“Is that what you are writing out? What you intend to say?”
A wash of heavy mist coasted across the decking, and for a moment she disappeared into it as if a ghost. It was so unexpected that it caused Paxon’s nerves to jangle. “Avelene?”
She reappeared as the mist cleared. “What you want to know is whether or not I can handle another meeting with Arcannen. Why don’t you just come right out and ask me instead of going to all the trouble of working up to it?”
She sounded calm enough as she confronted him, but he could sense an undertone of anger and frustration nevertheless. “All right, I’m asking.”
She gave him a bitter smile. “Sorry. You don’t have the right to ask. Isaturin selected me for this mission. You are my protector, not my equal. You have no standing to question me.”
He saw that she was not going to make this easy. “Where we are both at risk if either of us fails, I have every right to make certain you are well. You suffered a horrendous experience, one that might easily have unhinged another person. I was impressed by how you handled it. I do not seek to question your selection as lead in this business. You are clearly the better choice to make a presentation to the Prime Minister. Nor do I suggest I am your equal in standing or that I am in any way a full member of the Druid Order.”
“But still you doubt me,” she said slowly. “Among my other skills as a student and practitioner of magic is the ability to sense other people’s hidden feelings. Not always, but now and then. Yours were so strong last night when I came to see you that there was no mistaking how you felt about me. You think it possible I am unable to carry out this mission. You worry I am weak and vulnerable. If you had your way, you would not let me come. Do you deny it?”
He stared at her. “No. Although the way you characterize my feelings is not entirely accurate. My fears are for you, not for myself. I worry that you have not had time to heal properly. I worry that if confronted by a sorcerer with the experience and power of Arcannen, you will be overmatched. I worry that I will be overmatched, for that matter. I cannot help it; it is in the nature of who I am. Would you not worry if our positions were reversed?”
She glared at him. “I have something to prove here. To myself, but to Isaturin and to you, as well. I accept that. I don’t intend to be cowed by one experience, no matter how nasty it was. I was caught by surprise, but that won’t happen again. I am confident in my training and my skills. Arcannen will not overmatch me when I confront him. And I will confront him. I want it to happen as badly as you do. And don’t try to tell me that’s not how you feel. You do. It radiates off you.”
“So what do you want to do?”
She paused. “Let’s just start over. I am sufficiently healed now. I am able to do whatever is needed. Just like you. So let’s not speak of it again.”
He nodded slowly. “All right. Let’s not.”
Her disposition improved then, although it did not quite reach the level of warmth. But she did relate how she intended to approach their interview with the Federation Prime Minister and what she believed he might be seeking. Given the ongoing threat from within the Southland government structure to any existing Prime Minister—not to mention most lesser Ministers of the Coalition Council, as well—they could suppose that Arcannen might have become a threat in a way that the Druids did not yet understand. Since the Druid search for the sorcerer was still active, it made sense for the Prime Minister to use the order in any way that would benefit him.
“He was close friends with Aphenglow Elessedil during her last years as Ard Rhys, but he does not enjoy the same closeness with Isaturin who, quite frankly, distrusts him,” she said. “So he will keep to himself as much as possible of what he knows and intends. Our job will be to worm it out of him any way we can while we have the chance.”
Paxon nodded. “I imagine you can manage that.”
“Not just me. You, as well. You are not to sit idly by if you see a chance to push him a little. I want you to engage him in conversation, argumentative or not, when and if it feels right to do so. I trust your judgment. Don’t be afraid to exercise it. Don’t ignore opportunities that present themselves.”
So they talked about it further, and then she went back to her writing and he returned to the bow to watch the land ahead as it passed beneath them. They would reach Arishaig by nightfall in this fast clipper, and after a good night’s sleep they would be given an audience with the Prime Minister in the morning. Paxon had never met the man, although he had heard Aphenglow speak of him. A good man, by all accounts. But a cautious man, as well—one who did not trust easily and who understood the value of subterfuge and duplicity in politics. If you were his friend, he would not betray you. All others were subject to the whims of his assessment in any given situation.
All of which meant they would have to be careful.
By the time nightfall came and the lights of the Capital City crested the horizon, he was fast asleep. It was Avelene who woke him, shaking him gently and whispering, “Sorry I was so hard on you,” as he pulled himself to his feet.
Although afterward, when he thought back on it, he wasn’t at all sure that was what she had said.
He slept poorly that night, in part perhaps because he had slept earlier while still aboard ship, but in part, too, because he was anticipating the events of the coming day. He went to sleep thinking of them and woke without any resolution. He was troubled by the role Avelene had assigned him—as instigator or investigator where comments merited intrusion. He had no idea how he would manage this or what he would say. He imagined it was not possible to know until the moment was at hand. He could anticipate, but probably not by more than a sentence or two. It was like lying in ambush without knowing who might be coming.
After washing and dressing, he met Avelene for breakfast in a dining hall that served members of the Coalition Council and their staff as well as visitors housed in the complex that comprised the Federation government offices. He saw a few faces he thought he recognized, but no one spoke to him. He was dressed in loose-fitting hunter’s clothes overlaid by his well-worn black cloak, which bore the emblem of the Druid Order. Avelene wore similar clothing, although her cloak was the more distinct and recognizable garb that marked her clearly as a Druid. They ate alone and with little conversation, absorbed in thoughts of the meeting ahead, focused on thinking through what they imagined the Prime Minister might have to say to them and how they might respond.
When breakfast was finished, they walked from the dining hall to a tiny garden off to one side and sat on a bench while waiting for the appointed time for their meeting to arrive.
“Have you met him?” Paxon asked finally.
Avelene shook her head. “Everyone says he is a good man.”
“Aphenglow Elessedil thought so. She had a high opinion of him. She said he could be trusted.”
“Be careful anyway.” She caught his eye. “We are babes in the woods in this business. Don’t forget it. Tread lightly.”
When the time for their appointment arrived, they rose from the bench, walked over to the building that housed the offices of the Prime Minister, and climbed the stairs three flights to where his staff greeted them. With no waiting at all, they were ushered into his empty offices and seated in chairs in front of a massive wooden desk polished to such a high sheen that the glare of the diffuse daylight off its surface caused them to squint.
There they sat, waiting. They neither spoke nor looked at each other. Paxon felt his nerves grow taut and his expectations heighten. He had removed the Sword of Leah from where it had been strapped across his back and had laid it on the floor next to his chair. He felt oddly naked without it, and wondered how fast he could reach it and draw it free of its sheath if the need should arise. It was foolish thinking, given where he was, but it was the kind of thinking he had grown used to as a protector of the Druid Order.