elder Prince of Brennin said. "Listen."

And after a moment she heard them: all the bells in Paras Derval tolling. The death bells for the passing of a King.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His mouth twitched, then he looked out the window. You cold bastard, she thought. Old news. He deserved more than that, surely; surely he did. She was about to say as much when Aileron turned back to her, and she saw the river of tears pouring and pouring down his face.

Dear God, she thought shakily, enduring a paroxysm of self-condemnation. He may be hard to read, but how can you be that far off? It would have been funny, a Kim Ford classic, except that people were going to be relying on her now for so much. It was no good, no good at all. She was an impulsive, undisciplined, halfway-decent intern from Toronto. What the hell was she going to do?

Nothing, at any rate, for the moment. She held herself very still on the bed, and after a minute Aileron lifted his tanned, bearded face and spoke.

"After my mother died, he was never the same. He... dwindled. Will you believe that he was once a very great man?"

This she could help him with. "I saw by the lake. I know he was, Aileron."

"I watched him until I could hardly bear it," he said, under control now. "Then factions formed in the palace that wanted him to step aside for me. I killed two men who spoke of it in my presence, but my father grew suspicious and frightened. I could not talk to him anymore."

"And Diarmuid?"

The question seemed to genuinely surprise him. "My brother? He was drunk most of the time, and taking ladies to South Keep the rest. Playing March Warden down there."

"There seems to be more to him than that," Kim said mildly.

"To a woman, perhaps."

She blinked. "That," she said, "is insulting."

He considered it. "I suppose it is," he said. "I'm sorry." Then he surprised her again. "I am not good," Aileron said, his eyes averted, "at making myself liked. Men will usually end up respecting me, if against their will, because at some things they value I have... a little skill. But I have no skill with women." The eyes, almost black, swung back to hers. "I am also hard to shake from desires I have, and I am not patient with interference."

He was not finished. "I tell you these things, not because I expect to change, but so you will know I am aware of them. There will be people I must trust, and if you are a Seer, then you must be one of them, and I'm afraid you will have to deal with me as I am."

A silence followed this, not surprisingly. For the first time she noticed Malka and called her softly. The black cat leaped to the bed and curled up on her lap.

"I'll think about it," she said finally. "No promises; I'm fairly stubborn myself. May I point out, on the original issue, that Loren seems to value your brother quite a bit, and unless I've missed something, Silvercloak isn't a woman." Too much asperity, she thought. You must go carefully here.

Aileron's eyes were unreadable. "He was our teacher as boys," he said. "He has hopes still of salvaging something in Diarmuid. And in fairness, my brother does elicit love from his followers, which must mean something."

"Something," she echoed gravely. "You don't see anything to salvage?" It was ironic, actually: she hadn't liked Diarmuid at all, and here she was...

Aileron, for reply, merely shrugged expressively.

"Leave it, then," she said. "Will you finish your story?"

"There is little left to tell. When the rains receded last year, and stopped absolutely this spring, I suspected it was not chance. I wanted to die for him, so I would not have to watch him fading. Or see the expression in his eyes. I couldn't live with him mistrusting me. So I asked to be allowed to go to the Summer Tree, and he refused. Again I asked, again he refused. Then word came to Paras Derval of children dying on the farms, and I asked again before all the court and once more he refused to grant me leave. And so..."

"And so you told him exactly what you thought." She could picture the scene.

"I did. And he exiled me."

"Not very effectively," she said wryly.

"Would you have me leave my land, Seer?" he snapped, the voice suddenly commanding. It pleased her; he had some caring, then. More than some, if she were being fair. So she said, "Aileron, he did right. You must know that. How could the High King let another die for him?"

And knew immediately that there was something wrong.

"You don't know, then." It was not a question. The sudden gentleness in his voice unsettled her more than anything.

"What? Please. You had better tell me."

"My father did let another go," Aileron said. "Listen to the thunder. Your friend is on the Tree. Pwyll. He has lasted two nights. This is the last, if he is still alive."

Pwyll. Paul.

