Aurian

25 The Prisoners

The Nightrunners had made their home in a safe and secret honeycomb of caves, reached from the ocean via a tunnel where waves beat into a shadowed opening in the cliff. This entrance, with waters that were deep enough to float a ship, opened into a vast cavern, hollowed out aeons ago by the sea’s ceaseless pounding in the constricted space beneath the cliffs. A gently sloping beach of shingle narrowed as it curved round, to be lost in deep waters that lapped the sheer, sea-smoothed walls at the rear and opposite sides of the cave. Anchored in the pool were four small ships, their lines lean and swift, the figureheads at their prows carved and painted with skill and love in the shapes of legendary beasts. A cluster of smaller boats were moored by the beach, which sloped up to a broad shelf of flat rock, the wall behind it pierced with dark entrances to the maze of corridors and chambers where the smugglers dwelt.

The cavern was lit by lamps and torches fixed in brackets to the rock itself, or mounted on tall wooden poles planted firmly in the shingle. Their flickering light was picked up by glittering fragments of mica and fine veins of ore in the walls, and thrown back in splintered rainbow gleams that echoed the sparkle of tears in Zanna’s eyes.

She didn’t want to leave. Why, in three short months, this place had become her Home! They let me have a life here, Zanna justified herself, against the guilt that dogged her love of this place. Though Dulsina’s sister Remana had been so kind and welcoming, she had not tried to coddle Zanna as though she might break apart. In the secret world of the Nightrunners, everyone made themselves useful.

Zanna paused in the entrance to the massive cavern, assailed by memories of the day she had first arrived in this place. She had been weary and chilled to the bone—and not a little afraid. Despite Dulsina’s assurances, the reluctance of the smuggler crew to accept her had left her uncertain of her welcome in their hideaway. But from the moment Vannor’s daughter had stepped unsteadily down the springy gangplank with a whining, fretful Antor in her arms, Remana had been a fount of comfort and reassurance.

The tall, gray-haired woman, older and stouter than her sister, but with the same upright carriage, brisk manner, and shrewd, twinkling gray eyes, had taken Antor in one arm and put the other around the tired girl’s shoulders, cutting short Zanna’s attempt at an explanation with a flood of brisk and friendly chatter. “Never mind that, child—you look quite worn out! I don’t suppose these useless men even thought to feed you, did they? No? I thought not! Men! The only way to drive any sense into them is to hit them over the head with an oar. What? Dulsina gave you a letter for me? Wonders will never cease! I know it’s not easy to get messages to this place, but my sister is the worst correspondent . . . Here you are, my dear—the kitchen. We’ll get you fed and warm in no time . . .”

As she spoke, Remana had been leading the bemused Zanna through what had seemed, at the time, to be a maze of interconnecting caves and tunnels. At last they reached a low arched entrance at the end of a corridor, and passed into the warm, fragrant cavern that was the communal kitchen. In the Nightrunner community, even kitchen duty had its place. It was left to those unable to perform the more arduous tasks of survival—the old and the very young. In this way, everyone, even the children, contributed to the welfare of the close-knit group. A sense of belonging was fostered at a very early age. It was a good system, in Zanna’s opinion—better than that of the city, where the poor were bonded like slaves, and little children and folk too old to do manual work^begged in the stinking streets, or were forced to turn to crime in order to survive.

The kitchen was loud with chatter and brightly lit with many lamps, its smoke-stained walls glowing a soft red with the warm light of the cookfires. Even at this early hour, the place was filled with a businesslike bustle. A budding young girl, one of the goatherds who tended the small flock that grazed on the cliffs above, was pouring warm, fresh milk into cans that stood in an icy pool at the back of the cavern, where the sea penetrated through some subterranean chink in the rocks. A boy sat at the edge of one hearth, stirring a caldron of porridge. By its side steamed a kettle of fragrant tea, made from dried flowers and sea grass that grew at the top of the cliff. An old man with gnarled hands was gutting fish in a corner, and the fruits of his labors were baking on griddles at a nearby fire, supervised by his wife. One old woman was beating gulls’ eggs in a basin, watched hungrily by the small boy and girl who had climbed the sheer cliffs to collect them. The mouth-watering aroma of new bread filled the air.

