Heritage Of The Xandim

28

NOTHING BY CHANCE

When she left Eliorand with the Hunt, Corisand kept a lookout behind her for Aelwen and Kelon. From the corner of her eye, she finally saw them rise above the rooftops of the palace, and breathed a sigh of relief. By Creation, they seemed to be making heavy weather of such a simple business! Soon they were safely aloft, however, and she noted the direction in which they were heading. Sorely as she was tempted, there would be no point in trying to follow them right now. She would lead their enemies directly to them. No, she would have to wait patiently for a little while longer, and let them put some distance between themselves and the Hunt. Besides, the further she was from Eliorand, the more chance she had of bringing off her own escape.

Tiolani urged her to stay a few paces in front of the other riders, and Corisand galloped along, meek and gentle, the absolute picture of a well-trained, obedient horse. After a time, she felt her rider beginning to relax on her back, lulled by the rhythm of that smooth, swinging stride. And the more the girl’s vigilance slackened, the more delighted the mare became. Tiolani’s golden-haired lover, whom Corisand detested, closed the gap between them. As he rode up close, the mare’s skin twitched as though she could feel the prickling feet of a swarm of filthy flies. Why were these Phaerie so dense? Had they no deeper instincts? Why couldn’t Tiolani see the evil aura of treachery, greed and deceit that clung around Ferimon?

He was riding Vikal, an ill-tempered white stallion with pale-blue eyes, who had recently crossed Corisand’s path when she’d refused to mate with him. As a matter of fact, Aelwen had tried every stallion in the place except Vikal, as she didn’t particularly want to pass on the blue-eyed trait, but he had broken out of his paddock one night and tried his luck anyway. Kelon had found him in the stable yard the following morning, a sadder but wiser beast. The horse was well known as an attacker of other males, and had inflicted some terrible injuries in the past, so Kelon thought that he must have been fighting with another stallion, and was still wondering which of them it had been, for he had never found any evidence of injuries on the others. One thing was certain - this time it had been Vikal’s turn to come off worst in the encounter. Corisand looked at the torn ear and the partly healed scars on his white hide and flicked her tail in derision, before turning her attention to the conversation between their two riders.

‘How are you finding your new horse?’ Ferimon called out.

Tiolani made a little sound of disgust. ‘I cannot think what Aelwen has been doing to her,’ she said. ‘I would have more fun riding a nursery rocking horse than this dull, spiritless beast.’

You wait, Corisand thought darkly. Just you wait. With her panoramic vision, she saw Aelwen and Kelon peeling off in a south-westerly direction, and sinking furtively down towards the treetops. Now would be the time to act, before she lost them completely, but before she could tense herself, or take another breath, she heard the Huntsman Darillan cry out.

‘Look - over there!’

Corisand cursed to herself. Then without warning she exploded into violent motion: rearing, plunging, bucking, twisting in the air and lashing out with her feet; trying every trick she knew to unseat her rider.

Tiolani was completely unprepared. On the first buck, Corisand felt her lose a stirrup; the mare plunged and bucked again, and the other stirrup went. The third buck was so violent that it hurled Tiolani out of the saddle, and with a fading scream, the girl plummeted towards the treetops far below.

Corisand didn’t stop to watch. As she had hoped, every rider in the Hunt went hurtling down towards Tiolani, hoping that one of them might catch her before she crashed to her death. They had forgotten about the fugitives now. In the meantime, the riderless mare doubled back sharply and sped as fast as she could in Aelwen’s direction. She planned to put some distance between herself and the Hunt during the panic over Tiolani, then plunge down and lose herself among the trees before they noticed where she had gone.

It was the best plan she could come up with - but Darillan had turned his horse, leaving his hounds to scatter, and was coming after her. She spun in the air and charged on a collision course with the astonished Huntsman. Ramming into the shoulder of his horse as hard as she could, she grabbed Darillan’s arm in her teeth and wrenched him bodily from the saddle. She didn’t wait to see him hit the ground, but wheeled around once again and raced away at top speed. She couldn’t let them catch her now. Even if Tiolani lived through the fall, as she probably would - someone was sure to catch Hellorin’s precious heir - Darillan was unlikely to survive. Corisand was marked for death. She had killed, and she doubted very much that being the Forest Lord’s horse would save her if they caught her again.

