Dying of the Light

heard impossible things and began to wonder. Ruark made no sense, he thought, but then he made too much sense. He explained everything, really, and it was all so shining clear, and clear too what Dirk must do. Or was it? The room wavered, grew dark and then light again, dark and then light, and Dirk was one second very sure and the next not sure at all. What must he do? Something, something for

Gwen. He must find out the truth of things, and then…

He raised a hand to his forehead. Beneath the dangling locks of gray-brown hair his brow was beaded with sweat. Ruark stood suddenly, alarm across his face. 'Oh,' the Kimdissi said, 'the wine has made you sick! Utter fool I am! My fault. Outworld wine and Avalon stomach, yes. Food will help, you know. Food.' He scurried off, brushing the potted plant as he went so the black spears bobbed and danced behind him.

Dirk sat very still. Far off in the distance he heard a clatter of plates and pots but paid it no mind. Still sweating, bis forehead was furrowed in thought, thought that was strangely difficult. Logic seemed to elude him, and the clearest things faded even as he grabbed hold of them. He trembled while dead dreams woke to new life, while the choker-woods withered in his mind and the Wheel burned hot and fiery above the new-flowering noonday woods of Worlorn. He could make it happen, force it, wake it, put an end to the long sunset, and have Jenny, his Guinevere, forever by his side. Yes. Yes!

When Ruark came back with forks and bowls of soft cheese and red tubers and hot meat, Dirk was calmer, cool again. He took the bowls and ate in half a trance while his host prattled on. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He would see them at breakfast, talk to them, learn what truth he could. Then he could act. Tomorrow.

'… no insult is intended,' Vikary was saying. 'You are not a fool, Lorimaar, but in this I think you act foolishly.'

Dirk froze in the doorway, the heavy wooden door that he had opened without thinking swinging away before him. All of them turned to regard him, four pairs of eyes, Vikary's last and not until he had finished what he was saying. Gwen had told him to come up to breakfast when they had parted the night be-

fore (him only, since Ruark and the Kavalars preferred to avoid each other whenever possible), and this was the correct time, just shortly after dawn. But the scene was not one he had expected to enter.

There were four of them in the cavernous living room. Gwen, hair unbrushed and eyes full of sleep, was seated on the edge of the low wood-and-leather couch that stretched in front of the fireplace and its gargoyle guards. Garse Janacek stood just behind her with his arms crossed and a frown on his face, while Vikary and a stranger confronted each other by the mantel. All three of the men were dressed formally, and armed. Janacek wore leggings and shirt of soft charcoal-gray, with a high collar and a double row of black iron buttons down his chest. The right sleeve of his shirt had been cut away to display the heavy bracelet of iron and dimly blazing glowstones. Vikary was also all in gray, but without the row of buttons; the front of his shirt was a V that swooped almost to his belt, and against the dark chest hair a jade medallion hung on an iron chain.

The newcomer, the stranger, was the first to address Dirk. His back was to the door, but he turned when the others looked up, and he frowned. Taller by a head than either Vikary or Janacek, he towered over Dirk, even at a distance of several meters. His skin was a hard brown, very dark against the milk-white suit he wore beneath the pleated folds of a violet half-cape. Gray hair, shot through with white, fell to his broad shoulders, and his eyes-flints of obsidian set in a brown face with a hundred lines and wrinkles -were not friendly. Neither was his voice. He looked Dirk over quickly, then said, very simply, 'Get out.'

'What?' No reply could be as stupid as his was, Dirk thought even as he said it, but nothing else came to mind.

'I said get out,' the giant in white repeated. Like Vikary, both of his forearms were bare to display the bracelets, the almost-twins of jade-and-silver on his left arm and iron-and-fire on his right. But the patterns and settings of the stranger's armlets were very different. The only thing that was the same, exactly, was the gun on his hip.

Vikary folded his arms, just as Janacek had already folded his. 'This is my place, Lorimaar high-Braith. You have no right to be rude to those who come at my invitation.'

'An invitation you yourself lack, Braith,' Janacek added with a tiny venomous smile.

