20: Banish Misfortune
God. Eric felt like he was about to float away. There didn't seem to be much of him left—it was mostly part of the delicate weaving of the spell, threads of luminous gold, emerald-green, sapphire-blue. What there was of him had become a wispy and transparent ghost in the heart of the structure.
Hang in there, Banyon. You're almost through. You can't let them down now, not when you're so close—
Spiral Dance's music wove around and around the outside of the spell, making it stronger, turning the threads into cables with a greater tensile strength than braided steel—but their efforts weren't what created it in the first place. And their efforts wouldn't be what created the new nexus.
He was so tired—
Don't think about being tired. It's not that much more. Just reach out—touch the veil—and call the magic—
The melody had long since slowed; not a lament, not quite. This had too much hope and promise to be a lament. It was a longing, though, a heart-song of yearning. And it lacked only a handful of notes to complete it.
Only Eric could play those notes, the key that would complete the spell and bring the magic.
I can't. There's . . . nothing left . . .
Oh God. I . . . have . . . to—
From somewhere he found a last little drop of strength, a last breath. And played.
At the first note, the veil thinned beneath him. At the second, the spell-structure suddenly focused on him, on the thinning spot he touched.
And at the third—
He hadn't been quite sure what to expect—a fountain, a river, a waterfall? It was like none of these things. Instead, it was like opening a window to the sun into a blacked-out room. For a moment all he could do was feel the warmth and life flooding back into him, replacing everything he'd spent in the spell. Like one sun-blinded, he stood in the pressureless flood of power and gasped, unable to sense anything beyond the light.
Then, as he felt more and more solid, he began to see things, somehow; or sense them in some other fashion. He could hear, all over the city, the minds of all the Lesser Court elves; he heard them waking out of Dreaming, heard them calling to one another in incredulous joy. Voice after voice in his mind, all joining with the song-spell he'd created, elaborating on it and making it stronger.
My God, he thought in wonder. We did it—toe really did it!
Then he felt the pain. Not his—but around him. Close.
Very close.
God! It doubled him up. Death. There's somebody dead. Lots of somebodies. And lots of dying. I have to wake up out of here.
Please—not Beth. Don't let it be Beth—
He began pulling his way up out of the spell; it was hard—and he was exhausted. Power was all around him, a glowing mist, and it would be so easy just to stay—
No!
He broke through, finally; felt the real world settle around him; forced his eyes to open.
And his heart just about stopped.
There was blood everywhere. Spattering the grass, sprayed across the clothes of the shocked musicians—
Oh shit—
Splattered on him.
And bodies. Graceful, attenuated elf bodies, sprawled around the perimeter of the circle, so much dark blood soaking their slashed and singed costumes and armor that they couldn't be alive.
There were a few of them moving; one or two still standing. None in blue-and-gold armor.
Oh shit. Kory!
The strangled sob told him where to look: just on the periphery of his vision, to his right. Beth, cradling a red-streaked blond head in her lap, crying like her heart was broken.
Oh God, Kory! No!
He took one step—and inadvertently reached out with the magic that still surrounded him, even as he stretched his hand out toward them. And as his sixth sense touched them, he knew that, appearances to the contrary, Kory was still alive.
But he wouldn't be for long. Not without a miracle.
Or magic—
And if I do nothing, he'll die. My rival. I don't have to do a damn thing.
And how could I ever compete with him?
He could feel Kory slipping away; see the elf losing his fragile hold on life.
No! Dammit, NO!
It was like grabbing the trailing hem of a garment that was sliding over a cliff-edge; he caught and held the tenuous essence that was "Kory," and hung on to it with his teeth gritting at the pain it caused him. Recklessly he gathered the magic around himself; recklessly he flung it at his . . . his friend. Without pausing to wonder how much this was going to cost him, Eric wrapped himself in the healing spell, with a touch of the "Simple Gifts" magic he'd worked to such good effect before. Hoping that some of this would spill over, touch and help the others—but focusing the power on Kory.
Live, you frizzy-haired sonuvabitch! Goddamn you anyway, live, you idiot elf!