Antor caused a sensation. Within seconds, the little boy had been taken over by a vociferous group of delighted old fisherwives, and was being bathed and fed, pampered and cos-setted and exclaimed over. Remana, having made sure that they were not neglecting the business of breakfast in their zeal, turned her attention to Zanna, seating her by the fire with a large bowl of porridge, a cup of the steaming tea, and a hunk of warm new bread and pungent goat’s-milk cheese. Pouring some tea for herself, she sat down on the other side of the hearth to peruse Dulsina’s letter while Zanna ate.

“Well! My poor dear girl, you have had a time of it, haven’t you?” Zanna blushed beneath her scrutiny as Remana looked up from the letter with lifted brows. “Don’t worry, child—we’ll take good care of you both, and you can stay as long as you like! Be assured that you are welcome here, my dear—very welcome, indeed!”

And so it began—one of the happiest times in Zanna’s life. She was given a chamber close to Remana—a tiny curtained cubicle that, like many of the living areas, had been chipped painstakingly out of the rock during the many years that the Nightrunners had dwelt in..this labyrinth of caves. The delightfully eccentric furnishings were made of driftwood, and brightly colored rag rugs covered the floor. Thick woven hangings helped take the chill from the walls, for only the kitchens and the main living and work rooms had fireplaces, vented via natural faults in the cliff.

“But aren’t you worried about the smoke being seen?” Zanna had asked Remana.

“Not a bit, my dear. For one thing, by the time it filters up through all that rock, there is very little smoke to be seen. For another”—Remana’s eyes grew large and round as she lowered her voice—“no one ever comes to this desolate part of the coast. You see, the area is haunted!”

“Haunted?” Zanna gasped.

Remana burst out laughing. “Zanna, if you could see your face! It’s naught to worry about. There is a massive standing stone nearby, out on the far headland of the bay—a great, towering black thing that looks very sinister—especially in the moonlight. Leynard’s grandfather, the first of the Nightrunner leaders, discovered that the local fishermen and herders were very superstitious about it, so he arranged some ’hauntings’— you know, mysterious lights around the stone at night, ghostly voices on the wind, the sound of invisible horsemen passing by —all the usual old rubbish. Now, no one will come within miles of it. Mind you . . .” For an instant, her brow creased in a frown. “I must admit that the animals are also afraid of it, but truly, there’s nothing to worry about. In fact we bless the stone, because it keeps us safe. I’m only warning you in case you go riding up there. The vicinity of the stone is best avoided, if you don’t want a spill.”

“I can learn to ride?” Zanna, the stone forgotten, could barely contain her delight.

“You mean that father of yours never taught you?” Remana looked shocked. “I’ve heard Dulsina say that Vannor was over-protective of his daughters, but by the Gods, that’s going too far! Of course you can learn to ride—it’s something every girl should know. Later in the year, when the weather improves, I’ll teach you to sail, too . . .”

And so it proved. Remana, as good as her word, lost no time in recruiting a young smuggler named Tarnal as Zanna’s instructor, and she soon became an insatiable horsewoman, going out with the towheaded lad every day that the uncertain midwinter weather permitted. The Nightrunners kept a troop of swift, sturdy, surefooted ponies that usually ran wild on the grassy headlands, but came happily down a narrow, sloping tunnel whose entrance was concealed in a clump of gorse at the top of the cliff, to be stabled safely below in the caves when the eastern coast was lashed by storms.