Which was not unlikely. Corisand was just thinking about turning down into the shelter of the trees when she saw movement behind her. A group of riders, led by Ferimon, his face contorted with rage, was streaking unbelievably fast across the sky. His wicked-looking horse Vikal quickly outdistanced the others, his white coat shining in the gloom, the red glow of murder in his eyes mirroring the twisted expression of rage on Ferimon’s face. There would be no fighting this pair; no taking them by surprise. If Corisand could not find a way to escape them, she could measure her life in minutes.

She ran faster than she had ever run before, galloping for her very life across the night sky. As she went, she noticed that the clouds were blowing up very fast from the west, and now covered half the sky in a menacing mass that was growing larger by the second, reaching from treetop level right up into the heavens. And she was heading towards it. In the midst of the clouds she could see flickers of lightning, and the wind was blowing up into a gale as the weather front advanced. Corisand dared to hope. Livid with rage though he was, would Ferimon dare risk the peril of such violent tumult? Even if he did, she stood a good chance of losing him in the thick cloud and, if she was really lucky, the lightning or the tearing winds might finish him for her.

If they don’t kill me first.

But there was no other choice. Hopefully the storm would give the rest of the Phaerie quite enough to think about, without any more of them chasing after her. It was exceptionally dangerous to fly in the midst of a thunderstorm. She had enough at stake to risk it, but she doubted that her pursuers did.

She turned her attention away from Ferimon and his followers and plunged towards the cloud - then suddenly realised, to her dismay, that she was not alone. Darillan’s mare, prettily marked in patches of white and coppery red, was galloping along at her side, showing an impressive turn of speed. Corisand’s heart sank. It was the herd instinct, of course. Naturally the mare - Corisand couldn’t think of her name - wanted to stay with the only other horse nearby, and of course all the other horses would insist on treating the Windeye as lead mare. This idiot animal trusted her to keep it safe, and instead she had led it straight into the worst possible danger. Quickly she grabbed the mare’s loose reins in her teeth and set herself to hang on tightly. At least she might be able to keep the two of them together - but that was all she could do.

If Corisand had known what it would be like inside that malevolent mass of cloud, she would never have entered. She shot straight into the heart of an inferno: a dark, chaotic maelstrom of searing lightning, deafening concussions of thunder, and tearing winds that buffeted and blasted her beyond all hope of control, sending her tumbling and reeling helplessly across the skies. Dimly, beyond the roar and thunder of the storm, she could hear the Huntsman’s mare screaming with terror, but all she could do was keep her teeth clamped around the other horse’s reins, and hope they would hold. She could see nothing but the lightning, which lanced through the clouds on every side, sizzling past them, horribly close. The ozone stink was overwhelming.

Then out of the murk came Ferimon, oblivious to the danger in his fury, bursting through the clouds on his screaming white stallion. Vikal arrowed in on her, and since she was hampered by the other mare, Corisand was forced to let go of her, before attacking in a fury of flashing hooves. One blow struck Vikal on the head, and with a grunt of pain the stallion lurched aside, leaving Ferimon open to her attack. Snaking her head out, Corisand plunged her teeth into his shoulder, trying to jerk him from the saddle as she had done with Darillan. Ferimon, however, was prepared for such a move. Clinging to Vikal’s saddle bow, he locked his legs tightly around the stallion’s ribs. Though he screamed in pain as her teeth grazed his collarbone, he kept his hold, immovable as a rock, even managing to briefly free a hand and strike out at her face with his fist - a hard, painful blow that left her sickened and dizzy with pain.

Corisand, in disengaging, tore a great bleeding chunk of flesh out of his shoulder. She had the satisfaction of hearing another scream, and seeing his face go grey with agony and shock. In disgust she spat out the mouthful of torn muscle, drooling and champing in an attempt to rid herself of the foul taste of blood.

Recovering himself, Vikal charged her from the side, goaded on by his rider, a demon with the fire of madness in his eyes and blood streaming down his shoulder, dripping from his hand. Corisand jerked herself violently aside, using a savage gust of wind to hurl herself away, and felt his teeth meet with a snap barely a breath from her throat. As she spun away she kicked out violently, and felt the satisfying impact of her hind hooves meeting his shoulder before she leapt back to a wary distance.

On the ground, had he been able to close with her, Vikal would have had the advantage, using his greater mass and strength to assert his dominance. Up here, however, they were almost equal, with Corisand’s speed and manoeuvrability giving her the edge. In addition, she had one other advantage: intelligence. She could think and plan, use her brains to outwit her foe.