He was jarred out of the spell when his knees gave, and he found himself panting on the blood-speckled grass, hands clutching his flute so hard they hurt. He looked up, quickly, his heart in his throat, afraid he would see failure.
And Kory, lifeless on the blood-stained grass—
Beth was still sobbing, her face buried in her hands, but Kory's chest was moving, slowly rising and falling.
The elf opened his eyes just as Beth seemed to notice his movement. Their eyes met. Kory's expression was one of confusion, Beth's of disbelief.
"Kory?" she whispered.
Then they were embracing, crying and laughing, kissing one another, and holding each other as if they'd never let go—
Eric felt like crying too, but for a far different reason.
Okay, Banyan, you knew this was going to happen. So, how much do you care for them, anyhow?
Enough to give them each other, to get out of their way and let them love each other in peace?
His hands shook; his throat knotted.
Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do. Shit, what could I give her? I haven't got anything but the clothes on my back and the flute. And Kory—maybe this'll pay him back for when I ran out on him before.
Hot tears splashed on his hands as he quickly took the flute apart and stowed it in its case. His stomach tightened as he lurched to his feet and shoved the case away in the gig bag still slung over his shoulder.
Okay. This is where the hero's best friend saddles up and rides off into the east—so the hero and his girl can ride off into the sunset.
But it hurts so much, dammit, it hurts—
No one seemed to notice as he walked to the edge of the clearing. Eric glanced back once over his shoulder, wanting a last glimpse of Beth.
They were still kissing, so lost in each other that if the big earthquake hit right then they probably wouldn't even notice.
'Bye, guys. Be good to each other, okay?
Someday, maybe, I'll . . . get in touch.
Maybe.
A delicate cough jarred Beth and Kory out of their clinch. She looked up, startled, to see two people standing over her—the Healer who had been at the donut shop—
Elizabet? Yeah—Jesus Cluny Frog, what is she doing here?
—and her young protégée (looking very green and nowhere near as tough as her would-be image).
"Elizabet?" Beth faltered.
"You weren't exactly inconspicuous," the woman said serenely. "If my instincts are right, you have roughly twenty minutes before the reports of fireworks going off in this area bring in the police. I think you need a little help cleaning up—unless you don't mind doing your explaining from the inside of a jail cell. In which case, I hope you have a good lawyer. You'll need one."
"Oh Christ—" Beth got to her knees, and ran a blood-smeared hand through her hair. She looked around, bewildered.
The monsters were dissolving, exactly the same way Eric had described the "dragon" disintegrating: falling to bits, becoming heaps of dead leaves, old trash, and thin, noxious liquids. But the elves—
"Beth?"
"Yeah, Allie?" she replied, distractedly.
"Beth, I can't—I can't look at this anymore—"
"Lady, I'm blowin' this taco stand," Jim said abruptly from next to Allie. "Color me history."
Beth stared at her two band members, both of whom were wide-eyed with shellshock, and visibly shaking.
We all look like—like we've been through a war. Which, I guess, we have.
Allie moved towards Beth, as though she was going to hug her, then glanced down at her hands, wet with blood. She looked up and her eyes met Beth's, tremulous and afraid. "I've—I've got to get out of here, Beth."
Beth saw Dan across the glen, bouzouki in hand, already making tracks toward the park entrance without a single glance backward.
"Yeah, sure, you'd better get going—" Beth said slowly.
It occurred to Beth, as Allie and Jim hurried away, that the unity she'd always felt with the rest of Dance, even when they were all arguing over something, was completely gone. She felt nothing as they hurried away, not even a ghost of regret.
I think the band just died. Requiescat in pace.
Maybe they saw a little more magic than they were ready for. Talking about going out there and saving the world, no problem. But watching people die for it—
Big problem.
Not that I blame them, I don't know how I'm able to deal with this. This place looks like a slaughterhouse. At least . . . at least, it's over.
She looked around, quickly, searching for Kory, and saw him kneeling beside a body in golden armor—armor whose scarlet trimmings matched the scarlet blood smeared over it.
Oh God—he doesn't know about Terenil—
She stumbled across the grass toward him, and went to her knees in the blood-sodden weeds. Kory looked up at her, his green eyes brighter for the tears in them.