Zanna adored her rides with Tarnal. From the clifftop above the smugglers’ cave, the view was glorious. Below and to the right was a pale sweep of crescent beach, embraced by cliffs and cradling the shining sea. Some half league away on the opposite horn of the crescent was a green knoll crowned by the stark and sinister standing stone, and behind were the vast, curving, green-gray swells of the empty moorland. Astride her beloved pony, a shaggy, gaily marked piebald that she had named Piper, Zanna would ride for miles across the moors with the smuggler boy, their hair, dark brown and palest gold, streaming behind them in the winter wind. They would return at dusk, tired but exhilarated, their hands and faces tingling painfully from the cold, to hot soup in the kitchen and an affectionate scolding from Remana for staying out so long. Though she missed her father, it felt as though Zanna were truly coming home.

Zanna had wondered at first why she could see no evidence of actual smuggling, but a chuckling Remana had soon put her right. “Oh, not in winter, dear child! This is our quiet season, you might say. The seas are far too rough to risk our ships at this time of year, and to be honest, there’s little to trade.”

She had explained to Zanna that the chief activity of the smugglers was to ply their trade between the coastal villages, transporting locally grown foodstuffs and crafted wares between the communities on a baiter system, thus cutting out the ruinous tariffs charged by the Merchants’ Guild, and allowing the poor peasants to enjoy a few of the luxuries that would otherwise be denied them. “Of course, your dad, as Head of the Guild, is officially against such criminal behavior.” Remana had remarked. “Fortunately, he holds the private belief that the merchants make profit enough, and the peasants should enjoy the fruits of their labors. Besides”—she winked at Zanna—“there’s also the little matter of our Southern partnership! At least there was . . .” Her face had clouded over, and she had said no more, but Zanna knew that she was thinking about Yanis. She vowed to herself once more that before it was time for him to set out again, she would come up with some kind of plan for him to defeat the Southerners.

As the winter days sped by, Zanna learned many things from her smuggler friends. The old men had taken her to their hearts, and showed her how to fish with a line in the tidal pools outside the cavern. At low tide, they fought for the privilege of teaching her to set crab pots along the rocky reefs, near the mouth of the cave, that protected the hideout from the close approach of other ships. In the spring, Remana had promised her, when it was calm enough to teach her to sail, she herself would show Zanna the secret of navigating the one safe route through the treacherous maze of submerged reefs.

In winter, much of the work for the younger, fitter men involved repair and maintenance of the ships and their gear. While snowstorms raged outside, the women showed Zanna how to mend nets and ropes and sails, and how to make the rugs that protected their feet from the cold stone floors, by hooking shreds of rag through coarse sacking. They also taught her the secrets of their beautiful and intricate weaving, to make the warm wall hangings that brightened up the gloomy darkness of the caves.

These were companionable times, filled with chatter and laughter, gossip and teasing among the younger women. There was a great deal of talk about the handsome, wind-bronzed young men, and who was in love with whom, and who would marry. At these times, Zanna was content to listen, and keep her own counsel. Though Tarnal had become her devoted shadow, she had already decided that she would marry none other than Yanis, for she had loved him from the first day she had set eyes on him. Fortunately, or perhaps- unfortunately, the leader of the Nightrunners had no idea, as yet, of the fate she had mapped out for him—and now he might never know, for Zanna had to leave.

Zanna had paused in the shadowed entrance to the great harbor cavern, paralyzed by the rush of happy memories that had assailed her with such pain. Angrily she shook her head, and brushed her tears away. This was doing no good! For three long months she had been happy—until word had come of the recent catastrophe in Nexis. Word of monsters, hideous beyond imagining, that had caused so many deaths. Word of the Archmage seizing power, and holding the city in a grip of terror. And no word of Vannor, who had been missing without trace since that horrific night when so many had died.

When Remana had told her the news, Zanna’s guilt at leaving Vannor had returned to overwhelm her. She had known at once what she must do. She must return to Nexis to find her dad, or at least find out what had happened to him. Of course, if the Nightrunners discovered her intentions, they would never let her go—so that was why she was sneaking around now, late at night, preparing to make her escape.