Vikary looked over at his teyn, shook his head sharply and vigorously. No. But to what? Dirk wondered.

'I come to you in high grievance, Jaantony high-Ironjade, with serious talking to do,' the white-suited Kavalar rumbled. 'Must we treat before an off-worlder?' He glanced at Dirk again, still frowning. 'A mockman, for all I know.'

Vikary's voice was quiet but stern when he replied. 'We are done dealing, friend. I've told you my answer. My betheyn has my protection, and the Kimdissi, and this man too'-he indicated Dirk with a wave of his hand, then folded his arms again– 'and if you take any among these, then prepare to take me.'

Janacek smiled. 'He is no mockman either,' the gaunt red-bearded Kavalar said. 'This is Dirk t'Larien, korariel of Ironjade, whether you like it or no.' Janacek turned very slightly in Dirk's direction and indicated the stranger in white. 'T'Larien, this is Lorimaar Reln Winterfox high-Braith Arkellor.'

'A neighbor of ours,' Gwen said from the couch, speaking for the first time. 'He lives in Larteyn too.'

'Far from you, Ironjades,' the other Kavalar said. He was not happy. The frown was deep-graven in his face, and his black eyes moved from one of them to the next, full of cold anger, before coming to rest on Vikary. 'You are younger than me, Jaantony high-Ironjade, and your teyn younger still, and I would not willingly go to face you and yours in duel. Yet code has its demands, as you know and I, and neither of us should venture too far. You young highbonds oft press that line closely, I feel, and the highbonds of Ironjade most of all, and-'

'And I most of all the highbonds of Ironjade,' Vikary said, finishing for the other.

Arkellor shook his head. 'Once, when I was but an unweaned child in the holdfasts of Braith, it was duel to so much as interrupt another, as you have done now to me. Truly, the old ways have gone. The men of High Kavalaan turn soft before my eyes.'

'You think me soft?' Vikary asked quietly.

'Yes and no, high-Ironjade. You are a strange one. You have a hardness none can deny, and that is good, but Avalon has put the stench of the mockman on you, touched you with the weak and foolish. I do not like your betheyn-bitch, and I do not like your 'friends.' Would that I were younger. I would come at you in fury and teach you again the old wisdoms of the holdfast, the things that you forget so easy.'

'Do you call us to duel?' Janacek asked. 'You speak strongly.'

Vikary unfolded his arms and waved casually with his hand. 'No, Garse. Lorimaar high-Braith does not call us to duel. Do you, friend, highbond?'

Arkellor waited several heartbeats too long before his answer came. 'No,' he said. 'No, Jaantony high- Ironjade, no insult is intended.'

'And none is taken,' Vikary said, smiling.

The Braith highbond did not smile. 'Good fortunes,' he said begrudgingly. He went to the door in long strides, pausing only long enough to let Dirk step hurriedly aside, then proceeded out and up the roof stairs. The door closed behind him.

Dirk started toward the others, but the scene was quickly breaking up. Janacek, with a frown and a shake of his head, turned and left quickly for another room. Gwen rose, pale and shaken, and Vikary took a step toward Dirk.

'That was not a good thing for you to witness,' the Kavalar said. 'But perhaps it will be enlightening to you. Still, I regret your presence. I would not have you think of High Kavalaan as the Kimdissi do.'

'I didn't understand,' Dirk said. Vikary put an arm around his shoulder and drew him off toward the dining room, Gwen just behind them. 'What was he talking about?'

'Ah, much. I will explain. But I must tell you a second regret also, that your promised breakfast is not set and ready for you.' He smiled.

'I can wait.' They went into the dining room and sat, Gwen still silent and troubled. 'What did Garse call me?' Dirk asked. 'Kora–something, what does that mean?'

Vikary appeared hesitant. 'The word is korariel. It is an Old Kavalar word. Its meanings have changed over the centuries. Today, here in this place, when used by Garse or myself, it means protected. Protected by us, protected of Ironjade.'

'That is what you would like it to mean, Jaan,' Gwen said, her voice barbed and angry. 'Tell him the real