Aurian

22 The Invisible Unicorn

“Again!” Maya shouted. D’arvan gathered his exhausted limbs and rushed toward her across the forest clearing, swinging his wooden sword wildly. The warrior sidestepped neatly, stuck out a foot and tripped him. The Mage went down like a felled tree, sprawling facedown in the mud and last year’s leaves. “I think that’s enough for today,” Maya said tactfully, the corners of her mouth twitching with suppressed mirth as she went over to help him up.

“You—you vixen!” D’arvan spluttered, wiping the mud from his eyes.

“I’m sorry, pet, but it is a standard move.” Maya offered him her hand. “If you like, I’ll teach it to you tomorrow.”

“Why bother?” D’arvan scrambled up and retrieved his cloak that hung from a nearby bough, wiping his glum face on the end of it before slinging it around his shoulders. “We’ve been at this for about two weeks now, and I still hardly know one end of a sword from the other!”

“It’ll coivt.e, don’t worry. Two weeks is no time at all in sword training—especially when starting from scratch at your age.”

Her words did nothing to soothe his irritation. “So it’s my age, now, is it? It seems I can’t win. When she teaches me magic, Eilin treats me like a child, and now you tell me I’m in my dotage!”

“When you act like this, I can’t help thinking that Eilu has the right of it!” Maya snapped.

Seeing the scowl on her face, D’arvan made an effort to shake off his gloom, afraid of jeopardizing the love that was blossoming between them. He managed a lopsided smile. ’T sorry, Maya—I know I’m out of temper this morning.” He put his arm round her shoulders as they began to wafle *«ck toward the tower. He shivered, and it was not just the cooling of b body in the chill gray winter’s day. “I didn’t sleep well la-night—every time I closed my eyes, I had nightmares.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” The warrior tightened her arm round his waist, her voice full of sympathy. “What were you dreaming about, that was so dreadful?”

“It was my brother—well, half brother. I kept dreaming that he was creeping up on me with a knife—trying to kill me, as he tried once before.” D’arvan swallowed hard. He was still in thrall to the dregs of his dreams, feeling a tension between his shoulder blades and dry tightness in his throat—the lurking, all-pervasive terror of the stalking assassin, of the hidden knife in the dark.

“Well, I’m not surprised, considering—” Maya stopped in mid-stride and turned to him, her eyes very wide. “D’arvan, you don’t think it could be true, do you? I mean, the two of you were so closely linked. You don’t think he has found out where you are, and he’s coming to—”

D’arvan gasped at the truth to which his own fear had blinded him. Her instincts were always much surer than his own. “Dear Gods—Eilin!” he shouted. “He’ll come to the tower! Quick!” Snatching Maya’s own sharp blade from her scabbard, he plunged away through the trees, leaving the warrior, with her shorter stride, straining to catch up.

“D’arvan, you fool, wait!” she called after him. “You can’t—” But he had already left her far behind.

D’arvan had almost reached the border of €lte trees that hemmed the grassy sward beside the lake, when Eilin’s mental shriek for help rocked him back on his heels. Panting, he redoubled his pace, forcing his way through branches that sliced, whiplike, across his chest and face, tripping over roots that seemed to rise and reach out for him, twining about his ankles nd knees. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of his brother > wonder why the forest seemed to be so much denser, his way tirough it far longer than it had been before. Davorshan! How had he managed to pass the wolves that guarded the valley? What sorcery had he used to creep up on them like this? The Mage gasped out a curse. If only he had paid more attention to his dreams!

When D’arvan reached the lakeside he stopped dead, confused and dismayed. The border of trees now ended right by the hore, digging in with writhing roots to churn and obliterate the smooth, grassy slope that had been there before. That was not the only change. The island tower had been transfigured beyond all recognition. Huge vines snaked up round the once smooth walls, scratching the stonework and tapping at the hardened crystal of the windowed rooms. Thickets of thorny bramble and sloe choked the wooden bridge and the ground before the tower door.

Round the mainland end of the bridge, the apple trees from Eilin’s orchard had gathered in a tight knot. D’arvan watched in amazement as unseasonal fruit swelled on each bough with uncanny speed—but the reason failed to occur to him until a branch whipped back with snakelike speed and hurled an apple like a stone from a slingshot. He dodged, but the hard fruit drove with bruising force into his shoulder, missing his face by inches. A fusillade of apples followed it, forcing him to duck behind a tree for his own protection. But its roots began to tug themselves out of the ground in a shower of soil as it moved to give the orchard trees a clear shot at their target, The entire Valley was in turmoil; every growing thing was moving to protect Eilin, Mistress of Earth-magic. And mistaking him for another intruder, they were blocking him from going to her aid! Taking a firm grip with both hands on Maya’s sword, D’arvan began to hack at the surrounding branches, frantic and unthinking in his haste.