Which was all very well, until she saw the sword appear in Ferimon’s hand.

Luckily I tore his shoulder - at least he can’t pull a bow.

But he could keep her from coming too close to Vikal, until the other Phaerie finally got over their fear of the storm and came to his aid. The two horses circled, fighting for position in the screaming wind, the stallion wary of Corisand’s snake-fast hooves and teeth, the mare heedful of the long bright blade in the rider’s hand.

A spear of lightning lanced between the combatants, blinding them with its actinic glare. And Corisand, blinking the dazzle from her eyes, spotted the opening she’d been waiting for. Ferimon lurched in the saddle, his sword arm trembling with the strain of holding up the heavy blade.

One hand for the sword, one trying to hold on to the saddle with a wounded shoulder - and he’s weakening from blood loss all the time.

Seizing the moment, Corisand feinted one way, then dodged in the opposite direction, using the force of the gusting wind to drive in, hard and fast, on the side that had no blade. Ferimon was lifted clean out of the saddle and vanished with a howl into the depths below. Vikal, caught off balance, was snatched by the gale and, spinning helplessly away, smashed heavily into a tree and plunged down out of sight below the forest canopy.

Corisand, through her own momentum, was beyond all control and seemed to be about to share his fate. In a flash of terror she saw the tree hurtling towards her.

No time to—

Even as the thought flared in her mind, a weight crashed into her from the side, knocking her out of danger’s path. The tree flashed past in a blur of green, its branches almost close enough to rake out her eyes. Straining every muscle in her body, she managed to right herself and get back under control. And who would have guessed it? Galloping at her side was Darillan’s red and white mare, whose quick action had saved her life. Infinitely grateful and relieved, Corisand took hold of the trailing reins once more, determined to stay with the one who had aided her. The fight was over. Vikal must surely be dead, and she doubted very much that Ferimon could still be alive. Now her only battle was with the storm. Utterly weary, bruised and spent from the conflict, the Windeye had to find a way to get herself and her companion safely to the ground.

Fighting the strength of the storm, she plunged downwards, dragging her companion with her, moving as fast as she could, heedless of the risk of crashing into the trees below. Somehow, despite being hurled about by the violent wind, she managed to keep a generally downward direction, until finally she almost reached treetop level. The storm had blown her so hard from her original course that she had given up all hope of finding Aelwen and Kelon again. Her only concern now was survival.

Just then, to her utter horror, she felt a peculiar ebbing sensation in her body. The flying spell was fading - and fading fast. Cold shock swept over her as she realised what she had done. Tiolani was unconscious or dead. The girl’s powers lacked the force and finesse of Hellorin’s magic and she had never created a safeguard, as her father had put in place, to give the Hunt that extra time to get safely home. Corisand, carelessly, had assumed that the spell would work as it always had. She had been wrong. Dead wrong.

Down. It was the only thought in the Windeye’s mind. I have to get down!

Tiolani was falling, tumbling through emptiness, her heart stuttering in terror, the sky and trees changing places in a spinning blur as she turned, raindrops pelting her skin with stinging force and the cold wind whistling past her face so fast that she could scarcely breathe. In her tear-filled vision, the dark-green blur of the forest was looming closer and closer . . .

Suddenly horses were flashing down on either side of her, and her headlong plunge was stopped short as she landed on her back with a jerk that jarred every bone in her body. Gasping great gulps of air, she blinked the tears from her eyes to see the stars above her, and a cautious turn of her head showed her the four riders of a net team, who had swooped down and, with speed, skill and tremendous presence of mind, had caught her in their net before she hit the ground. Drenched, aching all over, sick and dizzy, her head still spinning, Tiolani turned over and vomited copiously through the meshes, into the forest below. Only then did she see just how close to death she had come. Had she wished, she could have reached an arm through the net and touched the topmost branches of the nearest tree. Tiolani felt a clutch of coldness in her belly. Her quick-witted rescuers could have anything that was in her power to bestow.

As her head began to clear, Tiolani heard shouting from above her. At first she thought it was simple concern for her - but no. They were not calling out to her, but to each other, and she could hear a definite note of panic in the voices.

‘Darillan! Catch him, someone.’

‘He’s too far away—’

‘What a dreadful way to die.’

‘The hounds! We’ll lose them. Doesn’t anyone know how to call them?’

