When the Heretic returned to the garden he found Creyn and Brother Anatoly waiting with Basil at the foot of the boarding ladder. Mr. Betsy stuck his bewigged head out of the belly hatch and said, "Step lively! I can't wait all night. I've missed half of the Firvulag barbecue at the Field of Gold as it is, twiddling my thumbs while you finished mind-scrubbing these urchins."
Creyn said to Minanonn, "We know that you plan to body-fly to the Grand Tourney, then join Kyllikki later when she is at sea. Anatoly and Basil and I wish to accompany you."
"I asked that pigheaded durachoka to take me with her," the old Franciscan muttered. "Told her I wouldn't harass her. But she went off and left me." He grinned slyly. "As it turned out, it was providential."
Betsy called down waspishly, "Are you coming or aren't you?"
Minanonn lifted a great hand. "Off you go. We four seem to have other business to takecare of."
Betsy sniffed. "Stand clear, then." The ladder withdrew and the hatch slammed shut. The two Tanu and the two humans moved back as the aircraft powered up and acquired its eerie coating of reticulated light. Wisps of acrid smoke came from the charred areas around the landing-strut pads. The bird seemed to lift its head and look skyward. A moment later it lofted straight up into darkness.
The garden was quiet except for a single chirping cricket and the wind in the pines. Minanonn said, "I'm going to the games because I'm an unregenerate old thrill seeker. Somehow, I suspect you three have a rather different motive."
"We love Elizabeth," Creyn said, "and we want to save her from herself. And perhaps forestall the war in the process."
Minanonn's aura of good humor vanished. "Redactive Brother, I won't see her badgered—no matter what noble intentions you may have!"
"We won't say a word to her," Anatoly declared. "It's Remillard we're after. We want to track him down—he's bound to be there—and make one last appeal to his better judgment." The priest's eyes flicked to Creyn. "Based on new information received."
"Are you out of your minds?" the former Battlemaster exclaimed.
Creyn was patient. "The three of us probably know Remillard as well as any people in Black Crag—excepting Elizabeth. We're not afraid of him."
"And what we hope to tell him," Basil said, "is hardly likely to provoke—er—adversarious wrath. On the contrary. It just may compel a change of heart."
"For the love of Tana, what is it?" Minanonn asked.
Anatoly lifted his shoulders in Slavic declension. Once again he indicated Creyn, whose mind was closely shuttered. "We can't tell you unless Elizabeth releases this poor besotted lozhn'iy from a rash promise he made."
"But obviously," Minanonn said to Anatoly and Basil, "you two share the secret.
The priest waved a bony forefinger. "Creyn told Basil before he made his promise to Elizabeth. As for me—"
The redactor said, "I sought counsel from Brother Anatoly to ease my conscience when it seemed that larger considerations outweighed the promise Elizabeth extracted from me. His judgment—and we three have pondered it at length—is that I have an obligation to give this information to the Adversary."
"All's fair in love and war," mumbled the old Franciscan, "and this is both, dai Bog!"
Minanonn looked from the redactor to the friar to the alpinist with growing exasperation. "If I were not a man of peace I'd coerce the three of you to quivering jellyfish and get to the bottom of this."
"Just take us to the Grand Tourney," Basil said. "We'll find Remillard somehow."
Anatoly said, "Both Creyn and Basil know his mental signature, and I'll get by with Siberian guile. They'll finger him and I'll make the overture."
"And he'll kill you," Minanonn said, "as easy as squashing flies!"
"He not a demon out of your Tanu legends," Anatoly told him. "He's only a man. He woremy clothes and worked with me in my garden. We talked ... about some of the damnedest things. I tell you there's a chance we can change his mind."
The Heretic regarded them bleakly. "You're a trio of lunatics, but I'm going to have to give you the benefit of the doubt. Let's fly. It's a long way to Nionel."