A sinister rustle passed through the ranks of the assembled trees. A crimson mist began to loop and roil among the reaching branches—the rage of the forest. A sound like the whistling howl of a gale filled D’arvan’s ears as the boughs began to toss and sway, their twigs tike bony fingers grasping at his hair and tearing at his eyes and clothing. His knuckles dripped blood as the branches clutched and smote at his hands, trying to knock the sword away. Far away, it seemed, beneath the snarling, raging din of the forest’s fury, he heard Maya, crying for help. Torn, D’arvan tried to turn back to her, but his way was blocked by a thicket of holly trees that bristled with glossy, dagger-pointed leaves. Taking advantage of his hesitation, the forest flung roots like earth-encrusted tentacles around his ankles. One sharp jerk and he was down. The roots began to tug him away, farther back into the deep heart of the forest. Briars looped round his hands, which still clutched the hilt of the sword, and dug clusters of sharp thorns into the tender skin of his wrists and the backs of his hands. Dust devils swirled across the ground, flinging dead leaves, earth, and pebbles stingingly into his eyes.

“Help me . . .” Once again Eilin’s cry seared D’arvan’s mind; it was weak now, and despairing.

“I can’t!” he gasped aloud, tears of pain and frustration running down his face. Already the knees and elbows of his clothing had been torn to ribbons on the rough ground, and the skin beneath was scraped raw. Already his hands were becoming numb, their circulation cut off by the ever tightening loops of vine. Soon he would lose his grip on the sword, then “he would be helpless to go to his teacher’s aid ...

Of course! Fool! What he been thinking of? He was an Earth-Mage, too! No wonder the forest had taken him for an enemy, hacking at it like some stupid, untutored Mortal! Straining to focus his whirling thoughts, to remember what the Lady Eilin had taught him over the past weeks, D’arvan gathered his power and reached out with his mind, trying to contact the heart—the very soul—of the forest.

It beat back at him furiously, its intelligence obscured behind a mist of seething red rage. But D’arvan persisted. “I’m a friend! A friend! I’ll help you to help the Lady! See, I’m an Earth-Mage, her own pupil. See?” Beseechingly, he held his powers out, as Eilin had shown him, open to the scrutiny of the forest. He summoned the moist, heady scents of spring’s burgeoning and the ancient musk of the mother soil that cradled the seed; the dapple of sunlight in the beech tree’s shade and the diamond-dance of the lively stream; the silver of moonlight and the silk of morning mist; the stark white shfoud of winter’s mourning and the poignant exuberance of autumn’s fire.

And something changed. Like the snick of a key unlocking a door, like the falling away of chains, like the relaxing of winter’s claws upon the land with the coming of spring, the forest accepted him. The howling died away to a muted murmur, and D’arvan felt relief like the lifting of a massive weight as the ire of the trees ceased to hammer at him. The roots and vines loosed their grip and fell away, and a clear avenue opened before him, across the churned ground and over the bridge, leading right to the door of the tower! Scrambling to his feet, D’arvan ran, a single errant branch poking him hard in the back to hasten him on his way.

The vines across the door fell back with a slithering rattle as D’arvan approached, sword in hand. As he jumped past them into the kitchen, he wondered if they would come after him, but some force seemed to be preventing them from entering the building. When he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, the young Mage discovered the reason. He staggered back, gagging on the reek of evil magic. Choking, with streaming eyes, he pulled himself upright using the smoothly curving stair rail and began to haul himself, step by step, up the metal stairs.

The upper rooms that led off the staircase were utterly devastated. D’arvan flinched at the destruction, as he peered into room after room. The windows were cracked, the wooden benches overturned and splintered, the tender young seedlings torn and trampled underfoot. Now that he had opened his mind to the use of his powers, the Mage could feel their distress acutely, their tiny, soundless cries of pain piercing his mind and wringing at his heart. But each room was empty of people, and reach though he might, he could no longer touch Eilin’s mind. Chamber after deserted chamber he passed during his ascent, and found the same appalling destruction. Then, rounding the final curve of the staircase, he stopped. At the top of the stairs was a figure that bore in its left hand a sword that was dripping with blood. Davorshan. At the sight of D’arvan, his face contorted into an evil, leering grin. “Hail and well met, brother,” he said. “It took longer than I had thought to find you—but the weeks of wandering lost on those blasted moors will be well repaid by your death!” Raising the blade, he stepped forward, murder in his eyes.

Davorshan had the advantage of height—Maya had taught D’arvan that much. Grasping his blade in a hand that was suddenly wet and slick with sweat, the Mage began to back slowly down the stairs, feeling his way with careful feet since he knew better than to take his eyes from his brother, even for an instant. Davorshan’s hatred scorched into his brain—like the rage of the forest, but deeper, closer—far more intimate. They had been linked for so many years—how well his brother knew him! Inexorably, Davorshan’s malice ate into his mind, -working on his fears and self-doubts, chipping away at his confidence and courage. “Half-breed!” his brother spat. “Spineless, gutless, powerless mongrel! Did you really think it would work,

D’arvan, running away to hide behind the Lady’s skirts? And what have we here?”