"Beth?" he whispered. "Why—why is he smiling?"
She took Kory's hand in hers, and told him.
Korendil concentrated for a moment, and his armor blurred and softened—and in a moment more he was clad again and in the blue trews and shirt he had "borrowed" from Eric. After a moment's consideration, he sent his sword after the armor.
Surely there will be no more fighting now. And this is far less conspicuous.
He knelt next to Elizabet, watching as the woman rested her hands against Narya's shield-arm. He could sense the bones knitting together beneath Elizabet's gentle hands. Beside her, Kayla was tracing a fingertip down a razor-thin cut along the warrior's cheek, the wound visibly closing behind her touch.
These two are truly amazing, truly gifted. If they hadn't found their way to us, I think we would have lost even more people. As it was—
He swallowed, looking at the once-peaceful meadow. As it was, too many of our people died. And I was almost among them.
If it had not been for Eric—
He was all that I dreamed he could be, and more. Even now I can feel the strength of his nexus; the limitless pool of magic welling up, like water from a mountain spring.
And he saved my life.
"I wish there was some way we could repay you," Kory said quietly, as the Healer helped Narya to her feet.
"We don't accept money," Elizabet said simply.
Kory looked up as someone rested a hand on his shoulder, and saw Beth gazing down at him. :Beloved?:
She answered aloud, her voice thin with weariness. "We'll need your help to . . . take care of the bodies, Kory."
He nodded, rising to his feet.
It was a simple spell, one that the youngest child-mage learned: to Call fire. There were no words for this moment, as he, the surviving elves, and the three human women watched each lifeless elven body dissolve into smoke and ash.
At last he stood, gazing down at Perenor and Terenil, still locked together in death.
Perenor, I can consign to the flames, easily enough. But my Prince—
A low moan distracted him; he saw the Sorceress stirring weakly, trying to move. He began to reach for his sword with his magic, but the dusky Healer spoke first. "No. Let me see her."
It was long moments (Kory's fingers aching to clench onto the hilt of his blade, wanting to summon the weapon into existence and quickly finish off the evil creature) before the Healer spoke again. "She's no danger now. That backlash nearly killed her—as it is, her mind is like a child's." She looked up; ebon-dark eyes met his. "You want to repay me—then give me this woman's life. Kayla and I will take care of her, and I'll try to mend her shattered mind."
Kory hesitated, his hand still twitching restlessly. From behind him, he heard Beth's voice, silently pleading with him.
:There's been enough blood here for one day, Korendil. Let them take her.:
Grudgingly, he glanced down at the semi-conscious blonde woman, half-curled on the ground.
Indeed, Beth speaks truth. Perenor is dead, and the nexus is restored. There is no need for this woman's death, other than my desire for vengeance.
And that is not enough reason to kill her.
"Very well. Though Eric, who has lost more than any of us to this sorceress, may wish differently—"
Eric—
Kory suddenly realized that he had not seen Eric for the last hour.
Where is he? What has happened to the Bard?
He saw that Beth had had the same realization.
"Goddammit," she said, looking around frantically. "What could have happened to him? He was here, I know he was all right, Perenor didn't even touch him—"
"He Healed the blond hunkola here," Kayla said. "I could feel it; it was right when we were driving up the road."
"And now he's gone." Beth slammed her fist into her palm. "Dammit, Banyon never thinks before he does anything! Come on, we've got to find him!"
"And how do you know he wants to be found?"
Kory and Beth both looked at Elizabet. "What?" Beth asked obviously puzzled.
Elizabet shrugged. "From what I saw in the donut shop this morning, I'd say the young man is in love with you, Beth. But you care for Korendil. That's obvious as well. Perhaps you should just let him leave, if this is what he wants."
"But I don't want him to go! I love him too, that stupid whistler! And he knows that!"
The Healer shook her head. "I think you have to make a choice, Beth."
Kory watched Beth waver; then her mouth tightened with resolve.
Is she choosing between us? Or, is it as the Bard assumed, and the decision is already made?