‘Curse that demon horse.’

‘It must have gone mad.’

‘Put an arrow through it.’

‘No need. It’s heading straight for the storm.’

‘Ferimon, no, don’t follow.’ This last was Varna’s voice. ‘You’ll be killed!’

‘Ferimon?’ Tiolani struggled around in the net with difficulty, for the riders were no longer concentrating on holding it straight, and she was being tipped and tossed in the billowing folds. To her horror, she saw her lover, the hide of his white stallion gleaming luminous against the blackness beyond, being swallowed by the monstrous mass of cloud. The slower riders who had been following managed to peel away in time and turn back, but the foremost, like their leader, were pulled into the storm and lost.

‘No . . .’ Tiolani’s wail rang out across the skies. Her brother, her father . . . Not her beloved Ferimon, too. He must survive the storm. He must still be alive. He couldn’t die. Someone must go after him. He must be found at once.

Her rescuers, however, had other concerns. With the extra weight pulling on them, they had neither the speed nor manoeuvrability to escape the tearing winds, and were losing height fast. Suddenly the net smashed into the top of a tall tree, and though the folds cushioned some of the impact, Tiolani cried out in pain as she was scraped and battered by the clutching branches.

From above her came curses and flying instructions, then somehow they were all down in a scramble: horses, riders and a frantic Tiolani in her net. Even as she sank to the ground, weighed down and trapped beneath a tangle of meshes, she heard the slithering hiss of an arrow storm. Suddenly, it was as though she was back in the ambush that had robbed her of both father and brother. Her rescuers fell around her, Phaerie and horses crashing into the mud, bleeding and kicking up great gouts of earth in their death throes, mown down by the deadly hail. Karinon, the brave and handsome, with dark hair and flashing smile; Damascena, who had shared the tedium of childhood lessons with Tiolani; Roseire, with her love of jokes and mischief; and Sheran the dependable and strong. She had known them all her life. They had saved her life. They had been her friends.

Tiolani, pressed flat into the ground, was the only one to survive. Screams, bubbling groans, the sickening smack of arrows striking into flesh, the stench of blood and voided bowels: it was all so hideously familiar, except this time there was no Hellorin to save her, no Ferimon to comfort her. None of the other hunters had come down, as she had expected, to see how she fared. This time she was all alone.

It was unthinkable.

Fury, outrage and grief consumed her.

Harsh voices rang out above the roaring wind, with one that sounded both young and female raised above the rest. ‘Plague take the cursed weather! It’s going to be a bugger of a job butchering those animals in this rain. Evnas, Nira, Traig and Nurt, you make a start on that. Laika, Margeli, Thu, you help them. Be careful of the hides - we want them as near in one piece as we can get. Renol, Shaima, collect all the unspoilt arrows. Make sure you don’t miss any. Teluk, Sparay, Sirit, keep watch. You others, loot the bodies then help to pack up the meat for carrying. And don’t forget to grab the net - it’ll come in handy for all sorts of uses.’

Tiolani’s rage and sorrow froze into terror. Play dead, play dead. The words screamed in her mind. She closed her eyes, willing herself to be elsewhere - anywhere but this dreadful place. All around her, she heard sounds of activity as the ferals began their gruesome tasks. Nausea rose up into her throat at the stench of blood and ordure as the horses, so free and beautiful only an hour ago, were butchered, and she fought back tears when she was forced to listen as the bodies of her friends were casually despoiled.

‘See their cloaks. Surely this lightweight stuff cannot be warm?’

‘Well, they would need warm cloaks, flying up in the air like they do.’

‘Maybe they use their filthy magic.’

‘I used to belong to Phaerie who weren’t too proud to hand out their cast-offs to the lowly humans. The cloaks are warm, all right, and waterproof, too.’

‘And such beautiful clothes.’ The voice held a touch of pure feminine delight.

‘Are you going soft in the head, Arina?’ It was the voice of the girl who led the band. ‘What use will beautiful clothes be to us out here? So long as they’re warm and hard-wearing, it doesn’t matter if they look like potato sacks. It’s the food and the weapons that will do us far more good - and the fact that these bloody bastards won’t be killing any more of us.’

‘They’re carrying good swords and knives - not to mention bows just like the ones that back-stabbing turd Ferimon got for us so we could ambush the Forest Lord for him . . .’

