Harp of Winds

4 News from Wyvernesse

When the Archmage had left once more to supervise his Southern pawns, his departure came as a tremendous relief to Eliseth. Though Miathan was gone only in spirit, the atmosphere in the Academy was considerably lightened by the absence of his brooding thoughts, and the Weather-Mage could relax at last. Within the sanctuary of her chambers, she felt her face with anxious fingers. Her skin was smooth now; taut and silken where it had been rough and sagging before. Suddenly, she wished she had not smashed all the mirrors. What a joy it would be to see herself, and not that hideous old hag! Thank all the Gods—but then again, why thank them? Eliseth had saved herself through her own cleverness.

Nonetheless, the Mage was quick to keep her word and restore the winter—a simple matter, though her weather-dome had been destroyed in the backlash of the battle with Aurian. Her spells had not had much time to unravel, and it had taken only a little effort to rebuild them, working from the open rooftop temple on the Mages’ Tower, from which the ashes of Bragar had now been cleaned.

Her work completed, Eliseth wandered downstairs, enjoying the supple response of her young-again body, savoring the peace of the silent tower, When she came to Miathan’s door, she stopped. His body would be lying beyond, untenanted and helpless while his mind was away in the South, overseeing his plans for Aurian’s capture. Eliseth stood at the door, studying the honey-rippled pattern of the grain. The temptation was overwhelming. It would be so easy ... As she lifted her hand to the latch, a blast of tingling cold smote her palm. From the corner of her eye, Eliseth glimpsed the illusory shimmer-haze of a Wardspell. She snatched her hand back with an oath, rubbing the palm against her skirts, I should have known, she thought. The old wolf would never put enough trust in me or anyone else, to leave his body unguarded in his absence She wondered what spell Miathan had placed on the door, what fate would have been hers, had she been foolish or unwary enough to lift the latch. It would be something unspeakable, Eliseth was sure. Now that Miathan wielded the power of the Caldron ...

Shuddering, the Weather-Mage moved hastily away, and continued her descent. The next rooms she belonged to Aurian. After a moment, Eliseth pushed open the heavy door. The rooms were tidy—as tidy as Anvar, then the Mage’s servant; had left them on the night he had fled Nexis with his mistress, Eliseth wrinkled her nose at the smell of mildew, The dank air of the room was with neglect; the void of the ash-furred hearth was cold and gray. Cobwebs and dust shrouded the furnishings like a ghostly veil, and the moldering cushions had been nibbled by mice. The Weather-Mage smiled. If the Archmage had his way, Aurian would soon experience similar desolation within her soul! It’s as well I didn’t kill you, Aurian, Eliseth thought. Miathan can make you suffer more intensely than II Turning on her heel, she left the dreary chamber without a backward look, seeking her own rooms on the floor below. While the Mage had been busy above, one of the few remaining menials—a ragged, pinch-faced brat, had been cleaning her rooms. As Eliseth entered, the child shot her a scared look from beneath a curtain of snarled brown curls and bobbed a sketchy curtsy, her cleaning rag clutched tight in grubby fingers. “I—I filled your bath, Lady,” she whispered nervously. “I hope I done right.”

The scullion had done a fine job of restoring the chamber. The broken mirrors had gone, and not a particle of glass remained on the gleaming floor. The furnishings had been dusted, and the liquors and goblets put away. The stains from her thrown cup had vanished from the wall and a fire flamed bright in the clean-swept grate. Eliseth nodded approval At last! she thought. One of these slatterns knows how to work. She dismissed the girl, sending her back to the kitchen with orders for a meal to be prepared.

When Eliseth entered her bathing room she was further gratified. A fire had been lit in the squat iron stove, the tub was filled with steaming water, and soap and scented oils had been laid out for her. Fresh-laundered towels had been hung to warm near the glowing stove. The Mage was delighted. What a difference these attentions make! she thought. Her maid had been slain by a Wraith when Miathan’s abominations had run amok, and since then they had been so short of help at the Academy that she’d never found another. But this girl had potential . . . Eliseth smiled. Perhaps my luck is changing, she thought. She pulled off the robe that she had worn as an ancient crone, and her darkened into a scowl at the reminder. Spitting out a curse, she crumpled it into a ball and thrust it into the stove, slamming the door on it as it burst into flames.

