Kingfisher (27 page)

“You weren't in town earlier, Sir Gareth, were you?” Val asked.

“No. I just got here and saw a few familiar crests in the parking lot. I stopped on impulse. I'm on my way back to Severluna.”

“So soon?” Leith said. “Is there trouble?”

Gareth shook his head. “No. Suddenly, it didn't seem very important, going off looking for something so vague and mysterious when what I really want is where I left her.” He heard himself and flushed a little, but Heloise nodded.

“That seems by far the most sensible thing I've heard yet about this odd quest.”

“Thank you. I keep smelling the most wonderful things . . . Where do we find them?”

“Just wait, Sir Gareth,” Pierce suggested, watching Carrie come out and hand the key to Merle, and the priest turn away from friends to follow him. The sentinels, the golden-haired father and son, moved to their places beside the door. “The magic will come to you.”

Two other knights wandered in before the ritual began. Pierce pulled their faces out of memory: Prince Daimon and the formidable Dame Scotia Malory. They both looked unsettled, wary, Pierce saw with surprise. They moved cautiously
across the room as though the unexpected might take shape at any moment out of the worn floorboards. They returned greetings absently; their smiles faded quickly. Beside the bar, they stood very close together, finding comfort in one another's presence. He wondered, amazed, what power, what magic had crossed their paths to leave those shared memories of uncertainty and awe in their eyes.

The crowd, recognizing familiar signals, began to quiet. Faces turned, bright with anticipation; people rose from chairs and couches and barstools, their eyes on the closed doors. Pierce stood up; Leith, behind him, rested a hand on his shoulder.

The doors opened. The gasps and murmurs of astonishment and pleasure that rolled through the gathering welcomed the tall, white-haired, green-eyed woman beside Hal Fisher, who held his arm, accepting the weight of his halting steps, as the ritual began.

Pierce, moved by the smiles on the aged, tranquil faces, watched them until Val gripped his arm suddenly. Startled, his eyes shifted, were caught by the odd pot Carrie was carrying, not the seriously decorated silver soup tureen he expected, but something plain, a trifle battered, looking as though it had been around and well used for any number of centuries. As he wondered at it, a bronze glow illuminated it, gliding over its surface like a secret smile of its own making.

He had no idea why, a few moments later when the solemn gathering grew vociferous and merry, his brother could not stop laughing, or find any known language to explain.

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