(Untitled)

[it_has_teeth]

The lake is very still tonight. Naught but the wind, such as there is, stirs the surface of the lake.

This does not mean it is empty.

Somewhere beneath the water a shark is swimming.

In the mud of the lakebottom, a harp is waiting.

And in the High and Dry, something is stirring.

Comments

[theravenboy]

Six men and women emerge from the bar.

Bran and Will are singing, in clear tenor and pleasant baritone; Merriman carries the bass line.

"Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ."

Moiraine, Ako and Nita follow, watchful, behind them.

[sign_seeker]

There are more verses, but this is not caroling, and nothing like a concert. It is the magic that matters, the words and the tunes that are right, and Will is listening to his instincts and the half-conscious knowledge of Gramarye, much more than to his choirboy training. So he segues smoothly into the next song, and Bran and Merriman follow without missing a note, as if they three had planned it together.

"I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Wind ruffles the dark surface of the lake.

[theravenboy]

All at once a storm rises above the carolers. Bran wipes snow from his face and leads the singers as loudly as he can under the din:

" When the harping Seraphim
Sang Creation’s matins hymn,
Ere this world grew cold and dim,
All was holy, good, and fair;
Angel wings were in the air,
And the voice of God was there."

The lake roils, disturbed by the blizzard.

[sign_seeker]

The storm is rising, rising, and the fury of the Dark is behind it. Icy snow lashes their faces, and the wind howls high and shrill as a woman screaming.

But still Bran and Will stand fast, in spite of all the tumult around them, and sing on, throwing their voices into the blizzard. Will's fists are clenched, and he does not quite know it.

Wake All Music's Magic Powers, he thinks, and when the previous song ends he switches to it, hearing Bran pick up the tune and then slide seamlessly into harmony. The music master at school chose this one for the Christmas concert, and perhaps it is no coincidence, Will thinks, that he learned it this year.

"O how bright is this day made,
Day with radiance glowing,
Which the Light of Light displayed,
Light in darkness shewing;
Chasing thus death's gloomy shade,
Brightness o'er us throwing!

O that blessed going out
Which salvation brought about.
O that blessed going out,
Which salvation brought about."The gale feels as high as ever, but he can hear Bran's voice, as by rights he should not be

[puckishly]

Oh now, you see, this will never do.

A young man appears before the group, thumbs hooked in his pockets. Batlike wings extend behind him, and his eyes are bright and narrow as a cat's.

Very little looks wholly human about him this night.

"Going a'caroling, and forgot to invite me?" He doesn't even pretend to look shocked.

"I'm hurt."

[merrimanlyon]

Merriman is well aware that the Light's power will not be terribly effective against a creature of the Wild Magic, or those of a similar nature.

He's come prepared.

And so at the first sight of Puck, he breaks off from the song and whirls round -- and throws his midnight-blue cloak over one shoulder, freeing his right hand to draw the sword he had concealed beneath it.

There is nothing magical about this sword. It glints dully in the faint starlight, and looks rather heavy and possibly a little awkward to use. In truth, it is as unmagical a sword as one could find, for it is forged of iron.

Which is precisely why Merriman chose it.

[puckishly]

Puck flashes a fanged smile.

"Oh, very good," he says, tensing in preparation to spring or dart back. "Right is clearly on your side."

[merrimanlyon]

Merriman's answering smile could freeze standing water.

'Hardly. I am on the side of what is right.'

And he strikes.

[white_flowers]

It is not yet the time of her greatest strength -- that is some days hence.

But the Dark is rising, and so it is that the White Rider is there as soon as the stirring of power is felt. She shrieks aloud, high and chill and cruel in the spell-speech of the Dark, and a sudden raging blizzard whirls above them, drowning the sound of the music under the howl of the wind.

[blue_ajah]

She has sworn it, long ago -- whatever the Dark One wishes, she will oppose, and there are very few she has met who are as much within the Shadow as this creature is.

The aura that explodes into being around her is golden and sun-bright, and it is a bare second later that a weave of red and gold twists from her hand. A ring of fire bursts from the light and roars around the White Rider.

Not balefire, for that eradicates the threads of the Pattern itself, and matters are too unstable since the Book's burning for her to risk the very fabric of this place so; but it is not easily dismissed, with the raging strength of a furnace contained in its weaving.

[white_flowers]

The wind shifts, whirling snow around her and tearing at the flames as quickly as Moiraine can pour saidar into them. Blodwen lashes out,

"You will not find me so easy as all that, little witch--"

The howling is only barely diminished by the split in her attention, and then the Rider's hand is pointed at Moiraine, fingers spread and taut with tension.

"Be still!"

[merrimanlyon]

A sudden blaze of white light flares high, blindingly brilliant, between Moiraine and the Rider. And when it fades, Merriman is there, left hand outstretched and right hand gripping a sword that bears traces of blood on it.

'And you find yourself outside sanctuary, Rider,' he says, dry and almost academical. 'And outnumbered.'