My heart is caught by this mortal woman, but how can she choose one of the Faerie over another of her own kind? And when the other is a Bard? There is no comparison between us: I, a lowly warrior with some paltry skill at magery, and Eric, a human Bard whose power shines through him like sunlight through the leaves!
She will choose to love him, of that I am certain. And I will be alone again.
But I love them both, my dark-eyed human witch, and the Bard who saved my people.
I love them.
But I have done enough harm to them, embroiling them in this war. If I leave now, perhaps they can return to what their lives were before. In time, I do not doubt they will forget me—
Kory's dark thoughts were interrupted by Beth grabbing his arm and dragging him to the parked jeep on the far side of the meadow.
He could not bring himself to break her agitated silence until they were both in the vehicle and he had shielded himself against the jeep's Cold Iron shell. "Beth?" he ventured from the passenger seat, as she started the engine. "Beth, perhaps I shouldn't go with you. I'm not certain that is wise. Perhaps you should talk with Eric alone—"
She didn't answer, just floored the accelerator. Kory sat in silence, wanting to ask her that final, unspoken question, but not daring to speak.
Not until he saw the bright metal gate of the park, firmly locked against all traffic, and the peculiar black-and-white car parked beside it.
"Beth, stop!"
The brakes squealed noisily as the jeep screeched to a halt. A mortal, garbed in dark blue, walked swiftly towards them. Kory recognized the pistol in the man's hand from the many television shows he had seen through the windows of the electronics store near the Elfhame Grove.
"You, in the jeep! Neither of you move an inch."
The man's voice seemed strained, as he circled to Beth's side of the jeep, holding the tiny weapon at ready.
We must look somewhat unusual, compared to this man's bland clothing. Beth is still dressed in High Court finery, and I in Eric's garb, and both of our persons are thoroughly stained with blood.
The sight of blood does seem to unnerve many of these humans.
"You're Eliza Kentraine?"
"Yes," Beth replied carefully. "But—"
"Miss, just step out of the car, slowly. We want to ask you some questions about the disappearance of Philip Osborn and an explosion this morning in Tarzana. You there, just stay where you are, no fast moves, Miss Kentraine, you have the right to remain si—"
Kory was uncertain what was happening; but the look on Beth's face, that he understood instantly.
She is very frightened. But she will not do anything against this man, for reasons that I cannot understand.
But the power of the new nexus is still flowing strongly through me—it is scarcely an effort to reach out lightly and—
The policeman froze, one arm still raised in midair.
Beth turned and stared at Kory.
Kory shrugged. "I think we can leave now," he said, breaking the awkward silence.
"I think you're right," Beth said at last. She got out of the jeep, walked around the frozen policeman, and opened the park gate.
She climbed back into the jeep and sat there for a moment. "I guess—I guess I can't go back now. You know, it's kinda funny—I just thought that we'd save your people, stop Perenor and Ria, and then—then I'd go back home to my apartment, and in another couple weeks the show would come off hiatus and I'd be back at work again—"
"I'm sorry," Kory said softly. "I never meant to ruin your life, Beth. I never even meant to change it."
Beth sighed. "No, it's okay. It's just . . . a shock, that's all." She turned the key in the ignition. "Doesn't matter. Besides, we have a Bard to find. God only knows what trouble he's in already—"
A lock of hair flopped into Eric's eyes. When he pushed it out of the way, his fingers came away sticky and wet.
He stopped, halfway down the hillside, and stared at them.
Red. Blood. Christ, I'm covered with blood.
Nausea hit him, and he rubbed his hand frantically on the burgundy-red silk of his breeches.
Funny, I don't feel tired. Just sick.
He realized in another moment why—the invisible, but omnipresent flow of magic all around him, radiating out of the new nexus. It was restoring some of what he'd put into its creation, a little more with every moment that passed. And if he closed his eyes and listened with his "inner" ear, he could hear the elves, more and more of them Waking again . . .
Well, that's one good thing you've done with your life, Banyon. He sighed. I sure's hell don't need the cops stopping me for looking like a Faire loonie who just slaughtered half his troupe.
Okay, disguise time. Then I can stop at the restroom by the gate and get—he swallowed his nausea—cleaned up.
