Dhiammara

2 A Peculiar Quartet

Blind with terror, Iscalda fled headlong through the forest, bursting through the bushes and twisting between the trees, oblivious of the leg-breaking tangles of roots beneath her feet, the thorny twigs that pulled painfully at her mane and tail and scored her white hide, or the springy branches that rebounded to lash at her with bruising force and snatch dangerously at her eyes. Her mind was blank, save that it screamed one thought over and over: escape. Her attention was all behind her, straining to detect any sounds of pursuit. The Phaerie Lord must not recapture her—she would sooner die than be his slave again, or go once more through the horrors of the last few hours.—Iscalda was a warrior, no stranger to bloodshed, and Hellorin’s quarry had been no friends of hers, yet she had been unprepared for the carnage when the Phaerie had descended from the skies upon their helpless prey. Not a single one of the human mercenaries had survived. One by one, the Phaerie had hunted them down with relentless thoroughness and hacked them to pieces in some savage game where the points were scored by the taking of trinkets such as a neck chain, a weapon, an earring, or a belt buckle from the corpse of the unfortunate victim. Sometimes a severed head would be seized by the hair and borne aloft when the Phaerie took to the skies again, and thrown or snatched from one rider to another in the fashion of some macabre child’s game.—The callous, cold-hearted cruelty of her new masters filled Iscalda with fear.—It was abundantly clear that they held no respect for any living being save themselves—and that might well include their steeds. The Phaerie had snuffed out the human component of the Xandim race without a single thought—what else might they do to her? On she ran, unseeing, unthinking, pursued by terror, her mind clouded by the ghastly images of her own people turned into mindless beasts of burden, and the remorseless savagery of the Phaerie hunt. This one opportunity had been sent by the Gods, and would never come again. Iscalda only knew that she must flee far and fast. She must lose herself so completely and hide herself so well in the forest’s depths that Hellorin would never find her.

The magical trappings fashioned of light, through which the Phaerie Lord had controlled her, had fallen away from her head when Iscalda had shed him from her back, so she was free to run unencumbered. And run she did—until the forest itself stopped her flight. All at once a narrow stream, screened until the last split second by the low branches of the trees, appeared in front of her. Unprepared, Iscalda gathered herself in a clumsy half-leap.

Something hit her across the forehead with stunning force. There was a sharp, wrenching pain and her vision exploded into light as hot blood poured down her face. Blinded by the salty fluid streaming into her eyes, she hit the ground hard on the other side and her foot plunged down into a hidden space between two roots, and twisted beneath her with an agonizing jerk. Her momentum threw her forward and she went crashing to her knees, to flail to a floundering halt with her forelegs scrabbling for purchase in the soft mud of the stream bank and her hindquarters in the water.

The white mare lay there spent, until her thoughts began to seep gradually back through the panic that had clouded her mind. The shock of her fall had brought her back to herself. Though she knew, following her previous confinement in animal form, that human thought and memory did not eventually vanish, as was commonly believed, it was difficult to battle the strong equine instincts—especially when danger threatened.

Iscalda retained enough clarity of thought to recognize her own peril: at present, she herself, not Hellorin, was her chiefest foe. What had she done to her face? What if she had broken a leg? Iscalda tried to blink the blood out of her eyes until she had achieved blurred and bleary vision. With considerable difficulty she managed to struggle to her feet on the fourth attempt, and stood there panting and trembling with her head hanging low.—There was a stabbing pain around the fetlock of her near foreleg where she had landed awry. Was it broken? Iscalda had no idea, but she could not put her foot to the ground.

Feeling sick with pain, the mare turned awkwardly on three legs and hobbled into the stream. She stood there impatiently while the icy water numbed some of the throbbing agony from her lame foreleg, and wondered what to do next.—Hellorin would still be looking for her, she was sure. In her human form, she had known such men as he. His wounded vanity would never allow him to let her go free—no more than her own pride would ever permit her recapture. Whatever happened, Iscalda would not give in. If she could no longer run, at least she could still hide. If she could only get under cover before the Phaerie found her ...