As she slipped into the scented water, regret for the loss of Davorshan twisted like a knife within Eliseth’s soul. She missed the Water-Mage keenly. Under her tutelage, he had grown ever more talented, in magic and in her bed, proving a willing, useful tool in her schemes until Miathan had sent him to kill Eilin, and he himself had been slain. Eliseth was glad of Miathan’s sanction to discover the identity of his murderer, for eventually she meant to avenge him. But in the meantime, Eilin’s Vale remained a mystery fraught with direst peril. How to find out what was going on there? As the Mage lay musing in the soothing water, the seeds of a plan began to form in her mind.

Emerging sometime later, cleansed at last in body and spirit, Eliseth returned to her bedchamber and put on a loose robe of thick white wool. Having conjured a warm breeze to take the last of the damp from her hair, she curled up on the white velvet cushions of her window seat and began to brush the silvery strands.

It would take a while for the grim clouds of her winter to return to their place over Nexis, In the meantime, the heavens seemed to be making the most of their chance, A spectacular sunset flooded the Academy courtyard with honeyed light and cool t blue shadow, turning the shattered shell of her weather-dome to fire and crimson blood, Bragar’s blood. At the reminder of her failure and disgrace, Eliseth drew in a hissing breath, “Just wait, Aurian,” she snarled, “One day I will have my revenge!”

The topaz glory of sunset faded to the sapphire and amethyst of twilight. To Eliseth’s relief, night threw its shadowy cloak over Nexis, hiding the ruin in the courtyard, High in the deepening vault above, the diamond-points of stars were beginning to appear.

“Lady Eliseth? Are you there?” There came a timid tap at the door of her bedchamber,

“How dare you interrupt me!” The Mage flung open the door to find the ragged girl-child on the other side

“But Lady, your supper—” Her words ended in a wail as Eliseth slapped her,

“Never answer me back, you guttersnipe!” she hissed. The girl’s fists clenched and behind the greasy tendrils of hair, her eyes flashed defiance. Eliseth raised an eyebrow. It seemed she had underestimated the little baggage! What a diversion it will be, to break her to my will, she mused. “What’s your name, child?” she asked.

“Inella, Lady,” mumbled the brat.

“Speak up, girl! Tell me—why haven’t I seen you before?”

“Wasn’t here before.”

Eliseth’s hand itched to slap her again, but she kept her temper reined. She required fear and respect from the girl, but she also needed her loyalty. With an effort, she managed to produce a smile, “Are you hungry, child?”

The girl nodded, her large eyes fixed on the serving dishes that crowded for space on Eliseth’s supper tray. Her mouth quirking in an odd little smile, Eliseth divided the contents of the tray, serving herself with generous portions of beef stew and steamed vegetables, but leaving enough in the covered dishes to feed the starveling child. She took one of the sweet apple pasties, spicy with cloves and cinnamon, and left the other for Inella. “Here, child.”

She handed back the tray. “Take that off to a quiet corner and feed yourself—by the look of you, Janok keeps you on slender rations! Report to me first thing tomorrow, and we’ll replace those disreputable rags you’re wearing,”

The dull, resentful look had vanished from Inella’s face. Already, it seemed that Eliseth’s ill-tempered slap had been forgotten, “Oh, Lady—thank you!” The child’s eyes were bright with gratitude as she took the proffered tray, which tipped perilously as she curtsied,

Eliseth steadied the tray quickly before the dishes could slide to the floor. “Off you go,” she said, “Enjoy your supper, child—and when you report back to Janok, tell him that from now on, I shall want you as my personal maid!”

When the girl, still babbling her gratitude, had departed, Eliseth sat down to enjoy her first hearty meal since Miathan had cast her into the shape of a hag. It was good, solid fare—a far cry from the broth and gruel that were all she’d been able to manage with the toothless gums of an old crone. The Mage ate with great appetite, but more than the food, she was savoring the thought that once again she would have a willing tool, enslaved by her false and easy charm, to do her bidding. Eliseth smiled. She was sure the little maid would prove useful eventually. Mortals usually did.