His merciless, rummaging will unearthed a memory—to D’arvan, the most precious of all. “So!” Davorshan’s cruel laughter mocked him. “What have you been up to, brother mine? Rutting with a little Mortal bitch, since you can’t manage anything better! Is she any good, D’arvan? Perhaps I’ll try her, after I’ve killed you. Or maybe I’ll do it first, so you can watch! Where is she, eh? Where have you hidden your Mortal slut?”

Red rage flooded D’arvan’s mind. His hand, holding the sword, began to shake. Yet Maya’s training held firm. She had taught him better than to be gulled by a transparent gibe. Instead he began to gather his powers as he continued to back away, wondering which aspect of his Earth-magic he could use against his brother. The plants upstairs were too small, but . . . Could he bring the vines that enveloped the tower to his aid? If they could break through a window—

“Oh, no you don’t!” Davorshan’s voice was a snarl. “I won’t waste my time on a contest of magic, D’arvan—not on her ground!”

“Really?” D’arvan lifted his hand, ready to strike.

“I warn you! Do you want to be responsible for Eilin’s death?”

D’arvan stopped in mid-gesture, his eyes flicking involuntarily past his brother to the top of the stairs.

“Well done.” Davorshan sneered. ^It has finally occurred to you! Had she been dead, you would have known it!”

“Where is she?” D’arvan cried. “What have you done to her?”

Davorshan shrugged, and held up his dripping sword. “Don’t depend on her coming to your aid, though you gave me no time to finish the job. But if you want to bring magic into this, remember where my talents lie. I can raise the waters of the lake to swamp this tower! And when the tower collapses, where will Eilin be, eh?”

“Bastard!” D’arvan grated through clenched teeth.

“No, brother. You’re the bastard. Eliseth told me that much. You’ve leeched my power all our lives—the power that should have rightfully been mine—and when I kill you it will all be mine! You should never have been born!”

So that was how Eliseth had subverted him! D’arvan felt his brother’s resentment, his burning greed and the unreasoning rage that consumed him. When it reached a crescendo, Davorshan would attack. He felt carefully with his foot for the next step down, and found it to be the broader landing of one of the tower rooms. The glimmerings of a plan came into his mind. He stretched his lips wide in a mocking grin. “Oh no, my brother, you’re wrong. Eilin told me the whole story. I’m the child of our mother’s love. She hated Bavordran, and she only had you to allay his suspicions. I may be the bastard, but you’re the one who should never have been born!”

“Liar!” Davorshan charged heedlessly down, his face twisted, his bloody sword flailing. D’arvan wrenched himself to one side, into the open doorway of the room, and stuck out his foot as he had seen Maya do only that morning. He felt the hot wrench of tortured muscles as his brother’s momentum twisted his leg to one side, unbalancing him—but as he fell, he heard thudding and clanging as Davorshan tumbled headlong down the metal staircase. It had worked! D’arvan used an upturned bench to help himself to his feet. Sweat sprang out on his brow as fire and ice lanced agonizingly up the injured leg, which would not bear his weight. He staggered, falling again.

Spitting out one of Maya’s favorite oaths, D’arvan pulled himself to the stairs and began to slide down, step by step, on his rump, as he and Davarshan had done so often as children. The memory hurt like a knife twisting in a wound, but childhood was over now, and the soul companion of those days had turned into a murdering monster. He had to get to the bottom to finish Davorshan, if yet he lived—for otherwise his brother would surely finish him.

By the time he reached the bottom, his face was soaked with sweat and tears. Davorshan lay facedown on the broad kitchen flags at the foot of the steps, unmoving. D’arvan prayed he might already be dead. The hilt of the sword was ice in his trembling hand as he perched on the lowest step, directly above his brother. “Oh, Gods,” he prayed, “please don’t force me to do this!” But Davorshan moaned just then, and stirred, rolling onto his back. Though his eyes were glazed, the hatred, unconquerable, still twisted his mind. Still and always. D’arvan faced it at last, and accepted. Lifting the sword high in both hands, he drove the point down through his brother’s heart—and felt pain unspeakable ram through his own breast as their minds linked for the last time. Screaming, he convulsed, his arms clutched round his chest as he doubled over.

“Brother ...” Davorshan’s broken whisper fled through D’arvan’s mind, as his brother’s soul fled his body. D’arvan felt the pain in his chest give way to the searing wrench that marked the passing of a Mage, A Mage who had died by his hand.

“D’arvan!” Maya’s gruff voice was a ray of light that pierced the dark well of the Mage’s grief. Numbly, he lifted his head to look at her. Dropping down beside him on the step, she put her arms around him. Tears, tears that he himself had been unable to shed^ flooded her face, and he knew she understood. Yet her voice, when she spoke, was surprisingly matter-of-fact. “You killed him.” It needed no answer.