Not without regret, Iscalda hauled herself stiffly out of tile soothing water and headed into the shadowy world beneath the trees, seeking a safe place to rest. It seemed to take forever as she blundered, three-legged, through the bushes, attempting to hold her injured limb up out of the way. She made painfully slow progress; racing the threat of discovery, racing her exhaustion and the increasing agony in her leg; racing the growing terror that threatened to expunge her reason; racing the sinking moon that was plunging all too quickly toward the horizon. She must reach a place of safety before the absolute darkness that would follow moonset, or she stood little chance of finding a haven at all.

When she finally reached a suitable location, she was so spent that she scarcely recognized it for what it was. There was no water here, but save where she had entered, the narrow clearing was protected on three sides by a thicket of thorny brambles and overshadowed by the sweeping boughs of trees.—For the first time that night, Iscalda knew she could stop running away, and could rest at last, if only for a little while. Gratefully, the mare folded her aching legs beneath her. At first, however, sleep evaded her. She had escaped—but what of her fellow-Xandim, doomed to live out the rest of their lives in servitude and bondage? Iscalda blew softly through her nose—the nearest, in this shape, that she could come to a sigh. It would have been kinder by far if this imprisonment in equine shape did entail all loss of human memory, she thought. As it was, they were doomed to live out their lives as beasts, forever at war with their animal selves, and tormented by the memories of what they once had been. Iscalda was glad that in this form, it was impossible to weep. It was a relief to gave way at last to her weariness, and let the deep, deep waters of exhausted slumber close over her.

Iscalda woke in the darkness, smelling wolf. With all her instincts screaming an alarm, she scrambled to her feet—and fell heavily to one side as her injured leg, forgotten in sleep, collapsed beneath her. Frantically she struggled upright once more, pitting the agony in her foreleg against the more urgent imperative of survival. There was a movement in the bushes, and she was drowning in the smell of wolf, wolf, wolf...

Iscalda reared, smashing down her good foreleg to maim and kill—and threw herself to one side with a bone-wrenching jerk, almost falling again but pulling herself upright at the last second with a tremendous effort of will.—Her heart was racing like the hooves of a runaway horse. Lowering her head, she peered down at her adversary and exhaled on a snort of disgust at her own stupidity. Wolf indeed! Had she been in her human form she would have laughed at herself.

The deadly predator that had scared her out of her wits was a cub so tiny that she had almost blown him away with one snort. The pathetic little creature was shivering violently with cold, and as it noticed her, it began to whimper with hunger. Iscalda’s ears flicked forward curiously. She wondered where its parents were—a question that also concerned her own survival. Nowhere near, that was for certain—not when the poor cub was crying like that. Had they been killed in the fire? Or had they survived, and were they searching even now for their lost offspring? Her first impulse, to kill the creature, had been the most sensible—so what had made her pull aside at the last moment? Despite her natural equine aversion to the carnivore, Iscalda couldn’t help feeling sorry for the lost baby. It reminded her of Aurian’s son, little Wolf ...—Iscalda stiffened, and looked closer. But no—it couldn’t be! Wolf had been left safely behind at Wyvernesse, with his lupine foster-parents and the Nightrunners to protect him. What had happened to Aurian’s adult wolves? Why would they have brought him here, into danger? Why had they left him alone and helpless? No—it must be some other cub. But even as the denial went through her head, she knew it was Wolf indeed—she remembered the flash of white beneath his chin, and the way that one pointed little ear turned up, and the other down. Also Iscalda recognized him deep down, in a way that would have been almost impossible for a non-shape-shifter to explain. Somewhere behind the appearance of the animal, a human personality was concealed, and Iscalda could recognize it as a calling of like to like.

Extending her nose, the mare nudged the cub closer to the warmth of her body. She was forced to admire his courage. Weak though he was, Wolf snarled at her, and snapped at her face with his minuscule puppy teeth with no regard for the difference in their respective sizes. He was cold and hungry and alone, however, and at length he seemed to decide to trust her. If only she could feed him—that was his greatest need—but at least she could keep him warm.—Iscalda was too tired to think of anything beyond that. When it grew light and she had rested, she would decide what to do next. She stretched out beside the cub, shielding him with the warmth of her body, and within minutes they were both asleep.