10
ON THE SECOND DAY, the rivalry between Tanu and Firvulag sharpened and bookies had a field day among the human sports fans, who threw their money away like there was no tomorrow. Inconspicuous amongthe throng, the tall man in the white duck pants and black t-shirt spent the morning watching coracle races on the river (won handily by the Firvulag), the kite fights (a draw), and the first round of the enduro chariot races (top points to Kuhal Earthshaker's team). The man smiled as he caught sight of Cloud up in the royal enclosure, disguised as a Warrior Maid in coercer harness, cheering her hero down the stretch.
In the afternoon there were hammer throws and caber-tossing events, dominated by the thicker-thewed Little People; and a stylized free-for-all between the ogresses and the female Tanu knights, fought on foot, which saw the first Grand Tourney fatalities.
After wandering through the refreshment pavilion the man returned to the riverside bleachers to watch more water sports. The windsurfer races, although billed as one of the minor events, attracted an unusually large cheering section of gorgeous Tanu ladies, who applauded madly when the Deputy Marshal of Sport introduced a silver-tore contestant named Niccolo MacGregor. This personage, with all the pa nache of a bantam rooster, demolished the dwarfish opposition and finished the winning heat handstanding on his surfboard while the exotic women showered his rig with yellow rosebuds.
"It's the King, of course," said a voice at the tall man's elbow. He turned slightly and saw a lanky old friar in a brown-wool habit sitting next to him on the bench, nibblinga tournedos Rossini.
"That looks good," Marc said.
"Vendor's just around the rear of the stand. Be glad to get you one." Anatoly jingled a shabby purse hanging from his cincture. "I'm flush. Made a killing at the chariot races."
"Thank you—but no."
The priest smacked his lips. "Got real truffles and foie-gras on it. Fantastic! Sure you don't want one?"
"Quite sure." Marc sat at ease, watching the pseudo-Niccolo being carried off in triumph by a squad of statuesque beauties in pastel chiffon. "So the King participates in the games, does he?"
"Not officially—and not using his metapsychic powers, of course. Nobody's supposed to use mental strength until the big tug-of-war on Day Four and the no-holds-barred hurley game that climaxes the Tourney."
"Not even in the jousting?"
"Especially not in the jousting."
"Will the King be a contestant tomorrow?"
"It's rumored he'll enter the pogo-stick leap. To help promote the peaceful uses of iron, you see."
"And will he go anonymously into the lists?"
Anatoly's eyes twinkled. "I guess we'll just have to be there tomorrow and see. Coming to the Japanese lantern parade and the Ground-Star Ball tonight?"
"Unless other matters demand my attention."
Anatoly finished the tidbit and licked his fingers. Out on the river, course attendants were setting up a large ring of white floats. The Deputy Marshal announced the next contest, something called a kelpie randan. The priest said, "So the Firvulag King turned down your offer, eh?"
Marc gave him a sharp look. The tip of a coereive-redaetive probe stroked Anatoly's brain, making his cheeks bulge and sweat start out on the back of his neck.
"Did Elizabeth send you here to spy?" Abaddon inquired softly.
"She doesn't even know I'm at the games, dammit! Don't ream me—I'm only the advance man. The one you have to talk to is Creyn, waiting down back of the bleachers with Basil. He'd welcome your turning his mind inside out. He has important information for you."
The probe retracted minimally. The coercive hold tightened. A roar went up from the crowd as a team of grotesque Howlers prepared to face a human squad of the King's Elites ina wild variant of water polo. Marc was on his feet, herding Anatoly toward the exit steps.
"You seem to be telling the truth
, Brother. I believe I'll listen to what our friend Creyn has to say. And on the way out, perhaps we can do business with that tournedos vendor after all."
***
The royal flagship, with Aiken at the controls, landed close to the perimeter of the silver hemisphere and seemed to contemplate its distorted reflection in the gaudy sunset light. Bleyn and Alberonn, armed with big actinic blasters, stood by as the twenty-two metapsychic Rebels who had mutinied against their leader came down the aircraft ladder, followed by the King. Aiken transmitted an indecipherable mental command and an airlock door opened in the surface of the force-field. He watched the others pass through, then came after and resealed the barrier behind him.