It fit. It fit too perfectly. She was brushing tears away, but others kept falling. "I saw him," she whispered. "I saw him with your father in my dream, but I couldn't hear what they said, because there was this music, and-"

Then that, too, fell into place.

"Oh, Paul," she breathed. "It was the Brahms, wasn't it? Rachel's Brahms piece. How could I not have remembered?"

"Would you have changed anything?" Aileron asked. "Would you have been right to?"

Too hard, that one, just then. She concentrated on the cat. "Do you hate him?" she asked in a small voice, surprising herself with the question.

It drove him to his feet with a startled, exposed gesture. He strode to the window and looked out over the lake. There were bells. And then thunder. A day so charged with power. And it wasn't over. Night to come, the third night...

"I will try not to," he said at last, so softly Kim could scarcely hear it.

"Please," she said, feeling that somehow it mattered. If only to her, to ease her own gathering harvest of griefs. She rose from the bed, holding the cat in both arms.

He turned to face her. The light was strange behind him.

Then, "It is to be my war," said Aileron dan Ailell.

She nodded.

"You have seen this?" he pushed.

Again she nodded. The wind had died outside; it was very quiet. "You would have thrown it away on the Tree."

"Not thrown away. But yes, it was a foolishness. In me, not in your friend," he added after a moment. "I went to see him there last night. I could not help myself. In him it is something else."

"Grief. Pride. A dark kind."

"It is a dark place."

"Can he last?"

Slowly, Aileron shook his head. "I don't think so. He was almost gone last night."

Paul. When, she thought, had she last heard him laugh?

"He's been sick," she said. It sounded almost irrelevant. Her own voice was funny, too.

Aileron touched her shoulder awkwardly. "I will not hate him, Kim." He used her name for the first time. "I cannot. It is so bravely done."

"He has that," she said. She was not going to cry again. "He has that," she repeated, lifting her head. "And we have a war to fight."

"We?" Aileron asked, and in his eyes she could see the entreaty he would not speak.

"You're going to need a Seer," she said matter-of-factly. "I seem to be the best you've got. And I have the Baelrath, too."

He came a step towards her. "I am..." He took a breath. "I am... pleased," he managed.

A laugh escaped her, she couldn't help it. "God," she said on a rising note. "God, Aileron, I've never met anyone who had so much trouble saying thank-you. What do you do when someone passes you the salt?"

His mouth opened and closed. He looked very young.

"Anyhow," she said briskly, "you're welcome. And now we'd better get going. You should be in Paras Derval tonight, don't you think?"

It seemed that he had already saddled the horse in the barn, and had only been waiting for her. While Aileron went out back to bring the stallion around, she set about closing up the cottage. The dagger and the Circlet would be safest in the chamber down below. She knew that sort of thing now, it was instinctive.

She thought of Raederth then, and wondered if it was folly to sorrow for a man so long dead. But it wasn't, she knew, she now knew; for the dead are still in time, they are travelling, they are not lost. Ysanne was lost. She still needed a long time alone, Kim realized, but she didn't have it, so there was no point even thinking. The Mountain had taken that kind of luxury away from all of them.

From all of them. She did pause, at that. She was numbering herself among them, she realized, even in her thoughts. Are you aware, she asked herself, with a kind of awe, that you are now the Seer of the High Kingdom of Brennin in Fionavar?

She was. Holy cow, she thought, talk about over-achievers! But then her mind swung back to Aileron, and the flared levity faded. Aileron, whom she was going to help become King if she could, even though his brother was the heir. She would do it because her blood sang to her that this was right, and that, she knew by now, was part of what being a Seer meant.

She was quiet and ready when he came round the side on the horse. He had a sword now, and a bow slung in the saddle, and he rode the black charger with an easy grace. She was, she had to admit, impressed.

There was a slight issue at the outset over her refusal to leave Malka behind, but when she threatened to walk, Aileron, a stony expression on his face, reached a hand down and swung her up behind him. With the cat. He was very strong, she realized.

He also had a scratched shoulder a minute later. Malka, it seemed, didn't like riding horseback. Aileron, it also seemed, could be remarkably articulate when swearing. She told him as much, sweetly, and was rewarded with a quite communicative silence.