After the departure of the Phaerie, the rebels—still discussing what had happened in tones of relief and amazement—went off to busy themselves with the details of supper and shelter, and the packing of their few possessions for tomorrow’s departure. One member of their group, however, had eyes for nothing but the tragic sight of Eilin’s retreating figure. Because Mages no longer existed in the Southern Lands, Yazour’s people stood even more in awe of magic and its wielders than did the northern Mortals. The young warrior was lost in admiration at the way in which the Lady Eilin had faced down the terrifying Phaerie Lord, and had driven him away. He recognized and understood her loneliness and isolation—was he not in a similar position, with his loved ones dead or gone or far away?

The shadowy figure in the gloom bowed her head, her shoulders slumping wearily. Though it was hard to tell at such a distance, it seemed to Yazour that she was wiping her face on her sleeve, as though she were weeping. How he wished he could do something to comfort her. ... Suddenly, he felt a shiver run through him. Who could anticipate the mysterious workings of the Gods? It was obvious, now, that he had been brought here for a reason after all. Yazour smiled to himself. Though he was too late to follow her, there was a way in which he could help Aurian, after all. What better way to assist the Mage, in her absence, than by helping and caring for her mother?

Full of his plan, he almost set off across the bridge to inform the Lady—then he remembered her harsh words and the look of cold, hard anger in her eyes when she had left them. Yazour swallowed hard. Perhaps he would wait awhile, until she had had a chance to calm herself after her confrontation with the Phaerie. She needed him, that much was certain—unfortunately, he might have a good deal of trouble convincing her of that.

His companions, when he spoke to them over a belated supper that night, were far from encouraging. To Yazour’s indignation, Vannor made no effort whatsoever to master his laughter. “You want to protect the Lady Eilin?” he chuckled. “Yazour, you’re an incorrigible romantic. What are you going to defend her from that she can’t manage very well on her own? Why don’t you ask the Lord of the Phaerie whether she’s in need of protection?”

“Nonsense.” Dulsina defended Yazour. “You’re a dear man, Vannor, but sometimes you can be such an idiot. The poor Lady—she has just lost her daughter and her home is in ruins. Of course she needs someone to be with her. We’re all grieving over the fate of the Mages, but it must be so much worse for Eilin. She’ll need solitude in which to mourn, it’s true—but not all the time, for goodness’ sake!”

“It’s not a question of power, or strength,” Yazour agreed. “Often our greatest foes are those that can creep upon us unseen: loneliness, anxiety, sorrow, and hopelessness. No one can battle those enemies alone. She needs someone to be with her, to distract her mind and cheer her....”

Clearly, these subtleties were lost on Parric. “Suit yourself.” He shrugged.

“If it’ll put you off racing back to the South all on your own, then I’m all for it. Just remember, though, that these Magewomen are different from your protected, secluded southern girls. Never forget whose mother the Lady Eilin is. If you start even hinting that she’s some kind of helpless female, she’ll have your balls for breakfast. They’re very touchy, are Magefolk—you should know that by now. You’re a braver man than I am, Yazour, to even attempt to defy her when she’s so determined to be left alone.”

Yazour sighed. It looks as though this will be even more difficult than I imagined, he thought, but I don’t care. Aurian’s mother needs me, and I will persuade her to accept me somehow. For Parric, he put on his bravest face. “I don’t care how stubborn she is. When I talk to her tomorrow, she’ll find that I can be stubborn too.”

In the cold, dark dead of night, the mundane world was an inhospitable place.—Hellorin looked out across the bleak stretches of wind-scoured moorland and cursed softly to himself. He had been so long away from the world, he had forgotten how unpleasant its climate could be. Though the Phaerie, with their magic, were unaffected by the cold, they had been accustomed, for many a long age, to more congenial surroundings. Yet to Hellorin, having newly won his liberty, it seemed out of the question to go slinking tamely back to the comfort of his palace in the Elsewhere of his long exile.

