The Agency, Volume III Page 10

  Beside her, Ardeth was propped up on his elbow, the blanket draped over his hip, the watery light coming through the sheer curtains making his eyes sparkle. “What news?” he asked as she set the phone back on the bedside table.

  “None, really,” she replied, sliding back into the covers, and into his arms, smiling in spite of her concern. There was, she had learned long ago, nothing quite like a warm naked Elf to make you forget your troubles. “He just wanted to keep me updated, and I think to hear my voice. He sounds lonely.”

  Ardeth, who had buried his face in her hair, shook his head. His voice was muffled. “I do not understand what the night-walker could have been thinking, doing this.”

  “They think that the creature put out some kind of compulsive empathic field. It realized Jason could stop the virus and played on his sympathy for Alex. That alone tells me we’re dealing with something dangerous, if it can and will manipulate a vampire’s emotions that easily.”

  He wound his fingers through her hair, drawing it back over her ear so he could lean in and suck delicately at her earlobe. Despite the fact that they’d only finished half an hour ago, she felt desire stir in her body for the fourth…fifth? Yes, fifth time since the previous sunset. “Mmm…what time is it?”

  “Midmorning,” was the murmured reply. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

  “Besides right here, with you? Hell no. It’s just hard to tell time here even when it’s not cloudy, and I promised Rowan I’d look in on Aven this afternoon…later. Much later.” She leaned back against him, letting his hand find its leisurely way over her hip and belly, up over her breasts, and back down her side in a slow, hypnotic circuit.

  “I am,” Ardeth remarked, “quite pleased that my daughter elected to spend the night at the Baker’s house with her friends. She’ll be happily up to her elbows in sweet dough all day long, and I…”

  “Don’t say you’ll be up to your elbows in—“

  “Perhaps not to the elbow, but still—“

  Sara giggled. "You're incorrigible."

  "And you, my lady Witch, are exquisite."

  She turned halfway over and caught his mouth in a kiss, then said, "Keep saying things like that and you're going to get so very, very lucky."

  "I already am."

  About an hour later, Sara lay sticky and spent on her stomach with his head on her shoulder, half-sprawled over her back, their fingers laced together. She'd spent the last three days sore, sleepy, and almost goofily happy, content to let herself go where the day took her, exploring the woods with Elora, meeting and greeting members of the Clan--some were Ardeth's friends, and some were from Clan Yew and wanted to thank her for her help in freeing them, which made her feel awkward and embarrassed but didn't stop her from accepting the gifts, and food, they piled on her--and of course having more sex in a 72-hour span than she had in the last six months.

  Ardeth was an accomplished lover, at turns aggressive and accommodating, certainly adventurous; aside from making sure that Elora was always being looked after, he was perfectly happy to spend hours and hours with Sara mating like wild beasts in a variety of places and positions all over the village.

  Sara might have felt guilty except that Elora had a lot of friends, both among the children and the adults, and apparently the Elflings ran in a pack, alternating houses and activities inbetween their lessons and chores. For her part the girl seemed quite pleased at events and gave a disturbing number of significant eyebrow quirks for someone her age.

  Sara drifted toward and from a nap, pulled along by Ardeth's quiet, even breathing--Elves didn't snore, thank Goddess--and slipped down the shores into sleep.

  In her dream the world was burning.

  Smoke choked her, heat seared her skin, and she ran, and ran, blind with panic and desperate for air. All around her were screams, the screams of the dying and the grieving, the screams of those being taken away. She knew what was happening, she had foreseen it--why, oh why hadn't she heeded her visions, and warned the Council? Would they have believed her? They thought the Clan was impenetrable, their location untraceable. She had believed so too. Their arrogance, their arrogance had brought them to this, watching from a distance on high as the other Clans fell...it could never happen here...until today...

  She called again and again, her voice hoarse and giving out, her throat burning as the Temple burned. She could see it in the distance, rising above the smoke, its pearlescent spire the only beautiful thing left of her home, her people. "Kaelan! Kaelan!"

  Her screams were lost among the multitude. She could not feel the link between them--there was too much horror and fear blocking the ancient tie of mother to son--but she knew he had been at work when the first shots were fired to murder the sentries. His home had been on the village's edge, with the others of his calling, on the side where the humans had come from--he could be dead already--

  "Kaelan!"

  Someone seized her arm and dragged her. She fought, but it was an Elven voice that cut through the din. "Neneva, you must run! Come with me! We must make for the forest while we still can!"

  "No!" she struggled against the Bard, her friend. "I have to find my son--"

  "He's gone," he said, and the world stopped its turning. She looked up at him, wild-eyed, a choking sound escaping her. "Neneva, I saw it--they took him. If he is fortunate he is dead already. There's nothing you can do."