In the coils of her net, Tiolani went rigid, her own dreadful situation forgotten in her horror. How could this be? It couldn’t be true - no, surely it couldn’t. Yet how did these monsters know Ferimon’s name? And they had no idea that anyone was listening, so why would they make up such a story?

‘We bought Ferimon’s bows with our blood. I told my father not to trust a Phaerie, but he wouldn’t listen, and it cost him his life.’ For a moment, the leader’s voice was swallowed in grief, then it hardened again. ‘I’ll never make that mistake. In future we buy our weapons with their blood, as we did today.’

There was a moment of silence, then someone, a man clearly seeking to lighten the moment, spoke up. ‘Hey, Danel, who’ll get this loot? Is it to be finders-keepers?’

‘In your dreams, Benon,’ the leader scoffed. ‘The weapons and other stuff will have to go where they’ll do most good, and that will have to be decided in council. And you may be sure that no one will be trusting a sword to the man who nearly cut his foot off when we stole that axe.’

A gale of laughter followed, and Tiolani ground her teeth with rage. How dared they? How dared they stand over the bodies of her friends, the butchered remains of her horses, and laugh? She wanted to kill them - but dared not try. She didn’t know how many there were, and she did not have her father’s power to kill a number of enemies with one spell. How she wished she had not been so lazy while growing up, dodging lessons whenever she could and counting on Hellorin’s indulgence to save her from her tutors’ wrath. Nothing could save her now.

Tiolani shrank within herself as she heard the voices drawing closer.

‘Get a move on, you lot,’ Danel urged. ‘Hurry up and finish stripping those corpses and don’t forget the one in the net. You lookouts - keep an eye on the skies. I’m guessing that the storm will stop the others coming back this way for now, but we won’t have long.’

Someone touched her. Tiolani felt her flesh trying to cringe away from those intrusive hands, and it took every ounce of control that she possessed to remain as limp and silent as the corpse she was pretending to be. They had her surrounded now - close, so close - she was desperate to vomit from the human stink of them. Their filthy hands lifted her, prodded her, turned her this way and that as they tried to disentangle her from the net. Somehow, she kept herself still while they released her from the net’s folds. She didn’t move, she barely breathed, she didn’t make a sound. She let them paw and handle her, fighting down her fury and disgust in a desperate effort to survive.

All to no avail.

When they began to remove her clothing, Tiolani finally betrayed herself. A gasp, a flinch - she had no idea what she’d done, but suddenly the dreaded cry rang out.

‘Hey! This one’s alive.’

Tiolani’s eyes flew open, as another voice cried, ‘I know her - it’s Hellorin’s daughter.’

‘Good,’ someone else said. ‘Then we can put an end to the bastard’s line right now.’

Above her, Tiolani saw the flash of a knife, but suddenly the leader shouted, ‘Stop. Wait. Don’t kill her yet. This wants thinking about. Just put her out of action for now.’

Tiolani never saw what hit her - a crashing blow to her head. There was a flash of light, and blinding pain, then only black oblivion.

Survival was the imperative for Cordain, once the Forest Lord’s Chief Counsellor. Demoted to a wary outcast in the Phaerie Court, he followed the Hunt nonetheless, for he deemed it wise to keep a close eye on Hellorin’s daughter. To his utter horror he saw her fall, saw the fate of Ferimon and Darillan and, with fast-beating heart, saw the net crew streaking down in pursuit of the plummeting Tiolani. Automatically, he turned to follow - then the calm pragmatism that had always proved so invaluable to Hellorin took over.

If the net-bearers could not reach Tiolani in time, then no one could. Meanwhile, with Ferimon, Darillan and their ruler having fallen, the remaining Phaerie were leaderless and milling in confusion, right in the path of the storm. Someone had to take command. Calling loudly with both voice and mind, Cordain rallied the hunters to him and by a miracle they obeyed, speeding away from the advancing bank of sinister cloud. His relief was short-lived, however. Even as they fell into place behind him, he felt the flying magic beginning to drain away. His horse dipped a little, then recovered, but he knew that the animal was working harder now to stay aloft and keep going. A wrenching feeling of grief and dismay joined the ebbing sensation of the spell. What had happened to his old friend’s daughter? Clearly the rescuers had not reached her in time. But was she merely injured and unconscious? Or lying dead and broken on the forest floor?

Cordain’s mind raced, his thoughts flying this way and that in panic:

With the flying spell weakening we can’t stay aloft in the storm.

