"Here comes our picnic ground," he said, and opening her eyes, Varia turned to see. He lowered his sail and manned the oars as they coasted in, letting the tiller trail, pulling up beside a natural dock he knew, a finger of dark basalt. The bow slid gently onto shiny black shingle rock, and Varia, stepping onto the natural dock beside her, pulled the bow farther up, grounding it securely. Someone in the past had driven a steel picket into a crack, and Raien tied up to it, then took the picnic basket ashore, putting it down higher on the narrow beach, where he spread their blankets on the sand.

"It's a little early for lunch, don't you think?" Varia asked.

He grinned down at her from his six-feet-four. "I thought we might do other things. Here where we have both privacy and sunshine."

She grinned back, put her arms around him and raised her face. "What did you have in mind, your lordship?"

He began to show her, his hands in the back of her tights while they kissed. After a minute they lowered to their knees, then lay down, dallying and petting, and before long made slow love in the sunshine. Afterward they had their lunch: coarse bread, apple butter, cheese, and a flask of beer cooled in the shallows. When they'd eaten, he led her into the shade of the spruce grove, and spread the blankets on feather moss. There they made love again, then dressed and napped, and afterward sat in the beached skiff to finish the contents of the basket.

He pointed northeast, out at the farther islets. "You can see the farthest two from here," he said.

The non sequitur remark sharpened her awareness. His aura reflected watchfulness, a certain tension; he had something to tell her, and wasn't sure how she'd take it. Puzzled, she looked where he pointed.

"Out there is the Sea Gate."

"Sea Gate?"

"There's a gate there, presumably to Farside. I thought you should know."

Frowning, she stared at him, not yet angry.

"It's called the Sea Gate because it opens over the water between the last two skerries. And it's different in other respects. The other gates I've heard of open when the moon is full, at midnight or high noon. This one opens irregularly during periods of northern lights, and apparently stays open for hours at a time. Perhaps days sometimes.

"Long ago, one of my great-great-uncles went through in a boat to see what was on the other side. He planned to see, then return at once, and several boats waited for him. Only his boat came back, overturned but intact. Twice since then volunteers have gone through, and not even their boats were seen again."

He paused, looking at her. Her expression had turned thoughtful. "I thought we might go out there," he said. "After last night it may be stirring. We can feel it if it is. Would you like to?"

She answered only after a long moment's lag. "Has anything ever come through from the other side? Besides your great uncle's boat?"

"Not that we know of. Nothing seen floating, no bodies or anything unusual washed up on the beach."

She couldn't correlate the geography of the two worlds well, but it seemed to her that Lake Superior might be on the other side, and told him so. He nodded thoughtfully. "If it is, it's probably cold, like the sea here. And if the arrival there is rough, rough enough to overturn you…"

"I've gone through both ways," she said. "Coming through to this side is the most violent, but going through the other way, you never know what position you'll arrive in. Hardly ever on your feet."

"I've read the same sort of thing. Do you want to sail out there? Close enough to feel if anything is happening?"

Again she frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose we should. I don't know what we'll accomplish-nothing, probably-but…"

He nodded, and after they'd stowed their things in the skiff, she got into the stern. He untied the painter, lifted the bow free of the shingle rock and pushed off, Varia holding the tiller. Then he raised the sail and sat down by her in the stern. Approaching the gate site, they felt nothing unusual, and after circling it, turned to tack their way shoreward, slowly, for the skiff had little draft, and only skeg and rudder to bite the water.

On their way back to the cove, a slender ship passed them, a Sea Swallow swift and graceful, its mast unseated, driven by long oars. The colors of an imperial courier fluttered at the stern. When the couple reached the manor, the courier met them, giving Cyncaidh a sealed envelope, while a troubled Ahain hovered unnoticed in the background. Slitting the envelope, Cyncaidh read the message, then turned to Varia. "Lochran has died. The Chief Counselor. Unexpectedly. The Emperor wants me to come at once, with the courier."

Ahain interrupted. "Your lordship!"

Cyncaidh turned, noticing him now. "Yes?"

"Lady Cyncaidh lost consciousness this morning after you left. Lord A'duaill says it's a stroke. He doesn't think she'll live out the day."

Cyncaidh's jaw clenched, and he turned to the courier. "I'll stay till my wife can either travel or has died. Meanwhile I'll have preparations begun."

"As you say, Lord Cyncaidh."

"Meanwhile I'll look in on her, and discuss her condition with Lord A'duaill, my wizard and healer. You and I can talk further after supper." He turned to Varia, who stood white-faced, her knuckles between her teeth, not at the unexpected move but at the report of Mariil's stroke. "Lady Varia, perhaps you'd care to come with me."

She nodded. "Of course, your lordship."

They went together to the second floor, to the east wing, and went in. Mariil was still unconscious. They'd been there only minutes when her spirit aura flickered out. She was dead.

30: Confrontation

The ride back from Laurel Notch had been like a vacation. It had even been sunny, with only two showers, hard but not prolonged. Macurdy talked more with Fengal as they rode, and learned more from him. It seemed to him the youth had been born a woodsman, that at eighteen he knew and understood more about the forest than many who'd spent a lifetime in it. So they'd been gone a full eleven days when they arrived back.

Liiset's courier had arrived, but Macurdy made no immediate use of him because the joint operation with Wollerda's force was almost ready. Jeremid briefed him on it, and two days later they rode out at the head of four companies of eager hillsmen.

Macurdy wondered at their easy willingness to face an armed enemy. Some had seen friends die on the tax raid; a few had been wounded themselves. Jeremid commanded; he was more familiar with the situation and plan. Macurdy went along because he felt he should, and to inspire the men, who seemed to think he was invincible.

The town they rode toward was the seat of the county which included the western hills, and for that reason, the count who ruled it had been reinforced with a company each from four other counties. Jeremid had learned this from spies. And the castle had been warned of the rebel approach; Jeremid and Wollerda had seen to that. Now if the count would cooperate…

He did, sending out all but his fortress company to meet and destroy Macurdy's rebels.

Meeting this much larger force, Jeremid ordered a retreat, which then seemed to lose order and turn into a rout. The count's force pursued them, until the soldiers, more or less strung out, cantered past a river forest. There Wollerda's 1st Cohort had concealed itself the night before, and charging out, had confused and disorganized the soldiers. At the same time, Macurdy's rebels had turned on their pursuers.

The soldiers had fought without enthusiasm and at a severe tactical disadvantage. Rather sooner than the rebel commanders had expected, royalist trumpeters had signalled surrender. The rebels had disarmed the soldiers then (they'd drilled even that), taking byrnies and shields, swords and spears, bows and quivers. And hundreds of horses, on some of which they loaded the loot.