It was fortunate that there had been several days of stormy weather, and the horses were stabled below in the caves. The blizzard raging outside would make the journey more difficult and dangerous, but Zanna was sure she only needed to get as far as some kind of shelter that night. Then, having lost the pursuers that Remana would no doubt send after her, she would be able to continue in daylight. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to find her way over the moors to Nexis? She hoped not.

Zanna peeped around the side of the archway to look for the watchman who guarded the ships at night. He came into view, his footsteps crunching on the shingle beach, and she heaved a sigh of relief. So far, her plan was working out. The watchman was Tarnal. She had forced herself to wait, with scant patience, until the night when he would be on duty. Taking a deep breath, Zanna stepped out to meet him.

“You’re up late!” Tarnal sounded surprised, but as she had expected, his brown eyes brightened at the sight of her.

Oh dear, Zanna thought, I hope I don’t get him into too much trouble! She arranged a smile on her face. “I couldn’t B sleep,” she told him ruefully. “Even though we’re underground in here, the storm still seems to bother me.”

“Ah, that happens to a lot of us smugglers,” Tarnal assured her. “It means you’re weather-wise, as we call it. You have the makings of a good Nightrunner, Zanna.”

He grinned at her shyly, and she understood all too well what was on his mind. He’d been mooning after her for ages, but of all the times to .wart getting romantic . . . Oh dear, Zanna thought. Not now, Tarnal, please! “Anyway,” she said briskly, “since I couldn’t sleep, I thought I’d come down to the stable to see if Piper is all right.”

Tarnal’s face lit up.. “Good idea,” he said. “You never know with horses in this wild weather. Tell you what, I’ll come along in case you need any help.”

Oh no you don’t, Zanna thought grimly. If you get me alone in that nice, warm, bracken-filled cavern . . . “That’s very kind of you, Tarnal,” she said swiftly, “but if Yanis found out that you’d left your post, you would be in a lot of trouble!” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Stay here, Tarnal, I’ll be back shortly, don’t worry.” With that, she beat a hasty retreat, praying that he wouldn’t take it into his head to follow her.

The stable cavern was warm with the press of animal bodies. As she entered, replacing the heavy hurdle that barred the exit behind her, Zanna could hear the soft huffing sound of horses breathing in the shadows, followed by a rustle of straw and a scrape of hoof on stone as the sleepy creatures became aware of her presence. Great, lustrous eyes swung in her direction, gleaming like jewels as they reflected the light of the lamp that she carried. Stretching on tiptoe, Zanna reached up and placed the lamp carefully in a niche carved high in the rocky wall on her right-hand side. There were strict rules about keeping any kind of flame away from the tinder-dry bracken that covered the cavern floor. One spark, and the cave would become an inferno within seconds.

Shuffling through the deep-drifted bedding, Zanna moved along the wall until she came to the row of pegs, hammered into a natural transverse crack in the stone, that held saddles and bridles. Rummaging under a pile of bracken, she unearthed her warm cloak and the bundle of food and belongings that she’d hidden there earlier in the evening. Rather than lugging the whole lot, along with the ungainly, flapping saddle, through the mass of restless animals, she decided to catch Piper first, and bring him here. Unhooking his bridle from its peg, she took an apple from the pocket of her skirt, and wriggled her way carefully between the milling horses, calling softly for the piebald pony.

Piper came to her calling. She had been teaching him to do this by bringing him a treat every tinae she wanted to ride him. Zanna smiled as he snuffled greedily into her palm and scrunched the fruit in a single bite. While he was looking for more, she slipped the bridle into place and fastened the buckle quickly. Then, despite her hurry, she threw her arms around Piper’s arching neck, burying her face in his streaming black-and-white mane to stifle her sobbing. Oh Gods, she did love him so! And Remana, and Yanis and Antor and Tarnal, and all the others . . .

The pony snorted, and turned his head to nibble at her pocket, his ears cocked forward hopefully. She had no more apples, however; all he found was her handkerchief, which he tugged out anyway. Zanna’s sobbing turned to shaky laughter. “Why, thank you, you clever creature!” she told him. Having retrieved her chewed and rather soggy possession, she led the pony to the place near the wall where she had left her belongings.

