So this was Peter, of whom Silkhands had spoken so much. So this was Peter, whom I had given a nutpie in Schooltown, years ago. So this was Peter, whom I had dreamed over since, lusted over, longed over, loved with a passion beyond my years and an intensity that had not waned. I tried to think. The Bright Demesne was a Wizard Demesne! Was it possible we shared ... “Wizard?” I asked. She shook her head.
“I think not, Jinian. Something else. He’s wearing no insignia at all, but he’s unmistakably Gamesman. Besides, he talks like a Gamesmaster. He told me all about Ephemera.”
“You already know about Ephemera. We all do.”
“Well, he didn’t seem to know that.”
Then there was a rather strange occurrence.
The favorite singer sang, and was loudly applauded. To which he responded by singing something new, very strange, and seeming to direct it at Silkhands and at her friend. “Healer,” he sang. “Heal the wind. Gamesman, find the wind.” It was a strange song, with much longing in it, chill as a wind itself and personal as a blow. I saw their faces, Silkhands’ and Peter’s. Theirs looked as mine must often have looked in the Forest of Chimmerdong; confused by a strange voice that seemed to summon them to a task ill understood at best, with unknown limits. So they looked, baffled yet intrigued. When the song ended, Peter looked across at Silkhands and she at him, then his eyes fell on me. Oh, I knew those eyes. I had known those eyes for three years. No matter how he would change, ever, I would know those eyes. And as he looked at me, his face showed curiosity, a touch of bewilderment, as though he knew me, recognized me, but could not remember when or where.
The song had not been much appreciated by the rest of the audience. The singer quickly went to something else, and the competition went on.
At last the judges spoke, the prizes were given, and the dinner was over. He, Peter, left by the front door which led from the balcony to the courtyard steps; I from the great door which led inward to the living areas and classrooms. I would never see him again. I wanted to scream, and faint, and carry on. I wanted to have a tantrum.
Instead, I went to Silkhands’ room. She didn’t mind the students coming to see her occasionally.
“The singer sang directly to you and some young Gamesman, Silkhands. What was that about?”
“I wish I knew, Jinian. He’s been singing about wind and Healers and such nonsense all week. I hear him first thing in the morning.” She gestured to her window, which overlooked the courtyard. “Infuriating!”
“And you have no idea what it’s about?”
“None. Peter may, of course. I’ll have to ask him.”
“Was that your friend? At the middle table?”
“Friend? Peter? Oh ... well, yes. I suppose. Isn’t that funny. Peter is a friend, of course, but I’ve always thought of him as a kind of brother. Perhaps to take the place of the one I lost.” And she smiled at me, her own sweet, tremulous smile. And I smiled at her, my own gleeful, dangerous smile.
Brother, was he? Oh, glorious. Still.
“He’s very good looking.”
“Isn’t he! He’s grown so this past year. It quite surprised me. Not a little boy anymore.”
“Where does he come from?”
“Bright Demesne. The Wizard Himaggery’s Demesne. At the upper end of Lake Yost.”
“And is he a Wizard?”
“No. Shifter. Thank the Eleven.” Of course. She had talked of him before. I just hadn’t made the connection. Shifter. I began to remember the stories she had told me. She had gone to Bannerwell in his behalf and had been held there, threatened with death by Prince Mandor and the Demon Huld. Peter, Shifter, had saved her. It all popped into my head. Strange. When she had told me those tales, it had been like hearing stories told by the old dams. I had not thought of them as real.
“He’s the one who conquered Bannerwell,” I said.
“Yes. And after I came here, he went into the north-lands to find his mother—have I spoken of her? Mavin Manyshaped? A very strange person, Jinian, very strange indeed—and while there was instrumental in destroying the place of the Magicians. Of course we all saw that! Who did not? Smoke rising halfway up the sky and ash which made the sun turn red! That was while you were in the Forest of Chimmerdong.”
“Ah,” I said intelligently. “I heard something or other about great Gamesmen held by the Magicians.”
“A hundred thousand of them,” she said promptly. Well, then she had been in touch with someone near to Peter to know all this. “A hundred thousand great Gamesmen held frozen under the mountain. And no one knows how to restore them. A terrible tragedy. Himaggery is quite distraught over it.” And she went on then to tell me more about them, and Peter, and Windlow the Seer, until I felt I had all his history tight in my mind.
So I knew who he was. And where he lived, at least from time to time. And now I had only to figure out how to bring myself to his attention. He might be a bit taken with Silkhands just now—and she was very lovely, that I will admit—but she obviously thought of him as a sibling.
In an instant, my complacency was shattered, for she said, “I’m glad you dropped in, Jinian. There are new rumors of trouble in the northlands. Before things get any worse, we should get ourselves to Reavebridge. I thought we’d start within the next few days, and I wanted to ask if you need any help getting ready to leave.”
Next few days. Next few days. What matter that I knew where he might live, or his name, if we were to go north day after tomorrow? What could I say? I nodded, mute, feeling myself