“The way things stand, he won’t be the last,” Maya went on. “It’s never an easy thing, for most of us. It never should be. All we can do is try to distance ourselves a little and get on with our lives as best we can. But I promise you that never again will it be as bad as this first time. The worst is over now, love.”

D’arvan clung to her, oddly comforted by her blunt words. How like his Maya, to dispense compassion and common sense in the same breath. How lucky he was to have her, in all this ruin and death . . . “Eilin!” His voice cracked. “Maya, she’s upstairs. Hurt—badly, I think!”

“Seven bloody demons!” Maya leapt to her feet. “Where?”

“At the top.” He tried to get up, and sank back down again with a yelp of pain.

“You’re wounded?” She whirled back sharply.

“Wrenched my leg, doing that tripping move of yours. You go on^I’ll follow as best I can.”

Maya bit her lip, nodded, and fled upstairs.

D’arvan made slow and painful progress, hauling himself up by his good leg and the stair rail. He was only halfway up when he heard the ring of booted feet on the metal treads and

May a reappeared round the curve, abruptly stopping her headlong descent when she saw him. “She’s dying.”

Maya was right. D’arvan knew it as soon as he saw the Lady, who lay in the wreckage of her chamber like a crumpled bundle of rags. He had not known that one body could hold so much blood. It was everywhere, splattered and smeared across the bed and walls, pooled on the floor, soaking her robes that were rent and sliced in a dozen places. Her skin already held the pale translucence of imminent death. Maya propped him against the wall with his weight balanced on his good leg, and ran back to Eilin. The old D’arvan would have retched and turned his eyes away from the horror. The new D’arvan felt his guts twist—but with outrage. In one grim instant, his grief and guilt at killing Davorshan vanished. “I will not let this happen!” His voice sounded alien and distant, even to himself. “D’arvan, there’s nothing we can do for her.” Maya was on her knees beside Eilin, her voice choked with grief. “Even a Healer couldn’t—” “My father can.”

“What?”

D’arvan felt very calm. It was a dangerous thing to try, a desperate thing—but it was their only chance. “Maya, get out of here. You mustn’t be caught up in this.”

“Damned if I will!” She scrambled to her feet, her hands and knees stained with blood. “You haven’t time to fight me over it.” She picked up the Lady’s staff from the floor and handed it to him. “Here. You’ll need this for support—in more ways than one.”

“Stubborn bitch!” He kissed her mouth, overwhelmed by love for her, and felt the tension of her lips melt as she return his embrace.

“Pigheaded bastard!” she retorted. “Be careful, D’arvan She stepped back, unsheathed her sword, and flung it out of the door. “You can’t have iron near the Phaerie, the legends say, she explained.

“Really.” D’arvan was annoyed with himself for not knowing that. “Do they say anything else useful?”

“Umm . . . yes. You have to call him by three true names. Hurry, D’arvan.”

Leaning on the staff to support his injured leg, D’arvan gathered his powers, hurling his mind and spirit forth, and tried somehow to reach the mysterious other place where the Phaerie were said to dwell. Once more he invoked the essence of the forest—its scents and colors, all its moods through the changing days. The sounds of drowsy bees and bright birds, the rustle of leaves and ripple of stream, the scuttling dash of rabbit and squirrel, the soft, careful footfall of deer and stealthy glide of fox and weasel. Taking a deep breath, he called, using both voice and mind. “Hellorin! Forest Lord! Father! In the name of Adrina, my mother, I summon you!”

Nothing seemed to be happening. Yet so clear, so real was his vision of the forest that he could almost see it taking shape around him. The ruined chamber faded from his sight, and as if through a shifting mist he saw trees take shape—the stately silver columns of beeches, a sturdy oak gnarled like the thews of a giant, supple willow and martial holly bristling with spears. Gay hawthorn like a flower-decked maiden and slender rowan, ethereal as a dream. Through the trees starlit water glinted— with a start he recognized the lake and its island, though the tower had vanished. He could smell the heady summer scent of the grass that covered the solid earth beneath his feet. But it was winter outside! How could this be? D’arvan’s eyes widened. Maya was standing ro one side of the forest clearing, her mouth agape, her hand reaching automatically for her missing sword. And at her feet, the still form of Eilin lay.

“Who summons the Forest Lord?”. The voice was deep and sad as the autumn wildwood, as light and merry as a summer breeze amidst the treetops. Before the mighty oak a figure stood, obscuring the great tree with its immensity. He was baked in shimmering, changeful gray and green, and so vast was he that the silver glinting in his long dark hair was the light of stars. His brow was circled with a diadem of golden oak leaves, and above them towered the shadowy branches of the proud stag’s crown. Once more he spoke, his voice like winter’s bite, like the gladsome warmth of a new spring day. “Who dares summon the Lord of the Phaerie?”