Eilin’s Valley cupped the rich sunset colors like a handful of jewels. In the glittering waters of the lake, a unicorn disported in the shallows, striking starbursts of spray from her bounding hooves and scattering a rain of diamond droplets with her silvery horn. D’arvan, watching, smiled. Gods, she was breathtaking] The most beautiful creature that had ever lived, and he was the only one privileged to see her—yet he would have traded the marvel in an instant to have his Maya back! Her hearty laugh and sense of fun; her blunt common sense so richly mingled with compassion; her slight, wiry form with its strong, sun-browned limbs; her glossy dark hair, neatly braided warrior-fashion, or lying loose in crinkled waves across a pillow . . .

As though he too were emerging form the waters of the lake, D’arvan shook himself free from dreams of longing as the unicorn approached, the deepening twilight blue-silver on her moonspun hide, D’arvan put his arms around her neck and the two of them—Mage and Miracle—embraced, sharing, for a moment, their loneliness. How long would this wretched isolation last? D’arvan wondered, He and Maya were doing all that his father, the Forest Lord, had asked. His magic, augmented, he suspected, by the ancient powers of the Phaerie, had kept Eliseth’s deadly winter out of the Vale, which glowed with burgeoning life like a solitary emerald set into the iron-locked lands around. Trees, aware and wakeful, filled the great bowl from brim to brim, providing shelter, protection, and sustenance for the enemies of the Archmage. D’arvan and the Lady Eilin’s wolves patrolled the Valley, protecting those who dwelt within from invasion and danger. Maya guarded the lakeside, and the wooden bridge led to the island and its hidden secret—the legendary Sword of Flame, forged in ancient times by the Dragonfolk to be the greatest of the Artifacts of Power.

D’arvan sighed. Were it not for the accursed Sword . . . But wishes were useless. The Weapon of the High Magic did exist, and until the One for whom it had been forged came to claim it, as had been foretold long ago, he and Maya must fulfill their lonely Guardianship. The Mage wondered, as he often did, who the wielder would be. It’s all very well, he thought, for us to assume that this person will be on our side. It could be anyone! What if it turns out to be the Archmage? His guts twisted in terror at the thought.

Maya—or rather, the unicorn—nudged him sharply in the stomach with her nose, making him totter backward to keep his balance. “All right,” D’arvan told her. “I know. I’m wasting time with my foolish notions, while you want to take a last look at your friend Hargorn before he leaves.”

Darkness was falling, and all was still, save for the rhythmic chirp of frogs in the rushes. Ghostly tendrils of silver mist were swirling over the dark, smooth surface of the water. D’arvan held up the Lady’s staff, and the trees parted before him, bowing their leafy heads in homage over the path they had created. Together they left the lakeside, Mage and unicorn, vanishing into the shadowed forest like the last, fading memories of a dream.

It was not far from the lakeside to the camp of Vannor’s rebels. Though D’arvan and the unicorn were invisible to the Mortals, they remained in the thicket that edged the clearing. D’arvan had tried, once or twice, to enter the camp, but had been unnerved by the blank expressions of Vannor’s fugitives, as their eyes looked right through him. It was lonely enough being invisible, the Mage had decided, without being reminded of the fact.

Invisible or not, D’arvan had done the rebels proud by way of a camp. His father had told him to shelter Miathan’s foes, and he had done his best by way of preparation, even before Vannor’s folk had arrived. With the protection of the trees uppermost in his mind, D’arvan had taken every precaution to eliminate the need for the fugitives to cut living wood. The rounded shelters that ringed the clearing were made from saplings and shrubs that the Earth-Mage had persuaded to embrace and intertwine, leaving hollows within their hearts where men might live. D’arvan made sure that a pile of deadwood appeared each day, transported by an apport spell—taught him in his brief apprenticeship by the Lady Eilin—from the farthest reaches of the forest. Paths appeared wherever Vannor’s people wished to go. The filbert and fruit trees, which throve by the lakeside, had been cajoled into producing early harvests, and though the island, with Eilin’s garden, was forbidden to the outlaws, D’arvan had rounded up most of her scattered goats and poultry, and had left them where they had soon been found.

The young Mage smiled, remembering how unnerved the rebels had been at first—and how quickly they had settled in. Vannor’s redoubtable housekeeper, Dulsina, had, of course, been the first to point out that they were clearly being helped and protected, so they ought to make the most of it—as indeed they had. D’arvan’s haven, apparently, was a vast’ improvement over their hideaway in the sewers of Nexis!