Tethering Piper to a handy peg, Zanna turned to lift the saddle down—always a stretch for her, because of her short stature. Placing it carefully on the pony’s back, she stooped under his belly to find the dangling girth—and jerked upright with a yelp as a hand grasped her shoulder. “Tarnal! I told you not to—” Zanna spun round, her heart hammering with shock—to find herself in the arms of Yanis.

“I’ve been waiting for you to make a run for it, ever since we told you about your dad,” the smuggler said. But there was sympathy, not anger, in his face.

“Yanis, please don’t stop me,” Zanna begged. “I must go—I can’t bear it! I have to know, don’t you see . . .” Her eyes overflowed with tears.

“I know, girl. In your place, I’d feel the same,” Yanis told her gently. “But rushing off all alone in a storm is no answer. Why, there’s hard men, experienced men, been lost out on those moors in the blizzards, and all we’ve found come spring was their bones picked clean by wolves. If we found anything at all, that is.”

Zanna stared at him in dismay. For a moment she had hoped to persuade him . . . But though it was obviously not to be, her agile brain was already at work on a new plan. Yanis would be watching the horses like a hawk at first, but if she could allay his suspicions long enough . . .

“All right.” She sighed, and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, Yanis, I didn’t know the moors were so dangerous, but now you’ve explained it to me.” Zanna caught her breath, suddenly very conscious of his arms around her, aware that this was the first time he had touched her since the day of her arrival. She didn’t want him to let her go, but if her new scheme was to work, it was imperative that she fool him into thinking that she was resigned to her fate. Sighing, she pushed him away, and turned to go.

“Wait!” Yanis caught hold of her arm. “I know what you’re thinking, Zanna—that you only need wait a while and then you can try again. Only it won’t work, see?”

Zanna gasped, furious that he had outguessed her. “And just how did you manage to work that out?” she said acidly.

The young smuggler’s face darkened. “I know what you think of me,” he said stiffly, “but that’s the first time you’ve come near calling me daft to my face. Well, let me tell you something—there’s stupid and stupid, and it didn’t take much for me to realize what you were up to. All I did was put myself into your shoes for a minute. I would never have given up so easily, and I knew for sure that you wouldn’t, loving your dad like you do!” His grip around Zanna’s arm tightened, as he continued. “The Nightrunners can’t let you go running off to get killed, you little idiot! I won’t let you! I’m a patient man, believe me, and it’s winter, so I’ve nothing better to do. Get used to having me around, girl, because I plan to be your shadow from now on!”

Zanna stared at him openmouthed, too outraged to speak. She stared into that rugged, handsome face, those dark gray eyes that were sparking with anger, the mouth that was hard now, and unyielding. Not long ago, Vannor’s daughter would have been overjoyed at the thought of having Yanis constantly at her side. Now, the idea filled her with rage and frustration. “Damn you!” she yelled—and kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. “I might just as well be your prisoner!”

With a stifled curse, Yanis let go of her arm, and Zanna fled from the cavern with tears of anger streaming down her face.

“I might just as well be your prisoner!” The Earth-Mage Eilin glared at the Forest Lord. “You deliberately took my staff and gave it to D’arvan, so that I could not return to my Valley. You could hardly wait to seize the chance to tamper with the fate of the World Outside once more!”

Hellorin looked at her steadily, but made no reply to her charge. The suspicion dawned on Eilin that he was simply waiting for her anger to run its course—after all, what need had he to waste his breath in fruitless debate? No matter how much he might storm and argue and protest, she was utterly in his lower.