D’arvan, awestruck, almost dropped to his shaking knees. He took a firm grip on Eilin’s staff and reminded himself that this—this being—was his father. He bowed deeply, at a loss for words. This was far beyond his wildest imaginings. What could he possibly say to one such as Hellorin?

“My Lord, allow me to present the Earth-Mage D’arvan— your son.” Maya’s gruff voice cut through the silence.

“What?” the Forest Lord thundered, transfixing her with his glare. Lightning flashed in his eyes, beneath darkly frowning brows. As he raised his hand, the very trees seemed to quail. D’arvan suddenly found that he could move. Leaning on the staff, he limped across to Maya, placing himself protectively in front of her. “It’s true!” he cried. “I called you by your true name of Father, and you answered. My mother was Adrina of the Magefolk, and in her name I summoned you, for we have dire need of your help. The Lady Eilin, my mother’s friend and Guardian of this Valley, is dying.” It all came out in a rush. Before D’arvan’s astonished eyes, the awesome figure vanished. “Where has he gone?” D’arvan looked wildly around. Then, from behind the oak stepped his father—shrunk now to normal, Mortal size, but not a whit diminished in might and majesty. Great muscles etched and shadowed his bare chest beneath the cloak. Strong legs, clad in dark leggings and tall boots, were planted wide apart on the forest floor. A ghostly image of the antlered crown still rose above his oak-circled brow. His stern, kingly features and hard mouth were gentled now, and the expression in his dark eyes was indecipherable. “My son?” The deep voice was soft, and filled with a thousand questions. ”

The Forest Lord strode forward, and strong hands clasped D’arvan’s shoulders. Dark, fathomless eyes searched his face, and D’arvan found his own eyes brimming with tears. “My son,” Hellorin murmured, the beginnings of a wondering smile lifting the corners of his sculpted mouth. “My own son, and 1 never knew I had you.”

“Father . . .” D’arvan whispered. Dropping the staff, he flung his arms round Hellorin’s broad shoulders, and there, in the starlit forest clearing, father and son embraced at last.

“D’arvan? Lord Hellorin?” Maya’s hesitant voice broke into their silent communion. The tears in her eyes were evidence that she was far from unmoved by their reunion—but ever practical, she gestured toward Eilin’s stricken body. “My apologies, Lords, but the Lady’s condition is desperate. We may already be too late.”

The Forest Lord lifted an eyebrow. “Who is this temeritous person?” he asked his son.

“This is Lieutenant Maya, a peerless warrior, a brave and true companion, and”—D’arvan’s voice rang out with proud defiance—“my own lady.”

The Forest Lord burst out laughing. Maya was scowling, and D’arvan gestured urgently for her to be silent, fearing the furious outburst that he knew was coming. “I fail to see what is so amusing,” he said icily.

Hellorin took a deep, gasping breath, wiping his eyes. “Ah, my son,” he chuckled. “How good it is to see you already carrying on the ancient traditions of our people!”

“What?” D’arvan was stunned.

“Do you pay no attention to the legends?” his father asked, his eyes dancing with mirth. “All those stories about the Phaerie luring Mortals away to be their brides—and bridegrooms for that matter, for the ladies of my people would make my life a misery, indeed, if I were to deny them their chance at the occasional lusty Mortal stud!”

He turned to Maya with a deep bow. “Lady Maya, I am honored to meet my son’s Chosen, and I apologize for my unseemly mirth. In my opinion, he has chosen very well, indeed.” His gaze traveled over her like a caress—so blatantly, potently lecherous that D’arvan found himself grinding his teeth.

Maya crimsoned, uncertain whe’ther’to be indignant or flattered. Then drawing herself up to her full height, she looked Hellorin coldly in the eye. “My thanks for your courtesy, Lord, but this is hardly the time. Might we, perhaps, consider the urgent business at hand?”

D’arvan groaned and covered his eyes with one hand, and Hellorin whooped with mirth. “An excellent choice, indeed! D’arvan, you have a she-wolf on your hands!” His voice became sober. “Fear not, little warrior. The Lady Eilin will come to no further harm. The Phaerie honor her for her work in this vale, and I would not allow her to die. In summoning me, you brought yourselves into my kingdom, where time holds no sway. Her life is suspended here—suspended and preserved. But I must know who irresponsible for this atrocity, and why.

You are right—this is no light matter, and my instincts tell me it is part of a greater pattern of mischief. So let us make ourselves comfortable, children. Tell me what has come to pass in the world outside.”

He waved his hand, and the clearing in which they stood wavered and blurred. The surrounding trees became the pillars of a great hall, their branches linking overhead to form a roof. At one side, where the crimson-berried hollies had stood in splendor, a fire blazed in a huge fireplace. The floor was covered by a deep green carpet.

D’arvan gasped. “Why, it’s like the Great Hall at the Academy!”

