“I could tell you,” she told him. “I know it well.” She stretched
out one hand to Leith, still holding her son. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank
you for this.”
Gradually, as they sat and talked, the bar began to fill. Smells wafted from
the kitchen, rich, briny, pungent with herbs and spices. Carrie came in, waved
at Pierce, smiling for once before she vanished through the swinging doors.
Pierce recognized faces from his first Friday Nite ritual: the father and son
who held the doors open, the young priest who carried the gaff. A few knights
wandered in, including, he saw, a couple of marauders from Stillwater’s. They
looked subdued; they spoke quietly, very politely to Tye, who relented and
gave them what they wanted. A party of elderly couples entered, and behind
them, another knight, whom Pierce remembered immediately as the first he had
ever seen.
The knight with the hair like lamb’s wool and the eyes of balmy, tropical
blue, carried his wine over to the family gathering on the couch, and toasted
them with it.
“Sir Gareth May,” Leith said. “This is Heloise Oliver. The mother of my
sons.”
“Strange how I knew that the moment I saw you,” Gareth said to her, smiling.
“That hair, those eyes—such generous gifts to your children. I see this is
the place to be for supper tonight.”
“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.