If we aren’t dashed to pieces we’ll be stranded.

Ferals now have weapons to attack even a large group.

No protection from lost and scattered hounds.

On the ground, we change from hunters to prey.

The way became clear. He must save what lives he could. Leaving Tiolani and the net bearers to their fate, he gathered the remaining Phaerie and fled homeward at breakneck speed, in a desperate attempt to reach Eliorand before the spell ran out completely.

No matter how unstable she had become, no matter how badly she had treated him over the last months, he hated leaving her, and every stride through the sky was dogged by strangling feelings of guilt that pursued him as relentlessly as the advancing storm. Hellorin was his dearest friend and he had known Tiolani since she was born. Even in the privacy of his own thoughts he shied away from the stark truth - that the death of the Forest Lord’s daughter would solve a great many problems.

To Corisand, the battle with the storm seemed an unending nightmare as she fought against the swirling gusts, desperately trying to find a safe way down. Suddenly something hit her, hard enough to knock the breath out of her. The wind had hurled her into the upper boughs of a tree, pulling the other horse after her. Luckily this part of the forest was mainly evergreen. If she had tangled up in an oak, Corisand hated to think what might have happened. She might easily have been impaled, broken a leg or, worse still, her neck. As it was, the brittle upper branches snapped and splintered, and she managed to struggle free of the fir with only bruises and scratches to her name.

Her heart in her mouth, the Windeye set course upwards once more, dragging her companion after her. She began to wonder how much longer she could keep the two of them together like this. Her neck ached, and her jaws were nearly breaking from hanging on to the slippery, rain-soaked leather of the other mare’s reins. Yet what else could she do?

Keep going. The keening of the gale and the loud concussions of thunder hurt her ears, and made it difficult to think. The Windeye struggled on, soaked and frozen; fighting to maintain a height that kept her beneath the worst of the turbulence, but above the level of the treetops. Though her only concern had been to reach the ground, she must now strive to avoid hitting another of the forest giants. In lightning flashes, she could see that she was currently above a dense belt of woodland. She had no other choice but to persevere, and hope to hit a thinner patch soon, so that she could get herself and her companion down. Because of the thickly mounded storm clouds, the night was utterly black, so apart from the brief glimpses she gained during the flashes, she had no idea how close she was to the tops of the trees.

Corisand was peering anxiously downwards, ready to snatch all the information she could from the next split-second flare of lightning, when she sensed, with the extra intuition that seemed to come with being a Windeye, the presence of horses somewhere far below. As another flash split the sky with a streak of blue-white light, the veils of rain below her blew aside and she saw a pool that shimmered brightly in the lightning-glare. She glimpsed a clearing - a wonderful, blessed clearing - far beneath her and, without hesitation, she plunged downwards, hauling her companion (Halira - what a time to remember that) behind. Down here, the trees broke the force of the violent gale, and she managed to fight for enough control to glide safely down, though the ground itself was now obscured once more by the violent downpour.

She almost landed right on top of them. Just in time, Corisand wrenched herself aside as she saw the dim forms below, and came down hard in a fountain of mud. The ground was cut up in the centre of the clearing, and two dark corpses slumped nearby. There was the rank smell of a terrified horse, and the stench of blood and death. Something very bad had happened here, and she had put them right in the middle of it. She spun, ears flat, ready to fight or flee, and caught the glint of a sword in the murk. On the wind came the ringing challenge of a stallion, and then two voices, raised in surprise:

‘It’s not the Hunt.’

‘It’s only horses.’

Cautiously, two people emerged from the trees at the edge of the clearing, accompanied by a magnificent warhorse - an ordinary animal, not a Xandim, Corisand was disappointed to note - who clung as close to the woman’s shoulder as a shadow.

‘But where are the riders?’ the female of the couple said.

‘They would decide to land here.’ The male frowned. ‘These animals have been lost from the Hunt - they still glow with the flying magic. The bloody Phaerie will be right on top of us, searching for them, with these two in our clearing lit up like beacons to lead the enemy right down on top of us.’

Corisand was sure she’d seen his face before. He looked so familiar, but she couldn’t think . . .