It was with great reluctance that Vannor had eventually pointed out that this idyll in the forest was accomplishing nothing. Accepting the need for tidings of their enemies, and also wishing to increase his forces and bring more people from the city to this place of safety, he had decided that someone must return to Nexis. Hargorn, to Maya’s palpable dismay, had been selected for the mission.

“Are you sure you have everything?” Dulsina asked Hargorn.

Vannor, who sat watching on a nearby log, grinned to himself at the disgusted expression on the veteran’s face.

“For goodness’ sake, woman,” Hargorn protested, “I’ve been packing for campaigns since you were a little lass at your mother’s skirts! Of course I have everything!”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

Vannor, alerted by a familiar, wicked twinkle in Dul-sina’s eyes, leaned forward expectantly.

The veteran sighed, and raised his eyes heavenward. “Food, water flask, change of clothing, blanket, flint and striker ...” He counted them off on his fingers. “Bow, sword, knives ...” He patted various parts of his clothing and boots where daggers were concealed. “Cloak . . . Anything else? Or are you willing to concede defeat?”

Smiling sweetly, Dulsina thrust her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small but bulging leather pouch.

“Money?” she suggested. “Or were you planning to sing for your supper when you get to Nexis? I’ve heard your singing, Hargorn—I wouldn’t like to think of you having to depend on it!”

Vannor, who had given the silver—the last of his slender supply—to Dulsina to pass on to the grizzled warrior, burst out laughing.

“Seven bloody demons!” Hargorn said feelingly. He turned on the chortling merchant. “This is your fault—she’s your housekeeper!”

“How is it my fault?” the merchant protested. “You brought her along—you’ve only yourself to blame! Besides, I dismissed her long ago—but she refuses to leave!”

“Indeed, you did dismiss me—and came back about ten days later, begging me to return because the house was falling apart around your ears!” Dulsina snorted. Now it was Hargorn’s turn to chuckle at Vannor’s discomfiture. “It always ends the same way,” Dulsina told die warrior. “The truth is, he can’t survive without me!”

“Be quiet!” Vannor growled, putting an affectionate arm around her waist, “Or I’ll beat some sense into you, as I should have done long ago!”

Far from being impressed by his threat, Dulsina howled with mirth.

“Stop laughing, woman!”

“Stop playing the fool, then,” Dulsina chuckled, and slipped away before he could think of a retort.

“Do you ever manage to get the last word with that woman?” Hargorn asked.

“I’ve known her more than twenty years—and I haven’t managed it yet!” Vannor looked across the clearing at his housekeeper, who was checking the contents of Fional’s pack. “On the other hand,” he said, “I would place my fortune, my children, and my life in her hands without hesitation!” He shrugged. “To be honest, Hargorn, I don’t know what I’d do without her, I’m glad she talked you into smuggling her along with us—but don’t you tell her so”

Hargorn chuckled. “I knew you’d see sense eventually—at least, Dulsina assured me you would!” The veteran smiled to himself at the rueful expression on the merchant’s blunt and bearded face. What a pity, he thought, that Vannor is still obsessed with the memory of that sly little bitch he married! It’s such a waste! It’s plain that he’s fond of Dulsina—and by the looks of it, I suspect she’s been in love with him for years! A lovely, clever, sensible woman like that is what a man like Vannor needs—not some common miller’s daughter half his age who was only after his riches! Hargorn sighed. Poor Dulsina—wasted on a fool without the wit to appreciate her! Why, were I ten years younger, I’d court her myself—not that I think for a moment that she’d have me!

Just then Fional approached, and the sight of the young man’s anguished expression gave Hargorn second thoughts,

“Vannor, Dulsina is emptying my pack out all over the ground,” the young archer complained, He ran a distracted hand through his shaggy brown curls, “Tell her to stop it!”

Vannor was sending the bowman to the Nightrunners with messages. He wanted to let his daughter Zanna know that they were safe in the Valley—and also, he wished to arrange for Yanis, the Nightrunner leader, to be able to Hargorn in Nexis, where the smugglers had an agent in concealment. Since the escape of the rebels, Miathan kept the city well guarded. Movements were monitored, so if Hargorn found folk who wished to leave—and Vannor was certain he would—he wanted to be sure that the smugglers could get them out by river. At the moment, however, it looked as though Fional would be lucky to get away at all!