The Mage found that she was shaking with rage. “Meddler!” she spat. “It was^ ever so with the Phaerie. It’s of no consequence to you that the Atchmage rides roughshod over all the world. Just so long as you can exercise your influence on events, what do you care? Don’t you realize that I am the only Mage left in the North to oppose Miathan? You’ve let those two children loose in my Vale with my staff to face the Archmage alone. In the name of all the Gods, my Lord—they need me!” “No, Eilin, they do not need you.” Hellorin spoke softly, but the underlying power of his voice sent a shiver across the smooth, silver-gray bark that coated the walls of the chamber. The Mage fought to hold on to her anger; the legendary temper of the Magefolk was the only thing that had saved her from being overawed by this stupendous immortal. Eilin folded her arms and her lips thinned into an obdurate line. “Why not?” she demanded. “Give me one good reason why not!”

“Because I am Lord here, and I say that they do not!” When Hellorin frowned, it was as though a cloud had passed over the sun—though there was no sun in this changeles timeless Elsewhere. As Hellorin’s dark brows drew together, Eilin shivered at the sound of a distant growl of thunder. “Have a care, Magewoman. I do not meddle, as you call it, through idleness or spite—though the debt your people owe to mine is a sore temptation . . .” Hellorin’s voice was a blade of ice, and Eilin took an involuntary step backward, rubbing at the goose-flesh that pricked her skin. “So that’s what this is about!” she hissed. “Revenge—pure and simple! Oh, you may protest your innocence, Lord, but if I had not been a Mage—”

“Had you not been a Mage, you would never have survived the murder attempt by one of your own people,” Hellorin told her flatly, his eyes glinting with irritation. “Had you not been a Mage, you would never have come here to plague me!” “If I plague you, let me go!” Eilin countered swiftly. “By all the Gods, Eilin, is there no telling you? I can not!” Hellorin threw out his arms in a gesture of defeat, a.m stamped across the mossy-green carpet to the deep window embrasure, where a flagon of wine and two goblets stood on the sill. Throwing himself into the window seat, he poured wine for them, and held out a cup to her. “Here—sit down, you wretched woman, and stop bristling! Let us end this wrangle, once and for all!” “But—”

“Eilin—please?”

The Earth-Mage was disarmed by the change in Hellorin’s voice. Biting her lip, she crossed the room to him, and perched tentatively on the edge of the window seat.

“You look just like a little brown bird, poised and ready to fly away at the slightest hint of danger.” Hellorin’s chiseled mouth had softened in a smile.

Eilin, much to her dismay, found the last shreds of her righteous anger melting like sunrise mist. “Little brown bird, my eye!” she retorted tartly, but despite her best efforts, she found that her lips were twitching as she took the goblet from his hand.

Hellorin’s eyes never left her own. “Rest you, my Lady,” he said softly. “Your Healing is but lately accomplished, and you need time to regain your strength. It does you no good to agitate yourself in this way.”

“Is that why you won’t let me go yet?” Eilin seized eagerly on his words. “Do you mean that when—”

“No.” The word held a terrifying finality. Hellorin sighed. “Lady, I have put off this explanation lest you be distressed beyond the limits of your strength—and because I feared that you would not believe me.” He took her hand in a firm, warm grip, and his fathomless eyes bored into her own. “Eilin, you must try to understand. What I am about to tell you is the absolute truth—I swear it on the head of my son. When you were brought to us, your injuries were fatal, even to one of the Mageborn. My Healers brought you twfck from the very brink of death. In this place, where the Phaerie are empowered and time holds no sway, it was possible for them to do this. But thanks to your Magefolk ancestors, their power—our power—no longer t-xtends into the mundane world. In short, you have been Healed in this world, but not in your own. If you try to return—”

“No!” Eilin choked on the cry. Her blood was ice in her veins. “It can’t be true—it can’t]” But the lines of sorrow on the Forest Lord’s face, the overflowing sympathy in his eyes, convinced her beyond any words that he spoke the absolute truth. Eilin, after the tragedies of her life, had believed herself more than a match for any disaster that Fate flung into her path—but this last cruel jest on the part of destiny felled her with a single, lethal stroke.