“My Lord, this is ridiculous.”

Hellorin looked around to see Lethas, his chamberlain. The Lord of the Phaerie sighed. Lethas did not usually tend to complain—he had run Hellorin’s palace with effortless ease for centuries, and little was beyond the scope of his administrative or, failing that, his magical abilities. Tonight, however, the chamberlain was frowning. He pushed his dark, wind-tousled hair out of his eyes with the exasperated air of one who has repeated the selfsame gesture far too many times. “Lord, our people should be feasting now to celebrate the success of our hunt. What comfort can be gained out here in this forsaken place?”

Hellorin could not help but agree. The Valley had groves of trees that could be formed by magic into temporary walls and roofs, and would have been the perfect place to re-create the great woodland feasts of old within the natural shelter of the crater’s towering walls. Those insolent, invading Mortals should have been expunged from Phaerie lands—except, of course, that those lands did not belong to the Phaerie.

The Forest Lord frowned. The Vale was Eilin’s realm. The Mage had paid for it with the death of her beloved soulmate. She had taken that barren crater and with her own Earth-magic and endless years of toil, had created a verdant haven of peace and beauty in these harsh northern moors—and she had made it abundantly clear to him that she would, if necessary, fight for her home to her very last breath ... or his.

All around him in the gloom, Hellorin could hear the restless rise and fall of muttered complaints. He ground his teeth. He had lost his precious white mare somewhere in the Vale, and worse than that, in the wake of his confrontation with Eilin, his authority among his people had suffered a telling blow.—Something would have to be done, he knew. He was aware that the Mortals were leaving on the morrow—perhaps that wretched, stubborn Magewoman would be more amenable to reason if she had no one to protect. Relieved at the thought of taking some action at last, he turned to his chamberlain. “Tell my people to be patient,” he ordered. “The tempers of the Magefolk can cool as quickly as they ignite. Tomorrow, we will return to the Vale and talk to the Lady Eilin again.”

“Your will, my Lord.” Lethas turned away—and turned back again. “Lord, have you forgotten that the Lady Eilin owes you a debt for the saving of her life?” he blurted. “If this is not the perfect time to make a claim on her, then I’m a Mortal! If you ask me, it’s not talk that female needs. Anyone else who dared show such blatant disrespect to the Lord of the Phaerie would be punished. You ought to—”

“Be silent!” Hellorin roared. “Or I will punish you!” Taking a deep breath, he went on coldly. “When I need your advice, be sure that I will ask you. In the meantime, I advise you to follow your orders—ere I find myself a chamberlain fonder of his duty and less fond of his own opinions.” The Forest Lord strode away, fuming, leaving the unfortunate Lethas to babble his apologies to the empty air. In his heart, however, Hellorin was forced to concede that his chamberlain was probably right. That wretched, mule-headed Magewoman! This ridiculous, impossible situation was all her fault! She was making a laughingstock of him in front of his people. Hellorin imagined her, in the shelter of her Vale, gloating at the memory of his ignominious defeat. When tomorrow came, he promised himself grimly, they would see who gloated then.—While the sun was just waking, the world breathed stillness through every pore. The only sound, the trilling of the birds, only served to accentuate the expectant hush, as though the Valley had put on a cloak of silence stitched with the silvery tapestries of their songs. The low, angled rays of the early sun stretched long fingers into the Vale, making blue, attenuated shadows that lifted the textures of the trees and plants into vivid relief against a backdrop of silken amber light. Each gnarl of bark, each individual blade of grass, stood out distinctly, silhouetted against its own small shadow. The scintillant hues of the fragrant, dew-drenched earth were echoed by the light that sparked from the glittering crystal in Eilin’s cupped hands.

“I just can’t see him anywhere.” Frowning, the Mage straightened her back and looked up at Vannor and Parric from her kneeling position on a folded blanket.