“You were supposed to pack this, Fional,” Dulsina scolded, “not stuff everything in!” She was holding the young archer’s spare tunic, which had been wadded into a ball in the bottom of the pack.

“What difference will a few creases make?” the bowman protested. “I was busy making new arrows—I didn’t have time for fancy folding!”

Dulsina sighed. “It’s not the creases. If you fold things properly, like this, you’ll have more room for food. You haven’t put in nearly enough!”

Fional sighed, with the air of one who already knew that it was hopeless. “I thought I could shoot rabbits and birds on the way.” The young archer was justifiably proud of his skills, but Dulsina was unimpressed with his practicality.

“Have you forgotten it’s winter out there?” she told him. “There’ll be few creatures out and about on those moors—and besides, you won’t have time to spare for hunting!”

Beneath his beard, the young man reddened, and Dulsina patted him on the arm. “Never mind,” she said, “it was just an oversight. I’ll fetch you some extra provisions . . .”

Vannor and Hargorn exchanged sympathetic looks with the younger man. “I know,” the merchant told him. “Believe me, I know—but the thing is, she’s always right!”

D’arvan, watching from his hiding place, was dismayed. He had known that Hargorn was going—but Fional too! In addition to Maya, the archer had become his friend when Aurian had first taken him with her on her visits to the Garrison. The two of them. Mage and Mortal, had discovered a common passion for archery—one that, in D’arvan’s case, was only exceeded by his love for Maya—and in Fional’s case, was exceeded by no one and nothing at all. Not so far, at any rate, the young Mage thought, remembering how his own passion for Forral’s dark-haired second-in-command had taken him so completely by surprise.

When the Archmage had taken control of Nexis, D’arvan had fretted for Fional’s safety, and had been relieved to find him, safe and sound, among the rebels seeking sanctuary in the Vale. Here, at least, the Mage had been able to protect his friend—but to think of him roaming those freezing moors alone, exposed to all manner of dangers . . . Yet Fional was a levelheaded young man who could more than hold his own with a blade, and who was, of course, lethal with his bow. Furthermore, he was an experienced tracker who was unlikely to lose his way on the moors—which, of course, was the reason Vannor had chosen him. D’arvan, in his heart of hearts, was aware of all these facts, but nevertheless, he worried. Oh, if he could only leave the Valley and accompany his friend, to see him safe! But that would mean abandoning Maya—and besides, he and the unicorn were unable to leave. They were Guardians here, and had their allotted tasks to perform.

Suddenly D’arvan stiffened, alerted by. a disturbance among the nearby trees. Sending out his consciousness into the forest, he perceived the warning message of the arboreal guardians. Intruders! There were people at the boundary of the Valley, trying to gain entrance. He turned to Maya, “To the bridge, my love—and hurry!” With a flash of her heels, the unicorn was gone, D’arvan, taking the opposite direction, hurried off to the other side of the woods to see who the intruders might be.

“Gone? What do you mean, she’s gone?”

Tarnal took a hurried step backward in the face of Vannor’s rage. It had been bad enough, the young smuggler thought, entering this unnerving place. He and Remana had been trapped for some time, pinned a tree by, a pack of the meanest-looking wolves he had when suddenly the sheltering trunk behind him had simply picked up its roots and moved When he looked round again, the wolf pack had simply vanished, and a broad, leaf-arched avenue had opened before him, heading down into the crater. Tarnal sighed, and cursed Yards roundly under his breath. Terrifying though the encounter with the wolves had been, it was nothing in comparison to having to tell Vannor that his daughter had vanished.

“What the bloody blazes does Yanis think he’s playing at?” Vannor’s tirade continued, unabated. “How could Zanna have slipped out like that, unobserved? What a fool I was, to trust my daughter to that halfwit imbecile! And as for you ...” His rage turned on Remana. “I thought you were supposed to be looking after her. I trusted you, I—”

Remana looked stricken. Tarnal sighed. Might as well get it over with, he thought. “I was on guard that night,” he interrupted the furious merchant. “I never thought she’d . . . And then she knocked me out ...” The words dried in his mouth beneath Vannor’s withering, contemptuous glare.

“She had tried this trick already with Tarnal, before you came to join us.” Remana came to the young man’s rescue.