The impenetrable citadel of fierce Magefolk pride, with which Eilin had surrounded herself after the death of Geraint, began to crumble and totter at last, and the Mage felt as though she were falling into pieces along with it. “I cannot leave?” she whispered. “I can’t go home—ever?”

The pain in Hellorin’s eyes said everything. “I fear not, Lady,” he told her sorrowfully. “At least, not unless—”

But Eilin never heard those vital, final words. They were drowned in a sound of endlessly breaking glass, as her adamantine fortress exploded into shards that were falling, falling like her tears . . .

Hellorin could only hold her helplessly while she trembled and wept. She had been dreadfully weakened, of course, by her injuries—far more than she realized—but he was utterly shocked by such profound distress. To see Eilin brought so low was more than he could bear: she who was so fierce and proud— and how he admired her for that! No one had stood up to him so well in aeons—save little Maya, of course! We have been out of the world too long, indeed, he mused. They seem to have produced a wild and wonderful breed of women in our absence. But even the strongest of women occasionally needed help.

The Lord of the Phaerie gathered his powers and . . . “ENOUGH!” he roared. The air was ripped apart by a tremendous thunderclap, and-toghtning arced across the chamber in a searing flare. Eilin jerked to her feet, cramming her knuckles into her gaping mouth. Her tangled hair was a bristling aureole from the residue of power in the room, and her eyes appeared enormous in a chalk-white face. Hellorin smiled at her. “Much better!” he said briskly. “And now that I have your attention,

Lady ...”

Seizing the hand of the startled Mage, the Forest Lord pulled her after him out of the room, and rushed her, clattering, down the wooden spiral of stairs that twisted inside the walls of the slender tower. Ignoring the incredulous stares of his subjects, Hellorin towed her through the seemingly endless series of halls and chambers that made up his citadel, until at last they crossed the imposing Great Hall where Maya and D’arvan had rested, and burst through the great arching outer doorway and into the open. Without pausing, he hurried her down the steps of the outer terraces, and across the meadow toward the misty outline of the woods beyond.

“Hellorin, wait! I can’t—” Eilin’s breathless wail halted the Lord of the Phaerie. He turned to see that she was in real distress. Her legs were shaky, and her chest was heaving with the unaccustomed exertion that had come too soon after recovering from her dreadful wounds. But at least she was speaking again, and that irate glint in her eye promised well for the resurgence of her fiery spirit.

“Well run, my Lady,” he told her—while thinking it was just as well that she had no breath for the blistering retort that was written all too clearly across her face. Putting his arm around her, he turned her back to face the way she had come— and was gratified by her gasp of pure delight. “Forgive me for rushing you out in such a rude and rough fashion, Lady,” he said gently, “but I wanted very much to show you this.” There, before them, climbing up and up from the gentle swell of the grassy meadow, was the pride of Hellorin’s heart: the citadel and home of his people.

The Phaerie, consummate masters of illusion that they were, had excelled themselves. Combining nature with magic, they had created a true entity that actually lived and breathed around them—unlike the oppressive heaps of soulless, murdered, hacked-out stone that formed the dwellings of Mage and Mortal. Glowing like a jewel in the strange, golden half-light that was an unchanging feature of this timeless Otherworld, the citadel took the outward form of a massive, craggy hill. Its walls and balconies were cliffs and ledges, its windows were concealed by glamourie from outward view, and its many slender wooden towers, such as the one in which Eilin had been staying, were groves of soaring, living beech. Level areas boasted glades and gardens with translucent, bright-hued flowers that sparkled like spun glass in the eerie amber light. Streams and fountains decked the hillside in diamond-glitter, and cascaded down the sheer rock faces like drifting silver veils.

Hellorin let out his breath in a contented sigh. Down through all the ages, this sight had never failed to move him with a pleasure so intense that it was almost pain. He smiled at Eilin, who stood beside him as though she had been turned to stone. Her face was rapt and glowing.

“Beautiful, is it not, beyond all words?” he murmured. “Though your exile must be bitter, can such a place as this not ease your sorrow, Lady?”