“I always had a fair talent for scrying,” she went on in a puzzled voice, “and I learned a thing or two about it from the Phaerie while I lived with them.—But this time I’m beaten. I’ve tried the bowl, the mirror, and the crystal this morning, and every method tells me the same thing. Miathan is not in Nexis—he’s not even on this side of the ocean. I just don’t understand it, Vannor. All the crystal shows me is darkness—yet, had he died, I would have felt his passing.”

She threw down her crystal in irritation, and it bounced into the grass to rest beside the tiny silver-backed mirror borrowed from Dulsina, and the pewter bowl filled to the brim with clear water, both of which had shown similarly unsatisfactory results. “By the Goddess Iriana—he must be somewhere*. And until we discover his whereabouts, there will be no certainty in anything we do.”

Vannor tried not to betray his own concern, lest the Lady misconstrue it as a slight on her abilities. Though she was still adamant that they must leave the Valley, her attitude to the intruding Mortals seemed to have softened a good deal during the night, and he did not want to jeopardize this fragile new accord. The former Head of the Merchants’ Guild looked toward the campsite, and saw several figures awake now, some of them crouching sleepily over the fires or tending pots, while other folk were busy rolling up their bedding and dismantling the makeshift shelters. There was a lot of yawning, but little talk at this time of the day—only the occasional drowsy murmur broke the peace of the morning. Vannor rubbed thoughtfully at his short, bristly beard. These were his people now. He was responsible for their survival, and they were counting on him to make the right decision.

“Well, I reckon we’ll have to risk it anyway,” he said at last. “Wherever that old bastard Miathan—begging your pardon, ma’am—is hiding himself, he doesn’t appear to be in Nexis, or even in the North—so we’d better make the most of his absence.”

He looked across at Parric and grinned. “Just think, my friend—there’s an entire city out there with no one in charge of it. We can’t have that now, can we?”

“I should say not,” agreed the Cavalrymaster with a completely straight face.

“Why, we have a responsibility to go back and take care of those poor, lost folk.”

“You’re absolutely right—but first, I think we should go back to Wyvernesse and talk to the Nightrunners. For one thing, I want to see Zanna—” For a moment, Vannor’s front of determined cheerfulness faltered. He couldn’t bear to think of bringing his daughter the news that Aurian was gone. Breathing deeply, he took a firm grip on his emotions. “And also,” he went on, “this time I definitely want to take up Yanis’s offer of men and ships—just in case anyone in Nexis has been harboring similar ideas to our own. Once we control the river, the rest should be easy.”

Parric nodded. “Good idea, that—after all, we do want the Nexians to have the best possible leadership, don’t we?”

Perfect! The Cavalrymaster had fallen right into his hands. Vannor chuckled to himself, and sprung his trap. “I’m glad you feel that way, Parric old friend—because when we get back to Nexis, I’m putting you in charge of the Garrison.”

“What, me?” Panic’s face fell. “Oh bugger it, Vannor—you can’t be serious. I hate that kind of responsibility—you know I’m not cut out for it.”

“Oh aren’t you?” Vannor retorted mercilessly. “After you arrived back at Wyvernesse on that whale, Chiamh told me you had been masquerading as ruler of the Xandim.”

Parric groaned. “Masquerading is about right,” he grumbled. “Why couldn’t that Windeye have kept his blasted mouth shut? It was only for a month—and the Xandim would never have accepted me if Chiamh, the poor bastard, hadn’t forced them to.”

“Nonsense.” Vannor was determined to brook no argument. “Chiamh said you did a fine job as Herdlord of the Xandim and you’ll be just as successful as Commander of the Garrison.”

“You’d better bloody hope not,” Panic muttered gloomily. “When I was Herdlord, they were so desperate to get rid of me that I had a revolt on my hands before the month was out....”

The two men were so engrossed in their plans that they had forgotten her, so Eilin took the opportunity to pocket her crystal and slip silently away. The Mage had intended to pass by the camp without drawing attention to herself, but the ever thoughtful Dulsina, who seemed to notice everything, had spotted her and intercepted her with a mug of fragrant tea. “Here you are, Lady—it’s the last of the rosehips from before the winter. I’m sorry we have no honey, but though it’s a bitter brew, at least it’ll warm you. It’s a fine enough morning, but there’s a bit of a chill off that dew.”