The woman, however, was a complete stranger and, like the man, looked as though she had already been in a dreadful battle that night. Her clothes were torn and soaked through with blood and rain. Her hair hung in snarls, and her face was chalk-white with exhaustion. Corisand was impressed to note that she made a visible effort to rally herself, and deal with the problem. ‘I’ll put them with the others,’ she said. ‘If I tuck them right under the hawthorn and put blankets on them, hopefully we can hide that glow.’

She put out a gentle hand towards Corisand. ‘You poor thing, you’re cold, wet and scared.’ Her voice was the same low, reassuring croon that Aelwen used. ‘You’re safe now - no one here will harm you. Come along with me, and I’ll soon make you more comfortable.’

Corisand’s instincts, both horse and Windeye, said trust. These people were right - while she and her companion still glowed with the remnants of the flying spell, they were a conspicuous target from the air. She allowed the strange woman to put a gentle hand on her bridle, and permitted herself and Halira to be led away.

Recognising Iriana’s superior touch with animals, Taine offered to stay with Avithan while she concealed the new arrivals. Fighting the rain and the wind that blew her hair across her face and made every step forward an effort, the Wizard led the horses across the clearing, trying not to alarm them with any sudden movements. They were splendid creatures, the most beautiful she’d ever encountered. One, slightly smaller than the other, was prettily marked in copper and white, while the taller was a beautiful grey with black legs, mane and tail, and dark dappling on her shining coat. Esmon’s warhorse, still acting as her eyes, was craning towards the newcomers and nickering a welcome, and as Iriana drew closer she realised that they were both mares, which accounted for his enthusiasm.

‘How in the world did you come to be here?’ she murmured to the two beauties. She loosed the stallion’s halter rope, counting on his interest in the females to keep him with the group and, using his eyes and moving carefully, she took the strangers beneath the sheltering hawthorn to tether them with the other horses.

‘Come along, my pretty ones,’ she crooned. ‘We’ll soon have you warm and comfortable.’ They were both trembling with shock and cold, and seemed to appreciate her attentions as she covered them with warm, dry blankets and fed them from the camp’s dwindling grain supply.

She knew she should hurry back to the tents. Avithan would need constant watching through the remainder of the night. But she felt an overpowering reluctance to return to the clearing, past poor Esmon’s body lying beside the corpse of his killer. Physically and mentally drained, Iriana paused - just for a moment, she assured herself - and stroked the velvety muzzle of the grey. Leaning into the powerful arching neck, she could feel the warmth and strength of the horse seeping into her; helping her to keep going for just a little while longer. ‘Just look at you, you beautiful creature,’ she murmured. ‘Now I finally understand why Hellorin sets such value on you - and why Archwizard Cyran is so interested in you.’ She ached with longing as she remembered poor, lost Dailika. ‘I wonder if you would let me ride you?’

It occurred to her that there might be a way to discover what had happened to the horses: she would look into their minds as she looked into those of her own creatures, and see if she could discover anything from their memories about the proximity and direction of the Hunt. Laying a gentle hand on the grey mare’s neck, she let her thoughts drift into the animal’s consciousness - but suddenly, shields slammed down and she found herself shut out.

‘Get out of my mind!’ The words, spoken quite clearly in mindspeech, echoed through Iriana’s head, startling her so much that she stepped back hastily. This was impossible! However, when she tried again to probe the mind of the grey horse, all she encountered were very firm, impassable shields. The animal made no attempt to speak to her again, but seemed to be scrutinising her with a look which was so intelligent and acute, she was sure that something more than a mere animal lurked behind that penetrating stare.

‘Did you just speak to me?’ she asked the mare out loud this time, as mindspeech would not penetrate the shields. ‘Did you just tell me to get out of your mind?’

The horse took a step backwards, looking as startled as Iriana felt. Then the Wizard was engulfed by a wave of joy and relief so strong that it almost knocked her off her feet, as the mare dropped her shields abruptly. ‘You heard me? You actually heard me? Oh, but this is a miracle.’

The astounded Corisand could barely contain her excitement. That she could actually communicate with this Wizard was good fortune beyond all her expectations. The surface of the other’s thoughts was dark with an agony of grief, but beneath it, the Windeye could feel a similar delight and astonishment welling up, together with acute curiosity. Suddenly her heart was filled with hope. Would everyone in Tyrineld be able to hear her like this? If so, she saw a new future stretching before her, filled with a multitude of exciting possibilities.

She came back to herself at the touch of the Wizard’s hand on her neck. ‘You did use mindspeech, didn’t you?’ the girl was saying. ‘I didn’t imagine it?’