  "No," she sobbed, falling to her knees even as he tried to haul her along toward the trees. "No, no, no...it cannot be...you do not understand...my child...my child...our hope...I was meant to keep him safe, if I failed we are all lost...we have to go back!"

  "My Lady--"

  She ignored the honorific, ignored the indignity she had brought to her office. What did it matter now? She, the spiritual leader of the first Clan, calm center of their world, would not acquiesce to her fate, would not abandon her only child, their only hope, to a long and tormented death at the hands of mortals. "Let me go!"

  "Nen--"

  "Let me go! We have to save him! Tevran, listen to me--my son is Jenai--"

  "You're mad, Nen. There is no such thing and we have no time." The Bard pulled her again to her feet, and though she was uncooperative he dragged her with him, the sheer force of his will enough to move her. She knew he thought she was insane with grief, and perhaps she was, but she knew the truth, had always known. From the first dream, that night beneath the Tree, to the morning she brought him forth, she had always known. She had kept her knowledge secret for four hundred years, knowing in the way that the Sibyls knew that no one must know, not even him, until it was time. She should have sent him away, to be fostered somewhere safe, and now...

  She was sobbing, wailing, clawing at Tevran's hands that drew her away, her nostrils full of the stench of burning bodies and blood, the screams going on and on, both hers and her Clan’s. Her sister, her father, all those faces she looked upon during the rites...the man who had lain with her that night so long ago...the other Priestesses, the Rethla, the Healers...her son...

  No, no, no...

  "Down, Nen!" Tevran shoved her forward just as a whistling noise split the air, only feet before they reached the treeline. The Bard pitched forward, and blood sprayed across her face, soaking her robes as the bullet tore its way through Tevran's chest. He fell to the ground, dead before he even had time to cry out, and she stood over him, unable to breathe, or even to think. She looked up to see a cadre of humans approaching, their weapons raised, searching for survivors. They would kill her. She would die. She wanted to die.

  She screamed at them in Elvish, her words meaningless to them, but the hatred in them clear; perhaps the sight of a blood-soaked woman in white robes, mind fled with pain and loss, caused them to balk, for they did not open fire, but stood transfixed as she keened, fists clenched, calling out to the Goddess to save them, to save her son, to save them all, and to avenge the blood spilt on this holy soil in the name of ignorance and profit.

  And the pow
er sang through her as her voice gave out, burning her hands, burning her eyes; she had not been trained as a Mage, but she was strong in her magic, and the raw force of her grief erupted from her, a wall of blue-white flame bursting to life between her and the men. She heard them shout in pain and fear, and she heard them flee.

  It was only then that she ran.

  Sara woke flailing, her throat full of needles and her eyes streaming with tears, fighting against the arms that held her down--she had to run, had to run--

  "Sara! Sara!"

  She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering, and the sheets were soaked with her sweat, but she twisted and bucked until she could see where she was--a bedroom, lit gently with the thin sunlight of a rainy day, the air fresh, not full of smoke.

  The Elf beside her gripped her arms tightly to keep her from hurting herself in her struggles, and his face was pale, but his voice was calm as he repeated her name again, and again, bringing her back to herself.

  Sara flung herself into his arms, weeping. It had been so real...she had known what the raids were like, had seen the destruction, had felt the pain in the land, but not like this...never like this. It had been her life, her screams, her friends and family dying all around her...

  Ardeth held her, rocking her gently back and forth, murmuring to her in the cool river of Elvish until she was still. She trembled in his arms for a long time, unable to speak, and he didn't push.

  Finally, he offered her a glass of water, and she took it, as well as the wine that followed.

  "Tell me," he said softly, his hand curled around her neck, his forehead pressed to hers.

  "I dreamed the fall of one of the Clans," she whispered. She could barely force the words out, her throat hurt so badly from screams that weren't hers to claim. "There was a woman, a Priestess. I was her. She was trying to find her son in the fires. She was so scared..."

  Ardeth was silent, but she could feel the echoes of his own sorrow--he knew exactly how she felt. He had suffered the same, lost his beloved just as Neneva had lost her son, and thought Elora dead or worse. Sara wept again, finally understanding what they had all been through. It was one thing to hear of it, and to see its effect on those she loved, but to see it firsthand…how could any of their people look on her with anything but hatred after what the humans had done?

  "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

  He understood. "It wasn't you, my darling. It wasn't you."

  She fought for control of her emotions, tried to ground, and was mostly successful after a few minutes. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This woman," she said. "Her name was Neneva. Have you heard of her?"

  Ardeth sat back, eyebrows shooting up. "Neneva..."

  "Yes. She was a Priestess. She said something about hers being the first Clan."

  He was silent, and she looked at him, seeing both recognition and confusion on his face.

  "What?" she asked. "Who was she?"

  Now it was Ardeth's turn to take a deep breath. "Neneva was the High Priestess of Clan Oak. She was one of the most powerful Elves ever known."

