I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Ulysses
In the Fane of the Masters were whines of utter despair. The Lifetree had taken root, exerting its equilibrium.
The influences of the Five pulsed erratically against blue deCourteney enchantments. Andre spread his arms wide with a gusty laugh; Gabrielle’s luminance was renewed. They’d been beleaguered, but now the attacks were dissipated like so much mist.
Gabrielle’s green eyes narrowed. Arrogant Masters who’d been within an instant of godhood were naked to her. The sorceress’ unquenchable will, supported by her brother’s arts, dragged her enemies from their places. Their dreams of deity were broken, leaving only their obscene shapes. Skaranx, faithless watchman; Temopon, deceitful advisor; Vorwoda, hateful lover; Kaytaynor, friend-slayer; and Dorodeen, flawed hero; they came in a semicircle around the deCourteneys as failed, petty spirits.
One by one, Gabrielle called their names. They came to touch their heads to the floor at her feet, monstrous shapes bending to an unforeseen task.
No words passed, but the same sharp aspect was in both the deCourteneys’ miens. Gabrielle raised both hands high, a very empress of magic. A final radiance broke from the two. The central column vibrated, a webwork of cracks appearing all along its granite height. The deCourteneys turned to leave their enemies. The Masters made a tentative move to follow. She whirled back; they were cowed by her glance alone.
The stone pillar was wrapped in a sleeve of blue glory, held together only by Gabrielle’s imperatives. Brother and sister came to the doors, which Andre opened with a motion of his head and a word of Compulsion. Men fell back, averting their eyes from the unbearable light. Framed in it, Gabrielle made a last Dismissal. The central column came apart in a shower of stone and dust. The roof cracked, enormous chunks of it breaking loose. The immeasurable weight of the Fane collapsed.
In that penultimate moment, the Five shook loose from the ages of their plotting, resigning themselves to death with a perverse curiosity, as their Fane crashed down upon them.
Returning down the road from Salamá, Andre and Gabrielle and the army came to the broken dray. There, Ferrian and Reacher kept watch over the body of Hightower.
Gabrielle went to him slowly, stooping to lass the Warlord’s leathery brow. “He was at peace, at the end,” Ferrian told her gently.
Her eyes were brimming. “It was granted us both to know why we failed against Salamá so long ago. Seeing the Lady’s whole plan was a measure of compensation.”
Healers were seeing to Ferrian’s temple and Reacher’s leg, applying demulcents to the burns they’d gotten when the Orb had opened against them. They had no news yet of what had happened on the hill, so wizard and sorceress hurried on, as Van Duyn, Katya, Dunstan and Swan already had.
Riding up, they saw a blackened area in the grass, not knowing it was the spot where Bey’s hellhorse had fallen and evaporated as its unnatural life was consumed.
At the top of the hill, the rest had gathered by the Lifetree. The Tree towered over them, already crowded with caroling Birds of Accord. The timeless artificial twilight of Salamá was dispersing, and honest night breaking through.
Swan, Van Duyn and the Snow Leopardess stood over them as Gil and Dunstan knelt by Springbuck’s unmoving body. Andre grieved anew, thinking this last death might be more than his sister could bear. Then the Ku-Mor-Mai groaned, drawing up one knee. Gabrielle ran to him, as Gil recounted the events of the chase. Sisters of the Line crowded around their High Constable, pressing ministrations on her, and on the others’ wounds as well.
Of Bey’s body there was little remaining except dark powder; its spirit had preserved it all these centuries.
“The water stopped running before I could get to it,” Gil told Andre sadly, “and now the Tree’s taking it all; no more runoff.”
“ ’Twould do Hightower no good,” the wizard admitted. “He died even before you came to the mound.” He gazed to one side, and saw the double-bitted axehead, its collar snapped open by the insistent growth of the Lifetree.
“What about the Masters?” Gil wanted to know. Gabrielle pointed back toward the city. Shardishku-Salamá was consuming itself in fires leaping upward toward the sky.
“I’ve got to see,” he announced. Jeb Stuart’s hurts, and Fireheel’s, were being attended by knowledgeable cavalrymen. Gil was about to borrow a horse when Springbuck, struggling to his feet, called for two.
“Where is the injury so grievous it will keep us two from seeing this sight?” he demanded. No one contradicted him, or pressed to be taken along.
By the time they’d gotten to the city, the fires were burned out. There were only minor drifts of smoke; of the Necropolis there was nothing. The sky was nearly dark now, but the light of dawn was coming up in the east.
“So fast,” Gil murmured, “how could it have gone up so fast? Even the stone is gone.”
Springbuck shrugged. “The Masters endured long after they should have died, and so did their magic, and the things it built. All this destruction, held in abeyance, was accomplished in quickened time.”
Gil dismounted. “Coming?” Springbuck followed suit slowly, babying burns, aches and wounds.
They passed where the gateway arch had been, and stopped at the spot where the Fane had dominated Shardishku-Salamá. The place was flat, with no block, no timber, not so much as a potsherd to show a city had stood there. It was now a table of scorched earth. The American felt his side, where the wound had disappeared; something told him Dirge, too, had ceased to exist. Springbuck looked straight up, but there was no sign of the Trailingsword. He was unsurprised. Gil took the Ace of Swords and let it fall to the cauterized earth.