The Children of Rebellion were waiting there in the barbican of Castle Gateway, ready to say goodbye to their parents for the last time.
WALTER: Veikko! Son ... you look fine, and Irena, too. God, this is wonderful. I can't believe it's happening.
VEIKKO: You're limping.
WALTER: It's nothing. The Tanu redactors say they'll be able to fix me up. But you—! Have you kids really done it? Really built the Guderian device?
IRENA: It's not quite finished, Walter. Perhaps by tomorrow.
VEIKKO: The cables need to have their micro-guts tuned up a skosh, that's all. There are problems with the core-mesh of superfine cladded wire, the damn stuff that's given us hell all along. But once the technical people get it squared away we power up, do a fast test, then just ... go.
IRENA: Hagen and Cloud will be first, of course, because of Marc. Once they pass through the gate, the rest of us should be safe.
VEIKKO: Cloud pulled a fast one today. Her Tanu lover, rather. He told the King he wouldn't do his thing in the big chariot race unless Cloudie was there watching. Boy, was Aiken Drum pissed! But he finally caved in and took her with him to the royal enclosure and guarded her like a hawk.
IRENA: Kuhal won the race, too.
WALTER: I guess you kids know about this Peace Faction going to resettle Ocala. And why they're leaving Europe...
VEIKKO: The Nightfall War may never happen, Dad. Cloud got the latest poop from Kuhal. The King and Queen of the Firvulag don't trust Marc to direct them in metaconcert. They think they can lick Aiken and his Tanu army on their own. And maybe they're right.
IRENA: We're all so glad you'll be safe. Whatever happens to us.
WALTER: You'll get away! I know you will! You're soclose!
VEIKKO: Sure we will. Good guys always win. And I guess we're good guys...[Doubt.]
IRENA: If we get to the Milieu, we'll make up for everything somehow. Some of us have been thinking about it. Planning—
WALTER: I hope you can. God, I hope so.
VEIKKO: We're scared.
WALTER: So am I. But it's different now, isn't it?
VEIKKO: We stood up to him—us kids, and you, too. We'll see that they know in the Milieu, Walter. Especially about you and Alexis Manion—
AIKEN: Come.
WALTER: It's time. Kyllikki sails on the evening tide. Good luck, you two.
VEIKKO: Bon voyage, Walter. Wherever.
***
Elizabeth danced with the King, not knowing or caring what the music was, content to let him lead her, resting in his strength.
The enormous paper neputas were ranged in a circle about the dancing ground, softly gleaming. Their sides showed every sort of scene, every sort of creature and being characteristic of the Many-Colored Land, ironically executed in classic Japanese style in translucent colored paints. Behind the great lanterns were the ancient trees of the bottomland forest, where a myriad of yellow, green, and pink fireflies had been gathered by some Howler art to evoke the theme of the Ground-Star Ball. Overhead, the real stars of Pliocene November flamed more palely as the tardy moon rose. The constellation of the Trumpet, hiding the Duat Galaxy behind its mouthpiece star, was at the zenith.
Aiken said to Elizabeth, "You're happier. I'm glad."
"It's good being with you again, dear."
"Funny," he said, "the way I feel about you. No sex at all. Not brotherly, either. I don't know what to call it. You want me to control you and I want to do it. Like a father and a very little girl."
"Hermes Psychopompos," she said lightly. "The soul guide. A very rare archetype indeed. I presume my subconscious knows what it needs."
"I'm not really the one, though, am I? But I wish—I wish you could be my Queen. I could love you and never be afraid."
"You'll find her someday, Aiken. You're very young."
"But growing up fast," he said, laughing.
Their minds disengaged and for a while, they simply let the dance own them. It was, Elizabeth realized to her surprise, almost a foreshadowing of Unity ... And then he said:
"I want you to trust me. Let me into the hidden part of you for just a moment. Let me look behind the real mask you've always worn. Will you?"