“Honestly, Vannor, we never thought she would do it again. But she had quarreled with Yanis, because she thought he should be doing more to help you, and, I think, because he wouldn’t take her when he went south to trade. He went off to sea that same day and didn’t tell us what had happened between them, and Zanna never said a word, though I thought she was rather quiet. She left that same night.”

Remana bit her lip. “If you blame Tarnal, you might as well blame me, too. It was I who taught Zanna to sail, and to navigate the passage outside the cavern. Yanis is still in the southern oceans—he doesn’t even know. Tarnal and I thought we should come at once to tell you. Gods, Vannor—I’m sorry. Dulsina, you were wrong to trust me.” There were tears in Remana’s eyes. “She left a note, explaining what had happened, and what she planned to do. She’s gone to Nexis.”

Vannor maintained a stony silence. Tarnal wished he would do anything, even hit him with those tight clenched fists, rather than just stand there with that look of loathing on his face. Dulsina stepped forward and took hold of the merchant’s arm. “Vannor, don’t blame them too harshly. You know what Zanna is like—she takes after you. There’s no stopping her once she gets an idea into her head.”

“And that makes it all right, does it?” Vannor growled, turning on Dulsina. “They should have taken better care of her! They—”

“They didn’t, as it happens.” Dulsina’s flat tones brought the merchant up .short. “Now,” she went on, “the question is, what are we going to do about it? Raging at Tarnal and Remana won’t get Zanna back.”

“You’re right.” Vannor seemed relieved to be doing something positive. “Hargorn, there’s a change of plan. You’re still going to Nexis—but I’m coming with you.”

“Vannor, you can’t!” Dulsina gasped. “There’s a reward out on you. You’ll be recognized! And what about the rebels? You’re their leader—”

“Then they had better choose another bloody leader!” The expression on Vannor’s face brooked no argument.

“Dulsina, fill a pack for me. Fional, you’re still going to Wyvernesse. Get a couple of ponies from these idiots—it’s the least they can do in atonement, I should say”—he turned a scornful look on Tarnal and Remana—“and bring my son back with you. I want him safe here with Dulsina.”

“But—” Fional stammered.

“Don’t argue with me!” Vannor roared. “Dulsina, is that pack ready yet? What’s keeping you, woman?”

As Dulsina, for once knowing better than to contradict the merchant, came running up, Tarnal swallowed hard, and went to Vannor. “I want to come with you,” he said firmly. Vannor scowled at him. “Come with me? After what you’ve done? You’ve got a nerve, boy! Get out of my sight. I never want to set eyes on you and your Nightrunner friends again.”

As the travelers said farewell to their companions and walked out of the clearing along the path that opened out before them, D’arvan closed his eyes, unable to watch, as they left the haven he had created and went out again into danger. He could have stopped them, he knew. For the son of the Forest Lord, it would have been simple to change the paths between the trees, and deny the wanderers egress; to bring them back in a circle to the safety they had left. But he would have been wrong to do so. They must play their parts in the fight against Miathan, even as he must, and all he could do was pray for their safe return.

Hargorn wiped his numb and dripping nose across his sleeve. “By Chathak—I’d forgotten how cold it can be out here!” he muttered to Fional, who would be leaving them for Wyvernesse once they had cleared the trees. Remana and Tarnal would be following him, once they had rested from their arduous journey, but Vannor had not permitted the archer to wait for them. Once more, Hargorn wished that the rebels had been able to bring horses to this desolate place. But in these days of famine, horses were a scarce commodity, for most had been eaten long ago. Unless he could find any on his journey to Nexis, he and the merchant would be forced to go without.

Before the three men stretched the endless bleakness of the moors, the black rock of their wind-scoured bones poking out in places from a ragged cloak of shriveled bracken and heather, patched with night-gray turf that was harsh and brittle with a skin of crackling frost. Behind the wanderers, the trees that ringed the precipitous edge of the Vale thronged tight and close, as though huddled together for warmth. Goaded by the bitter, whining wind, their bare, twisted branches clawed at the clouding sky.

The archer nodded, his usually smiling mouth twisted down into a grimace, “It was easy to forget—in there!”

Frowning, he turned to the older man. There was no point in talking to Vannor, who had remained grimly silent ever since they had set out. The others did not dare mention their concern for Zanna in his presence, and Fional wracked his brains for another topic. “Hargorn, what do you think was protecting us in the Valley? Do you think it was Aurian’s mother? If it was, why didn’t she show herself?”