They made the long hike to their horses, mounted, rode away and never glanced back. Pale dawn had begun.
The armies had encamped around the base of the hill. Warriors of both sexes had begun ascending the hill, to bear witness of the Lifetree.
The deCourteneys and the others came down. Andre, guessing Gil’s thought, indicated the Tree and said, “By evening it will achieve full growth. Its uppermost branches will be in the clouds, its roots deep in the earth.”
Springbuck was speaking to Ferrian. “Friend Rider, your timing is harrowing-fine.”
The Horseblooded grinned, adjusting the bandages on his head. “Victory is its own excuse, as we say on the High Ranges. I came to the Isle of Keys just after the Mariner fleet set out. Andre, you rule the winds all too well!” He struck his thigh with his left hand. “For fact, I did, in haste, neglect to say something to Gil.” He looked to the American. “The ship I took was under two who said they knew you, said you needn’t seek for them yet at, um, ‘Fiddler’s Green,’ but might find them at the Golden Fluke.”
Gil laughed, then noticed Swan watching him. He sobered. “How would you like to see the Outer Hub?”
Her face was fond, but unhappy. “Region Blue has been without a High Constable long enough,” she declined. Catching Gabrielle’s eye, she added, “And Glyffa, far too long without a Trustee.”
The sorceress returned the appraisal. “Region Blue will have a new High Constable, in sooth.” Swan was startled; Gabrielle finished, “I cannot squander my best administrator on one area.” She saw Gil’s frown, and laughed. “No hangdog faces! You may visit, but there is the Reconciliation to consider.” To Springbuck she moved her glance, pretending still she spoke to the American. “We have much to do, you see, though there will be leisure too.”
The Ku-Mor-Mai held her eyes. “One mustn’t neglect affairs of state.”
Reacher surprised them all, saying, “I, for one, do not answer that plea of politics.”
Katya puzzled, “What now, brother?”
“You are clever, sister, and willful. And as formidable as you have to be.” He eased his injured leg. “Therefore, you have a season in which to do as you like, be it going with Edward again or returning with me to Freegate. But when that is done and this leg is sound, I would like you to take the throne, if you will. I am for the High Ranges.”
Van Duyn made a sour face. “The whole Crescent Lands are upside down; don’t plan a vacation yet.” He took the Snow Leopardess’ hand.
“But much of our plight came of Salamá,” Andre reminded, “and will lack a driving force now, though there remains the demon Amon.”
“And the Southwastelanders?” Springbuck prodded.
“Their center is failed. They are a factional people; our strong armies, going north without doing harm, might go unmolested.”
Gil seated himself on a rock, where Swan had set herself with a waterskin. He took a pull on it, the brackish water tasting sweet to him.
“There is work for you too, brother,” Gabrielle was telling Andre, “in Veganá. They need all help rebuilding there. What better place to go awhile, until the Reconciliation, when Glyffa’s call is upon you once more?”
“I’d hoped for Andre’s assistance myself,” Springbuck interjected. “There are the Druids.” The wizard looked torn.
Van Duyn sat down next to Gil. The younger man passed him the waterskin. “What are you going to do, Ed?”
“Finish what I started in the Highlands Province; I hate to quit anything like that. But there’s this business of Katya taking the throne. If you want to go home, you’ll probably have to come looking for me in Freegate.”
Swan stared at Gil as Van Duyn wandered off. Her face was soft and warm. To one side, Springbuck was gesticulating with Gabrielle, Andre and Katya, saying, “We are the most coherent force in the Crescent Lands. Disorders, rebellion, lawlessness there may be, but these we can overcome. In time, we might forge another Unity. What worthier labor is there?”
Swan asked Gil, “You have a plan too, Seeker?”
He rubbed the dark powderburn tattoo on his stubbled cheek. “Yeah; I’m gonna grow a beard.” She didn’t even smile. “All right, no, I have none, Swan.” He hung his head for a moment, then looked up. “But we have a long ride back, to talk about it.”
She flashed her grin. “A sensible beginning.”
Down where the war-drays of Matloo were laagered, the Yalloroon had gathered, joining hands, to dance and sing in jubilation. They’d seen Salamá burn, and were free. Gil was watching them when Springbuck came over. The Ku-Mor-Mai, too, inquired, “What will you do now?”
He shrugged. He hadn’t forgotten that the Berserkergang hadn’t come to him when he’d fought Bey. Had the Lifetree’s waters healed that too, the arsenal of the Rage?
Andre deCourteney had run down to take part in the Yalloroon’s dance, dragging with him Gabrielle, who protested only halfheartedly. The little Yalloroon giggled at them with delight; the wizard played the buffoon, flapping his arms, twirling on his toes. The sorceress curtseyed, and moved light-footedly.
Ferrian joined their circle, moving slowly with a modest skip, and Dunstan, who was roaring his amusement. Gil glanced to where the Lifetree climbed, almost visibly, in the sun. He stood, took Swan’s hand, led the High Constable to her feet. “I’m going dancing. You?”