A moment of concentration, and he was, to all outward appearances, just another skinny guy in red T-shirt and jeans. He continued his scramble down the hillside, practically stumbling down onto the hiker's path that would take him to the entrance.
For such a bright, clear day the park seemed completely deserted. He didn't see anyone until he was nearly at the entrance—but when he got within shouting distance of the cement-block restroom building, he was suddenly very glad he'd done his little disguise trick. Because there were an awful lot of cops in the park, all of a sudden.
He concentrated very hard on being inconspicuous. It must have worked, because although they were stopping anyone over the age of consent, and even a few kids, they didn't stop him.
Once inside the restroom, suddenly the most important thing in the world was to get the blood off—
He threw up a couple of times too.
He was still needlessly, neurotically sloshing icy-cold water from the sink over his head and arms when Dan staggered in the door, bounced off a stall support, and came to rest clutching the sink next to him.
"Oh God," the musician moaned. "Bummer, bummer. Not again. Not ever again. Blood. All that blood. Oh God . . ."
"Dan?" Eric whispered.
The other began to babble.
Eventually Eric made out some of what had happened, and a partial roster of the dead. Val and Eldenor.
And Terenil; Eric recognized him from Dan's description—and Dan was coherent enough at that point that Eric got a fairly good idea of just how the Prince had met his end.
That was when he began to cry.
Dan didn't seem to notice.
"Just before then one of those things got past the guy in black—just about reached us. Got my coat." He turned enough so that Eric could see the rent torn in the sleeve of his jacket. "Allie broke her Casio over its head. Man, that was too close. No more."
He finally faced Eric, and the flautist could see that Dan's eyes were white-rimmed, his pupils dilated. Dan, unflappable Dan, was half-mad with fear.
Christ. If he goes out there like that, the cops'll be on his ass and they'll throw him where the sun don't shine.
Maybe I can do something about that.
Eric concentrated, calling out of memory the soft notes of "October Winds," an old Irish lullaby. And when he thought he was ready, he reached out with the soothing notes and wrapped Dan in them.
When he opened his eyes again, Dan was standing there with a silly little smile on his face, a glazed expression like he'd just done some of his own best weed. When Eric moved a little, he seemed to snap out of it, although his expression still seemed more than a bit glazed.
"Hey, Banyon, long time, no see—you gonna—oh, that's right."
"What's right, Dan?" Eric asked quietly.
"We broke the band up." Dan shook his shaggy head.
"Allie's job, Beth's—not enough time, man. Not enough t' get us outa the Dive, anyway."
Eric shrugged, feeling his heart contract at the sound of Beth's name. "You know how it is."
"Yeah. Glad I ran into you, anyway. Well, later!" The bassist strolled out as if he hadn't a care in the world.
Yeah, Dan. Later. Couple years, maybe. Eric sighed, and slicked back his wet hair. Now if I could just self-administer some of that oblivion I just gave you—
He had just enough change in his pockets to get him to the Greyhound station on Riverside.
If I had a choice, where would I go? he asked himself, staring at the weekday crowd hustling past him in the bright sunlight. San Fran, I guess. That's about fifty bucks. Plus some eating money, some clothes, a toothbrush. Make it an even hundred. And only one way I know of to get it—Hell, why not.
He opened his case at his feet, got himself positioned right there on the street corner so that the cops couldn't hassle him for blocking traffic, and fitted the pieces of his flute together.
Okay, world. Bard Eric needs a hundred bucks. Let's see if you'll oblige him.
The magic was still there, after all—still flowing freely around him. Potent magic—
But I won't play games with their minds. I'll just give them the most beautiful music they've ever heard.
Only . . . nothing Celtic.
So he closed his eyes and started in on an Andean tune, one Simon and Garfunkel had popularized: "El Condor Pasa." The minor air suited his unhappiness, his loneliness—
From there he went to classical; Tchaikovsky, Liadov, all the melancholy Russians. He could feel a crowd gathering; sensed their appreciation. After playing for about half an hour straight, he ended the session with the "Frog Galliard."
Now, oh now, I needs must part;
Parting though I absent mourn.