She stiffened in his arms and there was a fearful chilling. "Why?"
The mind spoke, enclosing her, vast and familiar and strong: Trust me. Let me look. For your sake and for all of us. Please.
I can't—
Please, I must know the truth.
There's fire—
I know. Poor Elizabeth. You're so proud and afraid. If you'd only learn to trust.
Brother Anatoly wants me to trust God—
Just trust Me. Let me come. There...
She was suspended in silence, all alone. The blackness around her was not mental. She knew that somehow. It was a remote part of the physical universe, intergalactic space, void of stars, without even a wisp of glowing gas. There was only a single object for her mind to fasten on, one respite from everlasting Night.
A pinwheel of bluish-white sparkling haze, tiny and exquisite. A whirlpool of suns isolated from other clusters of galaxies. A barred spiral she might reach out and touch, and move.
She opened her eyes.
She was dancing with Marc Remillard.
"Creyn broke his promise," she said. "He was not to tell you. The vision is his, not mine. Impossible."
"I agree. And yet—appealing. If only I were not committed to my own challenge, and so close to realizing it again. The years have been bitter, Elizabeth. I can't resist trying."
"I know." She did not dare look at him again. He was not dressed in exotic finery as the King had been but wore almost archaic tropical formal wear, a black dinner jacket and a ruffled shirt. She let her head rest on his breast, submitted to his lead, but without surrendering as she had to the King.
"You have three very persistent and brave friends, Elizabeth."
"I told them not to come here. They have no right to interfere. And Creyn promised!"
"He told me more than his Duat vision," Marc said. "Creyn told me that you loved me, Elizabeth—and so did Aiken. Is it true?"
"It's impossible," she said, from behind the flames.
"I think so, too, but your friends are more stubborn. Basil has climbed the mountain and Creyn has helped make black-torc children whole and operant and Anatoly—experienced a temporary triumph at my expense. As I said, they're stubborn. They'd like to think nothing is impossible."
"We know better, Marc."
"Yes," he said, and they danced in blackness unrelieved. Then it was Aiken who held her under trees starred by fireflies, and the music slowed at last and stopped.
11
SHORTLY AFTER DAWN on the Third Day, with the King and his entire High Table and Elizabeth standing by as observers, the haggard workers on the Guderian Project gathered in the inner courtyard of Castle Gateway for the initial power-up of thetau-generator. Even the five tiny children of the North Americans were present, drowsy and solemn-faced, but more interested in the spectacularly costumed Tanu Exalted Ones than in the device that might transport them to the Galactic Milieu.
The apparatus was somewhat larger than the original machine built by Theo Guderian. Itstill bore an uncanny resemblance to an old-fashioned latticework pergola or gazebo draped in vi
nes. In order to compensate for the rise in terrain that would occur over the six-million-year time span, the device stood on scaffolding slightly over two meters in height. Its frame was of transparent glassy material; at each joint was a nodular component ofblack, having obscure scintillations dimly visible within. The "vines," actually heavy cables of multi colored alloys, emerged from bare ground under the platform and crept in and out of the lattice. At a point fifteen centimeters above the gazebo roof the cables seemed to vanish, then reappear in a mysterious fashion to twine down again through the rear framework.
"What are you going to send off first?" Aiken asked Hagen.
The young man held out a small box carved from rock crystal, lifting its lid to show athin wafer of metal with a blue-black tarnish.
"Potassium. After it makes the round trip, we run it through an ordinary kay-ay dater to be sure it's picked up twelve million years. According to theory, the focus of the time-gate is fixed. If the machine works at all, it should take its cargo to the grounds of l'Auberge du Portail on the synchronous Milieu date of 2 November 2111, then whisk it back here as the tau-field recycles."
"Right," said the King. "Let's get on with it." He reached out and took the hand of Elizabeth, who was standing beside him, her face lacking expression and her mind inaccessible.