With the dying of the wind, the haze of the day seemed to be lifting. It was still light, and the sun, setting almost directly behind them, cast its long rays along the path.

Which was one reason the ambush failed.

They were attacked at the bend where she and Matt had first seen the lake. Before the first of the svarts had leaped to the road, Aileron, some sixth sense triggered, had already kicked the stallion into a gallop.

There were no darts this time. They had been ordered to take the white-haired woman alive, and she had only one servant as a guard. It should have been easy. There were fifteen of them.

Twelve, after the first rush of the horse, as Aileron's blade scythed on both sides. She was hampering him, though. With a concise movement he leaped from the saddle, killing another svart as he landed.

"Go on!" he shouted.

Of its own accord, the horse sped into a trot and then a gallop down the path. No way, Kim thought, and, holding the terrified cat as best she could, grappled for the reins and pulled the stallion to a halt.

Turning, she watched the battle, her heart leaping into her throat, though not with fear.

By the light of the setting sun, Kimberly bore witness to the first battle of Aileron dan Ailell in his war, and a stunning, a nearly debilitating grace was displayed for her then upon that lonely path. To see him with a sword in his hand was almost heartbreaking. It was a dance. It was more. Some men, it seemed, were born to do a thing; it was true.

Because awesomely, stupefyingly, she saw that it had been a mismatch from the first. Fifteen of them, with weapons and sharp teeth for close fighting, against the one man with the long blade flashing in his hand, and she understood that he was going to win. Effortlessly, he was going to win.

It didn't last very long. Not one of the fifteen svart alfar survived. Breathing only a little quickly, he cleaned his sword and sheathed it, before walking toward her up the path, the sun low behind him. It was very quiet now. His dark eyes, she saw, were sombre.

"I told you to go," he said.

"I know. I don't always do what I'm told. I thought I warned you."

He was silent, looking up at her.

"A 'little' skill," she mimicked quite precisely.

His face, she saw with delight, had suddenly gone shy.

"Why," Kim Ford asked, "did that take you so long?"

For the first time she heard him laugh.

They reached Paras Derval at twilight, with Aileron hooded for concealment. Once inside the town they made their way quickly and quietly to Loren's quarters. The mage was there, with Matt and Kevin Laine.

Kim and Aileron told their stories as succinctly as they could; there was little time. They spoke of Paul, in whispers, hearing the thunder gathering in the west.

And then, when it became clear that there was something important neither she nor the Prince knew, they were told about Jennifer.

At which point it was made evident that notwithstanding a frightened cat, or a kingdom that needed her, the new Seer of Brennin could still fall apart with the best of them.

Twice during the day he thought it was the end. There was very great pain. He was badly sunburned now, and so dry. Dry as the land, which, he had thought earlier-how much earlier?-was probably the point. The nexus. It all seemed so simple at times, it came down to such basic correspondences. But then his mind would start to spin, to slide, and with the slide, all the clarity went, too.

He may have been the only person in Fionavar who didn't see the Mountain send up its fire. The sun was fire enough for him. He heard the laughter, but was so far gone he placed it elsewhere, in his own hell. It hurt there, too; he was not spared.

That time it was the bells that brought him back. He was lucid then for an interval, and knew where they were ringing, though not why. His eyes hurt; they were puffy with sunburn, and he was desperately dehydrated. The sun seemed to be a different color today. Seemed. What did he know? He was so skewed, nothing could be taken for what it was.

Though the bells were ringing in Paras Derval, he was sure of that. Except... except that after a while, listening, he seemed to hear a harp sounding, too, and that was very bad, as bad as it could be, because it was a thing from his own place, from behind the bolted door. It wasn't out there. The bells were, yes, but they were fading. He was going again, there was nothing to grab hold of, no branch, no hand. He was bound and dry, and sliding, going under. He saw the bolts shatter, and the door opening, and the room. Oh, lady, lady, lady, he thought. Then no bolts anymore, nothing to bar the door. Under. Undersea down...