Eilin sighed. “A little, perhaps — in the course of time.” “Ah, time — but time, at last, may mend all things.” Seeing the Mage’s quizzical frown, Hellorin was swift to enlighten her. “Your exile need not last forever, Lady — only for as long as we ourselves are imprisoned here.”

“What?” Eilin gasped. “But I don’t understand.” “It has all to do with our magic, and its limitations,” the Forest Lord explained. “The power of our Healers cannot extend into your world, but when we Phaerie are released from our exile, our Healing powers will also be freed from their restrictions. You can return in safety then, and be well and whole again as you were before.”

Eilin was still frowning. “But I thought the Ancimi Magefolk had imprisoned you here for all eternity.”

“Ah, of course! Now I perceive your confusion. I explamcu the prophecy to Maya and D’arvan, but I had forgotten that you would not know. But you are weary, and the midst of a meadow is no place for lengthy tales. Come back with me now, my Lady, to my Great Hall in-the citadel, where you can be refreshed and rest in comfort. Then I will tell you all that you wish to know ...”

“So your — our — freedom depends on the One who comes to claim the Sword of Flame?” Eilin felt crushed all over again with disappointment. Almost, she wished that Hellorin had spared her these ridiculous notions. A Phaerie prophecy was too fragile a thread on which to hang her hopes!

“You must have faith, Lady.” Hellorin took her hand. “Believe me, had you known the Dragonfolk as I did, their words could not have failed to comfort you. Events are in motion — we have only to wait.”

“Yes, but for how long?” A tear trembled on Eilin’s laiL,. , “Events are in motion as we speak, out there in the world! doing goodness-knows-what with this magic sword of yours—” Her words were lost in a sob. “They need me, Hellorin! While I am forced to kick my heels in this—this Nowhere, and I don’t even know what is happening—” To her dismay, she was weeping again.

“Hush, Lady, hush,” Hellorin comforted her. “There, at least, I can ease your mind. Come, Eilin, I have one more wonder to show you.”

Taking the Mage’s hand, he led her away from the fire, toward the far end of the hall. There, to Eilin’s puzzlement, a short flight of stone steps ended in nothing. They simply went halfway up the wall—and stopped. Above them, the wall was hidden by a rich hanging of green-gold brocade. Hellorin mounted the steps, taking her with him, and pulled the curtain aside.

Eilin gasped. There, set high in the wall, was a glorious window of glittering, many-hued crystal shaped like a sun-n.rst. Around the edges, the richly colored panes sent pinpoints »t jeweled light cascading into the chamber. In the center was a single, circular pane, set at eye level from the vantage point of the stairway.

“Here.” Hellorin guided her forward with an arm around her shoulders. “Look through my window.”

“Oh!” The Mage blinked, rubbea her eyes—and peered closer. “By all the Gods, it’s Nexis!” She swung around to face him, suddenly suspicious. “Is this more of your Phaerie trickery?”

“Upon my oath it is not!” The Forest Lord’s eyes glinted with annoyance. “Gods, but if you are not the most contrary, stiff-necked creature ever to come within these walls!” Suddenly he began to laugh softly, shaking his head. “Nay, but I have not enjoyed such a battle of wits and wills since I lost my poor Adrina. . . Trust me, Lady Eilin—you I would not deceive. This is my Window upon the World, left me by your wretched ancestors, no doubt to tantalize me with all that the Phaerie were missing! It was through this casement that I first saw Adrina, collecting her dealing herbs in the forest . . .” He ease you, Lady, we will come here whenever you wish and keep vigil together, until our exile may be ended at last.

The Earth-Mage looked up at the Lord of the Phaene, suddlly and utterly moved by his kindness. How could her ancestors have been so cruel as to shut this magnificent, kindly, arelt hearted being away from the world? Her fingers tight-Son^ hand,gand for the first time in their acquaintance she smiled at him. “Thank you, my Lord,” she said simply. “I would like that very much.”