“And from whom do you think the Magefolk stole the design?” Hellorin’s voice held a grim edge that vanished with his next words. “Come, sit.”

D’arvan retrieved Eilin’s staff, and Maya helped him limp to the deep, comfortable chairs beside the roaring fire. A huge gray hound was sprawled before the flames, taking up all the space in front of the broad hearth. Though Hellorin had made no visible summons, the doors at the far end of the hall opened, and a tall, copper-haired Phaerie lady entered, gowned in green and as slender as the willow she resembled. Her eyebrows went up at the sight of the bloodstained strangers, “Will you bring refreshments, please?” Hellorin asked her. “And convey the Lady Eilin to our Healers.”

Her brown eyes^idened at the sight of the Earth-Mage, “Lady Eilin! My Lord, what evil is this?”

“That is what I intend to find out.” He waved her away. “Summon the Phaerie, my dear. I believe that this event may mark the end of our long waiting.”

The Phaerie woman’s eyes burned. “At once, my Lord!” In a soundless explosion of golden light, she vanished.

Hellorin chuckled at Maya’s dumbfounded expression. “We generally use the doors,” he said dryly. “Melianne is rather excitable, however.”

D’arvan was utterly exhausted, drained in body and spirit by the events of the day. At first he thought the ripple in the air before the hearth was a trick played by the firelight on his tired eyes. Then he heard Melianne’s sharp voice coming, it seemed, out of thin air. “Barodh, you oaf, get out of the way!” The hound leapt up and slunk guiltily to its master’s side, whining. Where it had been lying, the shimmering air began to glow, forming a globe of golden light which cleared to reveal a low, round table. On its snowy cloth reposed a flask of clear yellow wine and three crystal goblets. Bread and fruit took up the remaining space, and the fragrance of the food made D’arvan’s mouth water. But his attention was diverted by Maya’s anguished cry: “Eilin!” He swung round in his chair to see the body of the Earth-Mage surrounded by the same golden light. Even as he looked, she was gone.

“Do not worry, Maya.” Hellorin’s voice was soothing, “My Healers far outstrip those of the Magefolk in skill. Eat, children, and rest yourselves—and tell me your tale,” He poured wine for them, and handed them the sparkling goblets, Maya, about to take a sip, suddenly hesitated, and the Forest Lord smiled. “Legends again, Maya? Well, you need not worry about that one. Tasting our food and drink will not put you any further into my power than the two of you have already pur yourselves by summoning me,”

D’arvan met Maya’s eyes and shrugged. This was his father, after all, and he had helped them so far. He took a sip of the wine and saw Maya do likewise, though she still looked suspicious. Somehow, the thought that she would follow him, even into this, warmed him as much as the drink—which was potent enough. D’arvan felt it course through his body, as though his veins were running with liquid fire. His weariness fled, and the room seemed to come jnto sharp and vivid focus around him. The tight, hot ache of his injured leg vanished as though it had never been.

Hellorin pressed food on them, and as they ate, D’arvan told of Miathan’s perfidy, the breaking of the Mages’ Code, and the fall of the Magefolk into evil, Hellorin said nothing until D’arvan reached the end of his story, telling of Davorshan’s attack on Eilin and his brother’s death, followed by the desperate summoning of the Phaerie Lord. As he faltered into silence, his father leapt from his chair, one fist pumping skyward in a gesture of victory. “At last!” he exulted. “At last!” Outside the hall, a chorus of glorious Phaerie voices cried out in wild celebration. Maya leapt to her feet with an exclamation of dismay.

“Father!” D’arygjn’s shocked voice cut through the Forest Lord’s rejoicing. Breathing hard, Hellorin resumed his chair. “Oh, my son,” he gasped, “if you only knew how we have waited down the endless years for this news! For goodness’ sake, sit down, girl.” He waved an irritable hand at Maya who was still on her feet, her eyes casting round the hall for a weapon of some kind.

“My Lord, how can you rejoice at such a grim tale?”

D’arvan asked in cold reproof. “Have you forgotten my mother? I’m Magefolk as well as Phaerie, and you mock both my grief and that of all folk who suffer because of this evil!”

Hellorin looked abashed. “My deepest apologies to you both. Please, Lady, sit down and let me explain; then perhaps you will understand my unseemly joy.”

Maya gave him a savage look. “This had better be good,” she growled. Hellorin winced.

“You have been taught that the Universe is shaped by Chance and Balance,” the Forest Lord began, pouring himself a cup of wine. “You may not know that the Magefolk were brought into this world to maintain and guard the Balance, as others were on other worlds, lest Chance gain a stranglehold, and the Universe be destroyed by Chaos, Chance’s bastard child.”