Eilin accepted the mug gratefully. “That’s kind of you, Dulsina—it’s been a long time since I tasted rosehip tea.”

“There’s another thing I wanted to mention,” Dulsina added, blushing awkwardly. “Back in our old camp, Lady, we have a flock of chickens and a small herd of goats. We found them in the forest when we came—I expect they must have been yours in the first place. I thought I’d better tell you—you’ll be wanting them again now. I did my best to look after them.”

“Why, thank you, Dulsina—and thank you for telling me.” The Mage found herself smiling in pure relief. She had forgotten about the well-tended livestock in the rebel encampment, and had been wondering how she would manage to feed herself once the Mortals had gone.

Reluctant to enter the muted bustle of the camp, she took her leave of the woman and wandered away, mug in hand, toward the lake. “If only they were all like Dulsina,” she muttered to herself, “I wouldn’t mind them staying here.”

She knew it wasn’t true, though. She had slept little the previous night, and had done a lot of hard thinking. Her feelings toward the rebels had mellowed to the point where she no longer wished to strike out at them in her grief—but she still had no wish to share her home with them, and would view their departure with considerable relief.

When her unwelcome guests were ready to take their leave, however, Eilin discovered that Vannor and Parric were still so deep in their discussion that they scarcely even took the time to say goodbye to her. So full of anticipation and a certain amount of apprehension were they, at the thought of returning home, that everyone seemed to have forgotten her already. The Mage, who was standing near the end of the bridge ready to say her farewells, found it difficult to dismiss a pang of hurt at such a slight. Typical Mortals, she thought as she watched the knot of ragged figures diminish into the distance.—Selfish, thoughtless, and ungrateful! She had given them sanctuary and saved them from the Phaerie—and they lacked even the consideration to thank her or even say a proper farewell. Well, good riddance to them all. Thanks be to the Gods that they were gone at last, and she had her Valley to herself again.—She had no idea that she was wrong. Enjoying the tranquility, Eilin made her way along the shores of the lake, completely unaware of the eyes that observed her from the nearby forest fringe.

How could he break the news to Eilin that he would be staying? Up to this point, Yazour’s plan had been simple enough—just make himself scarce and find a comfortable hiding place until the others had gone. Vannor had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to make a hasty departure, in the hope that the Lady wouldn’t notice that one person was missing from the group. Once they were safely gone, Yazour had only to wait for a while (Dulsina’s plan, this), to give the solitude time to take its toll on the Mage....

Which was all very well, of course, but Yazour was still extremely doubtful of his welcome, and now that the time had come, he was finding it very easy to put off that initial moment of confrontation. It was important to both of them that Eilin accept him—he felt very strongly that he owed it to Aurian to take care of her mother in her absence. Perhaps he should wait a little longer, just to be on the safe side....

As the sun reached its zenith he ate the food Dulsina had left for him—cold venison and hard biscuits of flour and water that she had baked on hot stones at the edge of the fire. Afterward, Yazour decided to explore his surroundings a little. He could come back later—there was no hurry, after all. He already knew that the Lady Eilin was very perceptive—it wouldn’t do to linger too close and have her discover him before he was ready. Keeping low to the ground, he slipped stealthily away from his hiding place in the bushes and headed for the depths of the woods, taking great care not to betray his presence by any telltale movement of branches or snapping of twigs.

