Kesley glanced up from the electrostimulator in van Alen's hand; his
gaze traveled up over the glossy, green fabric of the noble's tunic,
over his stiff reddish beard, his firm lips, the jutting nose, to the
eyes.
The eyes.
The deep, tired, weary, all-seeing eyes of an Immortal.
Oddly, it came as no surprise. Double identity was almost the rule in
the world, it seemed. Daveen and Dawnspear, van Alen and the Duke,
Kesley and--who?
Kesley groped unsteadily toward a chair; it sprang forward and settled
itself beneath him. "You, yourself--"
"Antarctica is mine, Dale. I went north to bring you here, but I
failed. My life was threatened in the forest. I ran. An Immortal is
jealous of his life. Remember the scream of fear when you first drew
the knife on me, after I shot your wolf? That was _fright_--naked
crawling fright." The Antarctican shook his head bitterly. "I should
never have left here."
"I've seen Daveen," Kesley said.
"I know. The otter sent him to me."
"Spahl?"
Van Alen nodded. "That's his name. You owe your life to him many times
over, Dale."
"I owe my life to everyone at least six times, it seems," Kesley said
sardonically. "It seems to be a game everyone likes to play--saving me."
"Spahl found out who Lomark Dawnspear really was and sent him here.
Spahl was the one who arranged to have you sent here, by the only
method that can penetrate our Barrier. It was Spahl also, I believe,
who discovered you in the forest when you escaped from Miguel."
Kesley frowned. "Enough of Spahl. I've seen Daveen. I know I'm
Immortal, now."
"Of course."
"Why didn't you tell me?"