Absence can no joy impart;
Love once fled can ne'er return.
His eyes filled; he held the tears back with an effort.
And although your sight I leave,
Sight wherein my joys do lie,
If that death doth sense bereave,
never shall affection die.
When he finished, and wiped his eyes, and looked down—there was fifty dollars in bills and assorted change in the flute case.
Okay. One more try.
Maybe—maybe just one Celtic tune—
He closed his eyes again, and began "O'Carolan's Farewell to Music."
The tune that old Turlough played for his patroness, Mrs. McDermott Roe, when he returned home to die.
When the last note had died away, he opened his eyes just in time to see a man in a dark business suit standing up after setting something in his case. The man's eyes were bright—and as he averted his face and hurried away, Eric saw tears escaping from them to trickle down his cheek.
And lying on top of the rest of the money was a fifty-dollar bill.
Eric stared at it, then stared after the man's retreating back. I wonder if I should check the serial—
No. Let it be. Thanks, friend; whoever, or whatever you are.
An hour later, and he was sitting on the bench of the station, a ticket in his pocket, backpack on his back. Now he was really dressed in khaki jeans and a clean T-shirt (thanks to the army surplus store); the fancy outfit was carefully folded away in the bottom of the pack with his change of underwear, towel and toothbrush. The only things he was still wearing were the boots. Somehow he couldn't bear to take them off.
Terenil—I'm sorry. I wish I hadn't thought so badly of you. You were a hell of a lot better man than I am.
Even if you weren't human.
The waiting room was more than half empty.
His life felt entirely empty.
So now what? he asked himself dully. Go off to San Fran and busk, I guess. Work the run of Northern Faire. I could probably busk up there until it's time for Texas Faire. After all this time they'll probably have forgotten what an idiot I made of myself . . .
He closed his eyes, shutting out the dreary, plastic waiting room, and hunched a little farther down on the bench.
Funny, the stories don't ever say what happened to the hero's best friend. The Prince and Princess were married and lived happily ever after—and Sir Joe went off to . . . open an inn or something?
His eyes burned.
Probably went off to die in a ditch someplace. Of a broken heart, no doubt.
So far he'd been doing okay on the strength of feeling self-sacrificing and kind of noble—but it was beginning to wear thin.
Oh God, I miss them. If this isn't a broken heart—
—if it isn't, it's a damned good imitation.
What in hell am I supposed to do with my life now?
Something warm and wet trickled out from under his left eyelid, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand before anyone could notice.
I can keep from messing their lives up, that's what I can do. I can get far enough away so that they won't be able to find me; so they can concentrate on each other.
His other eye leaked, and he sniffed; and covered both up by rubbing at eyes and nose as if he was having a hay-fever attack.
Dammit, Banyon, act like an adult for once.
Suddenly he felt weights settle on the bench on either side of him. Which was usually a prelude to a bus-station mugging.
He gave up feeling martyred in favor of survival, and cracked his eyes open surreptitiously so he could size up his presumptive attackers. Oh shit, that's just what I—
"Eric?" Kory said softly, his eyes mirroring care and concern.
Eric went numb. All that he could think was, Shit, he's still wearing my clothes—
"Hey, Clint," said a voice behind him; he turned to his left, quickly. Sure enough, it was Beth.
"You figuring on riding off into the sunset?" she asked quietly.
"Y-yeah," he said, after a long moment of silence. "I kind of figured that maybe it was better that way, you know?"
"I thought," Kory admonished, "that you were going to think about how your actions affected others before you did anything."
"Yeah, but—"
"Didn't you ever think about how we would feel when you vanished?"
"Well, I—"
"We felt," Kory told him, "abysmal. Bereft, in truth. Dreadfully, dreadfully lost and alone."
"Y-yeah," Eric stammered. "But—"
"We felt like hell, Banyon," Beth said. "We thought we'd finally gotten everything on the right track, and we looked around, and there was this Eric-shaped hole in the air. And no Eric."
"But—"
"Great conversationalist, isn't he?" she said in an aside to Kory.