Time passed quickly for the warrior. He enjoyed exploring this northern forest—it was unlike any place he had ever known. Woodlands were completely unknown in the dry, desiccated climate of his own land, and both the great forest on the desert’s edge and the high, sweeping pinewoods of the Xandim mountains had lacked the lush verdancy of the broad-leaf trees that graced these rainy, temperate lands. Everything was so very different here: he savored the aromatic scents of the grass and the tiny plants that he crushed underfoot with each step; he reveled in the endless, restless sway of twig and bough and the swirling dance of light and dappled shade as the sun flashed against the pale surfaces of the leaves. Best of all, though, Yazour loved the sounds: the incessant susurration of the wind in the trees mingled with a torrent of bird-song that drenched him in a downpour of glorious bright notes.—After the terror of yesterday’s fire, the birds and animals who had fled for protection to the lakeside were beginning to creep back to their former territories. Yazour the hunter could observe them with ease—he knew how to move soundlessly and melt his silhouette into the background, and the wild creatures, protected as they had always been in Eilin’s Vale, were still in too much of a state of turmoil and confusion to take much note of one unaggressive human. An uneasy truce seemed to exist between predators and prey—for the present. There was food in abundance for the carnivores closer to the area of the fire’s destruction, for here lay carcasses aplenty, killed by smoke and untouched by flame. The survivors of yesterday’s inferno were currently preoccupied with seeking lost mates and offspring, or attempting to establish new territories or defend their former ranges against homeless interlopers from the Valley’s immolated, uninhabitable outer reaches. There were tracks everywhere, crossing and re-crossing one another, and the young warrior followed them with interest, finding an endless fascination in the various struggles for supremacy.

Suddenly Yazour stopped, a startled exclamation on his lips, and bent low to touch the ground. There, cut into the moss, was a line of tracks—the sharp indentations left by a horse’s unshod hooves, galloping at breakneck speed.—Iscalda! He had forgotten all about her in the fear of the Forest Lord’s attack, and his relief at Hellorin’s dismissal. Had she managed to escape the Phaerie completely? Could she still be free?

There was one way to find out. Yazour was an accomplished tracker, and in her heedless flight, the mare had left ample evidence of her passing in the form of scattered leaf mold, churned soil, and broken twigs and branches. The tracks circled in a wide arc through the broad band of woodland, gradually heading back toward the center of the Vale. With his heart in his mouth, Yazour pieced together what had happened on the churned-up stream bank, and frowned with concern as the pattern of hoofprints changed to an awkward, three-legged gait.

Eventually, drawn by the frenetic buzzing of flies, he found Iscalda in a shadowy clearing that was overhung by the branches of the surrounding trees.—She was a heartbreaking sight. Afraid to startle her, he remained hidden downwind of her while he tried to work out the best way to approach a creature that was clearly at the, very limit of her endurance.

The mare was in a sorry state. Her head drooped and her body sagged with weariness. One foreleg was swollen and held up at an awkward angle so that the hoof barely touched the ground. Iscalda’s long, silken mane and tail hung in tangled strings all snarled with twigs and leaves. Her once-white coat, caked with sweat and clinging patches of brown mud, was stained with smears of green where she had crashed into trees during what must have been a headlong flight.—Her legs were cut and scraped and her hide was striped with streaks of blood where thorns had gouged their deep and stinging tracks. A ragged wound, presumably from the sharp end of a branch, was torn across her face, narrowly missing one eye.

Then Iscalda lifted her head and saw him, and let out a loud, joyous whinny.—Yazour smiled with pure relief. She had retained enough of her human wits to recognize him. Only when he stepped forward did he notice the wolf cub that lay on the ground within the mare’s protective shadow. What in the name of the Reaper was Iscalda doing with a wolf, of all things? Yazour bent down to examine the little creature, that by now was too enfeebled by hunger to even lift its head. It took longer than it had taken Iscalda for him to realize the cub’s identity, since he refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes, but its markings were too distinct for there to be any mistake. Yazour was horrified. Wolf must already be dreadfully weak—and here he was, tarrying like a moonstruck idiot when he should be getting Aurian’s son to safety. If she ever found out, she would have his hide!

Yazour scooped up the cub and buttoned it inside his tunic for warmth. Not without a pang of guilt at increasing her pain, he grabbed a handful of Iscalda’s mane to hurry her along as best he could. “I’m sorry,” he told the mare, “but we must get Wolf back to Eilin as soon as possible.”