Maya’s fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of her chair,

“I’m getting to it, woman, I’m getting to it!” Hellorin snorted. “To shorten a lengthy tale, we Phaerie have always been, well, rather unpredictable—and we wield great powers of the Old Magic. The ancient Magefolk feared us, believing us agents of Chance, which was, in a way, quite true. They contrived to shut us out of the world—to imprison us in this Elsewhere, which “we cannot leave unless summoned, and from which we might not influence the events of the world. We arc-also unable to bear children among ourselves in this place-hence our need for the occasional Mortal or Mage, immune to the Magefolk spells, to increase our race.”

D’arvan froze, paralyzed by a new fear, a new grief, “You mean you used my mother . . .” he gasped,

“No—never!” Hellorin reached out to grasp his arm. “Do you think we Phaerie are monsters? No child is born to us, save through deepest love ... It tore my heart when Adrina returned to Nexis to fulfill that ridiculous promise to her father. I wept, and raged, and cursed—desperate to go to her, to find her and bring her home. But I could not come unless I was summoned, and no one summoned me—until today.” His voice was choked with grief.

“Oh, Father,” D’arvan whispered, too moved to say more.

Hellorin took a long swallow of his wine. “Now it may be clear to you why we are unfriends with the Magefolk. They robbed us of our freedom, over many a long age—and they were wrong to do so. You see, Chance is as essential to the world as Balance. Without us, the Magefolk began to stagnate, becoming more introspective, more proud and self-willed. In their pride, they created the four great Artifacts of Power, of which the Caldron is but one. When the Cataclysm came, we almost escaped them, but failed. Then, in our bitterest moment, came our greatest hope. The Sword of Flame, the greatest of the Four Weapons, was given into our keeping by its makers, who desired that it should be taken out of the world until ir was claimed by the One for whom it had been forged. When the time was right, they told us, we must return it to the world, setting traps and guards about it to ensure that it would only fall into the proper hands.

“ ‘But how shall we know whose hand was meant to hold Ins thing?’ we asked.

“ ‘That will be your test,’ they told us.

“ ‘How shall we know when the Sword is needed?’ we begged. . ^

“ ‘You will know,’ they said, ‘A time will come when the Magefolk will dwindle and foil, and fell upon one another like wolves. Brother will slay brother, and ambition betray trust, and the world will fell into great evil. That will be the time,’

“ ‘But how shall we return the Sword to the world?’ we asked.

“ ‘How can we guard it, where we are powerless?

“ ‘That,’ they said, ‘is your problem.’ So I asked them; ‘What is to be our reward for undertaking this great task?’ ”

Hellorin paused, his eyes gleaming. “They promised us our , using the Sword to circumvent the ancients’ spells and bring us back into the world. We swore fealty to it, and to the One who will wield it. When he claims it, we will follow him back into the world, to fight at his side against the evil. Having overcome it, we will be free, as once we were. Free, my children!”

“When brother slays brother,” D’arvan whispered. “So the time is at hand. But how will you return the Sword, Father?

How will you guard it?”

The Forest Lord would not meet his eyes, but simply sat, staring into the fire, his face shadowed by sorrow. The silence stretched between them.

“I take it, my Lord, that this silence means that you intend to use us, somehow,” Maya said bluntly.

Hellorin looked up at last, nodding. “D’arvan, I’m sorry,” he said. “There are age-old laws governing dealings with the Phaerie. Laws I made myself, long ago, for the sake of my people. When you summoned me, you put yourself under those laws, and I cannot alter them, even for my son. You asked a boon of me—the saving of Lady Eilin’s life—and I granted it. Now you are beholden to me, and I can demand a service from you. Do you understand?”

“You want us to guard the Sword.” D’arvan’s disappointment in his father warred with his understanding of the Forest Lord’s predicament. A ruler should obey his own laws, and Hellorin had the responsibility for his people on his shoulders. “I’ll try,” he said at last, “but Father, I ask only this—I beg you, leave Maya out of it.”

“No, D’arvan! We’re in this together!”

“D’arvan, I cannot,” The voices were simultaneous in their protest.

The Mage looked from his father to his lover with mounting annoyance. “Will you two stop that!”

Maya and Hellorin looked at one another and burst out laughing. “Ah, what a woman!” Hellorin said. “How I wish I could keep you both here with me! But we are in the grip erf events much larger than any of us.” He held out his arms an1 gathered both of them in a close embrace. “I promise you wi not be parted, though you must be sundered as lovers until our tasks are complete. That being so, the large events must wait a while. You need time together—as far as time applies here— and a room is ready for you. Go, children, and rest—or not, as the case may be!” His eyes twinkled wickedly. “I will call you when it’s time to go.”

They met again in the Great Hall, after the passage of a night by wordly standards, but far too short a time by those of D’arvan and Maya. Hellorin embraced them once more. “Are you ready, children?”

They nodded. They were, as far as they might be. During their time alone they had shared fears and secrets, exchanged their own private vows, and loved one another endlessly, trying to store up memories for the time they must spend apart. “Will Eilin be all right?” Maya asked, and D’arvan marveled once more at her courage as she stood, straight and composed, before his father.