"We haven't given him much chance to really say anything, beloved—"
Right, guy, leave me the odd man out, and make sure you remind me about it! Dammit, you frizzy-haired creep, why don't you rub it in a little more!
"Damn you, why don't you just leave me alone?" he cried, as heads turned all over the bus station. "You've got what you wanted! The magic's back, the elves are safe—you've got everything I promised you! And you've . . . got . . . each—"
He couldn't bear it any more. Eric lurched up off the bench and stood with his back to them, his arms crossed tightly across his chest to hold the misery in, fighting to keep the tears from coming again. "You've got places here, things to do. Beth's got her career. Kory, you're a hero, you could probably take the Prince's place if you wanted it. You've both got everything you could ever want."
"But we don't, Eric," Kory replied from right behind him, as gentle hands rested on his shoulders. "Truly, we don't. Not without you. Eric—we love you."
For a moment, Eric couldn't speak, or think.
What? Does he mean that?
"Me?" he faltered. "W-we?"
A second set of hands joined the first, and turned him so that he had to look into their eyes. As always he was caught—and held—by Kory's emerald gaze. "Eric—"
:Eric, look into my heart. I love you no less than I do Beth. And she loves you no less than she loves me. No more, and no less.:
With a last, valiant effort, Eric tried to make his mind work again.
"What Kory's saying is that he thinks it could work with us; that we'd make a pretty tight little trio." Beth gave him half a grin. "I agree."
He clenched both his hands into fists, trying to resolve the conflict inside him into an answer. He looked from Beth, to Kory, and back again.
I love her.
And—God—I can finally admit it to myself. I love him, too.
Like he said. No more, no less.
How in hell can I deal with that?
He opened his mouth to deny it all—but what came out was a hoarsely whispered question. "Can—can it really work?" he whispered.
Kory's eyes were very bright. "We'll never know if we do not try, will we?"
"We've all learned a few things lately," Beth added. "Including one of the hardest—how to admit you're wrong and take your lumps." Her expression remained deadly serious for about three more seconds, then she grinned. "Except you aren't allowed another apology for at least a month, Banyon. So—what do you say?"
He opened his mouth; closed it. Opened it again. Looked for an answer.
And found it in their eyes.
"I—I love you," he whispered to both of them.
And was caught up again in one of those magical three-way embraces.
Tears came, and this time he didn't try to stop them. You don't fight tears when you're happy. And God, if I'm dreaming—don't let me wake up.
Beth giggled finally, breaking the mood.
"What's so funny?" he asked, sniffling a little.
"This is so much nicer without all the armor."
Kory chuckled, and finally Eric joined him, freeing an arm long enough to wipe away his tears of joy.
"So, Banyon, where are we going?" She loosened her arms enough so that they could look each other in the face without going cross-eyed.
"I was heading for San Fran," he said slowly. "But—I thought—I mean you've got a job and all—"
She shook her head. "Not no more, babe. We damn near got arrested in the park, I think they want me on suspicion of being a drug-producer, or something like that. And they think I did for Phil—there's an APB out on me."
"They what?" Eric felt stunned. "Aren't you—don't you want to tell them the—oh."
"Exactly." She shrugged. "So, methinks the life of a footloose street busker may not be so bad for a while. I don't think I could deal with jail, really. I have this . . . problem with confined spaces . . ." She went a little quiet for a moment, then turned a faint smile back toward Kory. "So, Korendil, know anybody in San Fran?"
"A distant cousin—"
"Is he an elf or a faer—"
Kory interrupted her with a grin of his own. "Finish that sentence, Beth Kentraine, and you will surely regret it."
She feigned shock. "Gods be praised, the pillar of sobriety has developed a sense of humor!" She raised an eyebrow at him. "I was only going to ask if he was involved with humankind. If he is, he could be useful. I've heard the busking was good up there, but there's busking and there's busking."
Eric tried the idea of the three of them living and busking together on for size, and found it felt wonderful.
Perfect, in fact.
He held the other two closer—and they responded instantly.
No, I don't ever want to wake up.
"San Fran, then," he said. "If it's all right with you. Only . . . Kory?"
"Hm?" the elf replied contentedly.
"Could you please give me my clothes back?"