  "She had a son--she was trying to find him. His name was Kaelan. Her friend said the slavers took him--"

  At the name, Ardeth started visibly; if he had been Catholic, Sara was sure he would have crossed himself. "Yes, they did," he said, his words barely above a whisper. "According to the legend, Neneva was found wandering the forest by the few survivors of the massacre. She had gone mad, and they say she took her own life. Her son..."

  "Is dead," she said, nodding around the knot of sorrow in her heart. "He must be, by now."

  Ardeth looked down at the blankets, then back up at her. "Dead in name only, Sara, a name buried in the ashes of Clan Oak--a name that until this moment had not been spoken aloud in twenty years."

  "Oh my God..."

  "Yes."

  Sara felt fresh tears filling her eyes at the belated realization. "Rowan."

  *****

  For the first time in many years, Rowan dreamed of his mother.

  They were walking together along the garden labyrinth behind the Temple; the Blessing Tree stood at the center of the labyrinth, its roots and branches encircling the path, eternal symbol that the Goddess was both center and circumference of all. He had spent many an hour here following its curves and turns, letting some problem or another turn in his mind; only rarely did a complete walk of the labyrinth not offer a solution. The mind cleared, the spirit opened, and the sacred could speak.

  "You seem troubled, my Lady," he said. For centuries they had spoken to one another as equals, even though as High Priestess she outranked him in the Council; his power and reputation as the senior Rethla and Council representative gave him certain privileges, however, as did being her son. Even as a child, she had treated him like an adult, and he had always appreciated that about her.

  “I suppose I am,” she replied. She was in her Winter coloring, which he thought odd—all around them were the greens of late Spring. He didn’t have a mirror to see what season he was in. “We received word that Clan Cypress has fallen.”

  He sighed. He hadn’t known anyone from Cypress, but with each Clan destroyed, the threat came closer and closer to their own borders, and each life it cost diminished them all. There was little enough magic left in the world without the humans killing what remained. “Is anything to be done? Were there survivors?”

  “I do not know. The rest of the Council is, as always, loath to get involved.” Some bitterness showed in her words, surprising him; she was never emotional, not even with her own son. There was some bad blood between her and some of the Council members; their policy of non-involvement with the massacres was, she claimed, going to haunt them one day. The Council insisted that they were trying to keep their own people safe by cutting themselves off from the rest of the world. Neneva, who spoke for the Goddess, believed their safety was worth little if they could not extend compassion to their sundered kin.

  “But let us not speak of that,” she went on, offering a smile. “You and I so rarely see each other these days. I was pleased to hear that you had time for me.”

  He laughed. “I will always make time for you, Mother.”

  She looked at him, her face very serious, and took his hands in hers. “Are you happy, my son?” she asked.

  He frowned—it was not the sort of thing she tended to wonder. “Of course I am.”

  “Are you happy here, even with the constant threats against you, and the uncertainty of the future? Are you happy with your beloved and your friends? I must know.”

  There were tears in her eyes, and he wove his fingers into hers, meeting her gaze with equal sincerity. “Yes, Mother. I am. It took a long time and a lot of pain, but there’s nowhere I would rather be.”

  “I did not want this for you,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks, and he took the edge of his robe to wipe them away. In all his life he had never seen her cry. “Everything you have suffered—I wish I could have saved you—and there is more ahead. The Sibyl has foreseen it. As soon as the Seraph finds you, everything will change again. The world will change. It has already begun—the spark has ignited and the flame grows within the womb of our future. You must be ready.”

  “Mother…”

  “I have been trying to reach you for a while now, to tell you…seek the Sibyl. She alone can give you the truth. Follow the old road into the West to the Rune Tree. Death, not life, must accompany you there, for death guards you as the Seraph guards life.”

  “I do not understand,” he began, but she stepped away, looking up; he followed her gaze and saw that the sun had faded, night coming on swiftly, the sky an angry swirl of grey and black with no stars able to penetrate. A cold wind kicked up, tossing her robes and her knee-length hair around her, and he instinctively grabbed for his own, but found he was wearing an Agency uniform, an Ear, and his gun.

  Overhead there was a great rushing of wings, and he tried to look up again, but there was not
hing but clouds and wind; when he looked back down his mother had vanished, leaving him standing alone in the labyrinth, the Blessing Tree’s limbs crashing in the gale.

  And as he woke, he felt something thundering inside him, a pounding he mistook at first for drums but realized, just as his eyes flew open, was a heartbeat.

  Part Seven

  Rowan sat bolt upright in bed, panting, clutching the sheets to his chest like a lifeline. Details of the room intruded on the vision of the past, and he remembered where he was: his bedroom, far beneath the Earth, in the Agency base. He could smell lightning in the air even this far belowground—there must be an intense storm outside, perhaps even the culmination of the rain Sara had reported from Clan Willow that morning.