Hellorin nodded. “Our Healers say she will recover, and she will stay with us in safety and honor until this businesss is done.”

“Thank you,” Maya said simply. “Lord—have you any idea how long that will be?” There was a catch to her voice, and D’arvan suddenly realized that she was as afraid as he,

Hellorin shook his head. “Until the One claims the Sword, that is all we know. Let us hope, for all our sakes, that he hurries!”

Maya’s eyes twinkled. “What makes you so sure that it’s a man, my Lord?” She stepped back to let D’arvan say his own farewells.

Hellorin embraced him roughly. “How it grieves me, to lose the son I have only just found.”

“It grieves me to lose you,” D’arvan whispered. “I hope, rfien this is all over, we’ll be able to make up for it.”

Hellorin nodded gravely. “And now, my son, you must ce us into your world,” he said.

D’arvan stared at him. “Me? But how?”

“Do as you did yesterday. Summon the forest. The real st. Use the Lady Eilin’s staff that you bear—it has more yer than you imagine.”

It was easier than D’arvan had expected. Eilin’s staff emed to want to go home, of its own accord. Within a few iths, they stood on the banks of the lake at sunrise. The ;s was scarred where tree roots had gouged it, and though vines had retreated from the tower, the stonework was scored and the windows broken, leaving the building open to the elements. “It would break Eilin’s heart to see this,” D’arvan murmured.

“She will not.” As Hellorin spoke, the tower blurred—and vanished. In its place, on the island, stood an immense red crystal. As it caught the sun’s first rays, it glowed with pulsing brilliance and hummed with power, dazzling the eye. Within its glittering facets, the outline of the Sword could be glimpsed, shimmering with its own ghostly light.

“That will never do!” Hellorin waved his hand—and the massive gem clouded and turned gray, taking on the appearance of a huge, rough boulder. Vegetation swarmed up to cover its sides, and moss and lichen appeared on its grainy surface.

May a gasped. “How did you do that?” she demanded. “I thought you had no power in this world.”

“I do it through D’arvan,” the Forest Lord explained. “He brought me here, and he is part Phaerie, like me, and part Mage, and the Magefolk made these rules. But we must hurry. I can only bend their magic so far.” Already strain was showing on Hellorin’s face. “Now, my dearest daughter—”

“Wait!” Maya ran to D’arvan and threw her arms around him.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too.” He kissed her one last time, and stepped back reluctantly as the Forest Lord raised his hand.

Maya blurred—and vanished. In her place appeared the most beautiful creature-that had been seen since the dawning of the world. A unicorn—insubstantial—made up it seemed from all kinds of light: starlight’s glimmer, gossamer moonlight, silken dawn mistlight, and incandescent sunbursts where her hooves touched the ground. On her forehead was a long, slender, wickedly pointed silver horn.

“See?” Hellorin said softly. “Our warrior still bears her sword—for it will be her task to protect the Sword of Flame. Only you can see her; to all others she will be invisible. To be worthy of the Sword, the wielder must be wise as well as courageous. In order to approach the Sword of Flame, the One must discover a way to see the Unseen—for in no other way can our Invisible Guardian be passed.”

“Passed?” D’arvan shouted. “Killed, you mean?”

“No, no!” Hellorin forestalled him. “I do not mean killed. It is part of the spell that if Maya becomes visible to any person save yourself, her Guardianship will be suspended and she will return to her normal shape. There will be no need for killing. Besides,” he added, “would a being who was worthy of the Sword of Flame wantonly slay such a beautiful creature? I think not.”

D’arvan shook his head. “And what do you have in store for me?” he asked tightly.

“You? You are Earth-Mage and son of the Forest Lord. You bear the Lady’s staff, and the forest will do your bidding. You must bring back the wildwood to this Valley, to fill it with an impenetrable barrier of trees. The wild things will dwell here, and be sustained, and the wolves will be your friends and share your task. You will guard the Sword from all enemies, but the forest will shelter the enemies of evil, and you will guard and sustain them—yet they will never see you, or know of your presence. You and Maya will share your Guardianship until the One comes for the Sword, when you will be freed and reunited —as we all will be at that time.” As he spoke, Hellorin’s outline began to shift and shimmer. “I can stay no longer. Farewell, my son—-and forgive me,” He vanished.

D’arvan looked at the unicorn. The fierce, beautiful creature snorted and pawed the ground, flinging up clods of turf in sunburst explosions. Then she trotted to the Mage and rested her head on his shoulder, and her huge dark eyes were fathomless pools of sorrow. D’arvan flung his arms round her strong, arching neck beneath the sweeping mane, his throat tight with tears. “Oh, my love,” he murmured, “how I’ll miss you!”

The invisible unicorn snorted and tossed her head.

“You’re right,” D’arvan said. “I had better get started.”

Turning, he lifted the Lady’s staff and began to summon the forest.