Corisand moved firmly away from the caressing hand. If she was to identify herself as more than a simple animal, it was important to establish respect and dignity between herself and the Wizard from the very start. She looked her in the eye. ‘No, you did not imagine hearing me. My name is Corisand, and I am one of an ancient race, the Xandim—’

‘The Xandim?’ The girl interrupted with a gasp. ‘The lost race of shapeshifters? I learned about you in history lectures when I was a student at the Academy. But they said you were extinct, or possibly even a myth.’

‘Do I look like a myth to you?’ Corisand snapped.

‘I’m sorry, but that’s what I was told,’ the Wizard said. She smiled. ‘I’m glad it isn’t true. My name is Iriana, and I’m a Wizard from Tyrineld—’

‘Yes, I guessed as much,’ the Windeye told her, ‘when you mentioned Archwizard Cyran. This meeting is good fortune beyond my wildest hopes.’

‘But where have you been all this time?’ Iriana asked her. ‘The Xandim, I mean.’

‘A very good question,’ Corisand replied grimly. ‘Down all the ages that the Xandim were deemed to have been lost, we have dwelt in captive slavery in Eliorand, imprisoned in our equine forms by Hellorin, the Forest Lord.’

‘Merciful Creation! So all this time the Phaerie steeds have really been the Xandim?’

‘Exactly. And I am their Windeye, or Wise One, which means that of all of us, I am the only one capable of human thought and communication from mind to mind. I escaped from Eliorand, desperately hoping that the Wizards would hear me, as the Phaerie could not, and would help my people escape the bonds that Hellorin has laid on us.’

The eyes of Corisand’s companion had been growing wider and wider during this explanation. ‘Of course we’ll help you,’ she said. ‘I’m not very senior as Wizards go, but I’m sure that when you meet Archwizard Cyran, he’ll think of a way . . .’

The Windeye felt a flash of guilt and worry leap across Iriana’s mind. ‘I’m sorry, but I must get back to my companions who are both wounded, one very badly. Can we talk in mindspeech—’

‘There you are. I was getting worried.’

Iriana jumped and spun round. Corisand was astonished to see a fireball in her hand, raised ready to strike.

‘Whoa! It’s only me.’ The intruder stepped back hastily, hands raised in surrender, also staring at the fireball with undisguised curiosity. Behind his eyes, the Windeye could almost see his brain speeding through possibilities. With a stifled curse, Iriana snuffed the fireball. ‘Taine! What a shock you gave me. You almost stopped my heart.’

‘I should say that I was in the worse danger. Where did you learn to do that? Wizards aren’t masters of Fire Magic.’

Corisand had ceased to listen to them - her thoughts were otherwise occupied. Iriana had called him Taine? But that was the name of Aelwen’s lost lover. She had heard the Horsemistress and Kelon speak of him on occasion, and she had come to know him when Aelwen was working with her, or grooming her, and the two of them were alone. Taine was on Aelwen’s mind so often, and so intensely, that Corisand had been unable to avoid picking up the thoughts, once she had become Windeye. In fact, she had become almost sick of the subject - though a lot of the memories had been a fascinating insight into the courtship and mating rituals of the Phaerie. When she looked at him closely, she certainly recognised him from Aelwyn’s thought-pictures, though he looked older and more careworn now, and his face was pale and drawn, with black-shadowed eyes. From his torn and bloodstained clothing, it was clear that he’d been hurt in some way, and from the rank scent that still hung round him, the Windeye suspected an encounter with a bear. She shuddered. He was lucky to be alive. How tragic, if he and Aelwen had finally come so close to being reunited, and he’d been killed by a wild animal.

‘Corisand?’ Iriana’s voice in mindspeech pulled her back from her own thoughts. ‘Can you speak to Taine as well, or am I the only one? I don’t think he believes me when I say you are a rational being.’

Corisand tried, but as she had half-expected, her thoughts only reached into Iriana’s mind. ‘Only you. I have tried to reach the Phaerie many times, with no success.’

‘Taine and I are going back to our tents now. We’ll talk to you from there. It seems that we have a lot to tell each other.’

‘Iriana, you don’t know the half of it,’ Corisand replied. But even before Iriana got as far as her tent, the Windeye succumbed to her exhaustion. Her legs folded beneath her, and almost before she could lie down on the soft, cushioning moss, she had fallen asleep.