The Mage wandered down to the side of the lake and sat down on a large rock that overlooked the water. The lake was deep blue and tranquil, spangled with quicksilver flashes where ripples caught the sunlight. What few sounds could be heard were all very much a part of the scene: a whispering breeze in the reed beds, the piping of birds in the nearby grove, and the gentle, rhythmic sigh of wavelets lapping against the rounded stones that edged the shoreline.—Eilin sat there for a long time, soaking up the blessed solitude and letting the peace and beauty of the scene soothe her abraded feelings—her irritation at the unmannerly Mortals, her smoldering anger against the Phaerie and especially their Lord, and her deep, abiding anguish over the uncertain fate of her only daughter. Eventually, however, she realized that it wasn’t working. With no other human company to distract her, she found her mind returning again and again to the very subjects that she wished to escape.—Sighing, she looked out across the lake toward the ruins of her tower. She ought not to be sitting here brooding in any case. She should be out there working on her island, building temporary shelters for herself and for her livestock, which must be rounded up and brought from the rebel camp. She ought to be making a start at clearing the debris from the tower site, thinking about the beginnings of a new garden and generally making a start at putting together a new life from the wreckage of the old. After all these years, she had it all to do again. The Mage put her face into her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. She had not even started yet, but already, the sheer immensity of the task ahead seemed too much for her.

As he approached the island, Yazour looked on at the oblivious Mage in pity.—Surely now the Lady would forgive him, and accept his assistance? She looked so desolate, how could she help but want his company? It was only common sense. But the Khazalim warrior had already had a taste of Magefolk stubbornness from Aurian, and knew how little sense of any kind entered into the picture. Lonely or not, Eilin was just as likely to throw him out of the Vale simply in order to maintain the splendor of her solitude. That way, she could weep unseen as much as she wanted, and her pride would remain inviolate.

That accursed stiff-necked pride! Yazour thought. It won’t get her anywhere.—For her own good, I must persuade her. In any case, Iscalda needs her help—and when I explain the situation to her, she won’t turn away someone in such dire need of healing. Besides—he looked down at the wolf cub that he carried. She must owe me a favor for finding her grandson. He turned to the white mare, who was waiting patiently at his side. It had taken a long time for them to get her this far with her slow, halting, and three-legged gait, but she had refused to stay behind and wait for her friend to return with the Lady. In any case, he certainly couldn’t stand here any longer, Little Wolf was desperately in need of care and attention. Yazour took a deep breath. “I’m counting on you to help me with this,” he told the horse—though the Reaper knows how you could, he added in the privacy of his thoughts. Taking a firmer grip on the wolf cub, he stepped out into the sunlight.

Eilin started violently at the sound of his approach. “You! What are you doing here? Why in the name of all the Gods didn’t you leave with the others?”

All of Yazour’s carefully prepared speeches flew out of his head. “I . . .” He cleared his throat and held up the wolf cub. “Lady, I have found your grandson.”

“What? That wolf—my grandson? How dare you make sport with me, Mortal!” Eilin leapt to her feet, her face crimson with rage.

Yazour felt his own anger blaze up inside him at such an unfair accusation. “I do not make sport with you. For Aurian’s sake I would never do such a thing,” he shouted at her. “Look!” Again, he held the cub out toward her. “Just look at him, you stubborn woman. He was cursed into this shape by Aurian’s enemy. She had no chance to tell you herself, but despite his outward appearance, Wolf is your own flesh and blood, and he needs your help. For his sake and the sake of your daughter, learn to look at him with your heart, and see him as he truly is.”

Eilin opened her mouth, then closed it again. Slowly, she reached out and took the cub into her arms. As Yazour watched, her eyes filled, and tears went streaking down her cheeks. “It is my grandson,” she whispered. “It is ...”

Suddenly, she became all briskness. “By the Gods, this won’t do! Yazour, find some dead wood and make a fire. And we’ll need a shelter—we can’t expect the poor little thing to sleep out in the open tonight. And you, you poor creature

. . .” She turned to Iscalda, addressing her just as though she were still human. “Poor child, be welcome. Only be patient a little while longer, and I will see what I can do to ease you.. ..”

Her words tailed away into silence as Yazour rushed off to do her bidding. He was glad of a chance to get away quickly, before she could notice the smile on his face.