The veteran shook his head. “I’ve no idea, lad—though I remember Aurian saying that her ma was a pretty solitary sort. Still, after all that happened, you’d think she would show herself—if it was the Lady who was taking care of us in there!”

“But who else could it have been?”

“The Gods only know—but your Mageborn friend D’arvan was supposed to be coming out here with poor Maya ... I’ve been wondering, lately, what could have become of them?”

“D’arvan and Maya would never have stayed in hiding if they knew we were there!” Fional protested indignantly. Hargorn sighed. “Maybe not . . . But there are strange things going on in that Vale, lad. It’s easy, when you’re in there, not to think about it too much—but coming out, and thinking back ...” He turned to the younger man with a wink.

“Don’t you feel your curiosity stirring? Don’t you want to find out what’s going on in there, and what happened to D’arvan and Maya? Do you think Fame, had he been here, would have been content to sit around and not find out what’s going on? Do you think that Forral would?”

Fional grinned. “Why no, now you come to mention it. After all, it’s our duty to find out what happened to our missing friends!”

“Good lad! Hargorn clouted the archer on the shoulder. “Tell you what—once we’ve done what we set out to do, and returned to the Valley, let’s you and I get to the bottom of the mystery once and for all!”

“Done!” The archer thrust out his hand, and Hargorn clasped it to seal the bargain.

“Well,” Hargorn said briskly, “the sooner we go, the quicker we’ll get back and get on with it. Take young Fional, and don’t go bedding all those pretty young Nightrunner wenches!”

Even in the gloom, the young man’s face was darkened by a blush, and Hargorn grinned. Fional was notoriously awkward where women were concerned. “Would that I had the chance!” the bowman retorted. “Go well, you old villain—and don’t go drinking all the ale in Nexis!”

With a parting salute, the two warriors, the old and the young, strode off in opposite directions across the dark and freezing moors, each toward their separate goals. Vannor strode along at Hargorn’s side, wrapped in an impenetrable cloak of silence.

Hargorn twitched his heavy pack to a more comfortable position on his shoulders, and strode out with the steady, ground-devouring stride developed from years of arduous marches. He was anxious to cover as much ground as he could before dawn; for although no enemies had come into the Valley after the massacre of Angos and his men, he had no idea whether or not the moors were still being patrolled. Fifty-two was a rare age for a soldier to reach, and the veteran had not managed to get this far without a bit of common sense and caution—and, in all^ modesty, he thought—pure skill! In this business, knowing how to avoid trouble was as important as knowing how to deal with it! Vannor, unfortunately, was trouble that could not be avoided. Hargorn shot a worried, sidelong glance at the merchant. This uncanny silence was due to shock—and not surprisingly! Poor Vannor, losing both his precious wife and his beloved daughter in a matter of months! Hargorn only worried about what Vannor would do when the shock subsided.

Nonetheless, despite his concern for the merchant, and that poor daft girl, all alone and in danger, the veteran found his spirits lifting with the promise of action ahead. A warrior to his bones, he’d mistrusted the easy life in the Vale. It was all very well to say that some mysterious power had been helping the rebels—but on the other hand, while they were lolling around at their ease, they weren’t doing much to oppose the Archmage! In fact, the veteran thought, whatever is keeping us cocooned in there has taken us out of the fight as surely as if we’d been imprisoned! It was a relief to have found, in Fional, an ally at last! Hargorn had been forced to go very carefully within the Vale, and keep his doubts to himself. Something was plainly keeping an eye on the outlaws—a something that didn’t want its identity to be known. You never knew, in that place, just what might be overheard. But Parric, or a real commander such as Forral, would never have been content to sit still in the midst of a mystery, without investigating further! Nor, come to think of it, would Maya—and that brought Hargorn to his third, and most important concern. He was desperate for news of the girl—he had known her ever since she’d first joined the Garrison as a shy and raw recruit, straight from her parents’ farm in the south, and he had followed her increasingly successful career with fondness and respect ever since. If she had come to the Valley with D’arvan—and Maya had always accomplished what she set out to do—then where was she? Where was the young Mage? What had happened to them? “Vannor or no Vannor,” the veteran muttered, “one of these days, I intend to find out!”