Dhiammara

1 The Last of the Magefolk

When the wizard failed to master the Sword of Flame, the Phaerie were free at last. To Hellorin, it was a stroke of good fortune beyond belief that the flame-haired Magewoman had not only, through her weakness, granted his people the liberty they had craved, but had also been the means of restoring the Phaerie steeds that had lived for so long in human guise, far across the sea.

“Ride, my children,” he roared exultantly. “Let the world tremble, for the Phaerie ride once more!”

“No,” Eilin shouted. “Lord, you must not do this. Let the Xandim go. These are intelligent beings!”

For an instant, the Forest Lord hesitated. While the Mage had been trapped in his realm they had become close friends, and she had meant a good deal to him—but now that he could exercise his will again nothing must interfere with his freedom. The days of the Magefolk were over, and once again the Phaerie could take the world and shake it to its foundations. Hellorin shrugged, dismissing Eilin from his mind along with his softhearted son, who would have left the Phaerie steeds in their useless human form. D’arvan would be taught to know better in times to come.

With a spine-wrenching leap, the white mare sprung skyward. The heart of the Forest Lord, fettered and earthbound for so long, soared with his Phaerie steed as her hooves spurned the ground and she sped aloft, with stretching strides, along a path of invisible air. So intent was he on his triumph that he failed to notice the gate in time that the Sword of Flame had opened behind him. He did not see D’arvan, his son, leap through the gateway after Aurian, to be whirled away into oblivion.

Scores of voices took up Hellorin’s cry as his people followed; shadowy figures no longer, but comely and clad in radiant flesh: soaring behind him on their own mounts, who but moments before had worn the guise, and held the consciousness and intelligence, of mortal men. Higher and higher the Phaerie climbed, swarming upward like a drift of dark smoke as they followed their Lord into the heavens. Those who remained earthbound, through lack of sufficient horses, scattered into the forest as though they planned to follow the Hunt on foot.

The Forest Lord glanced proudly back at his followers, his triumph marred only by the fact that this gathering was but a pallid reflection of the great ridings of old, for little more than fivescore of the Phaerie steeds had come with the strangers to the Vale. Therefore many of his folk could not take to the skies. Firmly, he shrugged the thought aside, determined not to let such comparisons mar this great and triumphal moment. If the missing horses were on this side of the ocean they would be found—and if they were still lost across the seas, beyond the powerful reach of the Phaerie, then others could easily be bred from the stock that had been recovered today. Casting such mundane matters firmly from his mind, Hellorin reveled in his new freedom, breathing in great drafts of the icy wind that stung his face and burned thinly in his lungs. Glancing earthward, he gloried in the power of his Phaerie mount as the white mare leapt from cloud to cloud, striking thunderbolts with her silver hooves.

Far below, Hellorin’s keen eyes spied human shapes: a throng of fleeing Mortals who were swarming like ants through the smoldering trees near the rim of the Vale. Though such creatures had their uses, they must first be taught a lesson—that the Phaerie were their masters now. With a triumphant howl, the Forest Lord called up his pack of great hounds and spurred the white mare, sending her hurtling downward, toward the invaders. His people followed, curving down out of the sky like shooting stars, their eyes ablaze with the thirsting lost for Mortal blood; their voices upraised in a shrill, discordant song of battle that sliced the air like blades. One by one, the mercenaries who had followed Eliseth on her ill-fated raid were hunted down like deer amid the trees, and like deer were slaughtered while the earth amid the roots of the tortured forest drank deeply of their blood. Only when all the Mortals had been slain did the Phaerie look around them for other prey.

In the center of the Vale’s great bowl, on the shores of the lake, the Earth-Mage Eilin shuddered to hear the death-screams of the slaughtered Mortals. The Phaerie Lord’s treachery was a minor matter when compared with the loss of her daughter, but the betrayal hurt nonetheless. Eilin, almost crushed beneath the weight of her grief, stood numb and irresolute. Only her stubborn pride kept her on her feet. For the second time in her life, she beheld die destruction of all that she held dear—her daughter, her home, her hopes. The first time, when Geraint had died and her life had fallen apart in ruin, she had risen above grief and disaster to build a productive and purposeful life from the rubble of her dreams—but she was older now: crushed, bewildered, and alone. How could she ever find the strength and courage to pick up the pieces a second time?

Beside her, Vannor and Parric, the erstwhile companions of her daughter, stood at the forefront of the band of rebels had been sheltered in her Valley during her absence in the otherworldly Phaerie Realm. Through her constant vigil at Hellorin’s magic window that had looked out on her own world, she had come to know all these folk over the last months—with the exception of one, a stranger; by his color and facial structure a foreigner from across the seas, where the magic of the Forest Lord’s window did not reach.

None of these Mortals meant anything to Eilin—save that she couldn’t wait for them to leave. The Mage wanted her Valley to herself again—she wanted time to repair the devastation that had been visited upon her by the Weather-Mage Eliseth, and solitude in which to assimilate the horror of losing a daughter and the pain of her betrayal by the Phaerie Lord. There was no help for it, however. These people had been Aurian’s friends and companions. They were as stunned as Eilin by the horrors of the day, and she knew they would need to rest and collect themselves before she could be rid of them at last. They would find no surcease from her, though—she had nothing left to give. Let the Mortals shift for themselves!

Of all the folk who had survived the dreadful events of that day, Dulsina, who had scarcely known the Lady Aurian, seemed best equipped to cope. As she looked around at her devastated companions, the woman realized that if they were to spend the night in a comparative degree of comfort, everything would be up to her. Parric had wandered away from the others and was standing with his back to them, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped in grief and defeat.—Even at this distance Dulsina could hear the bloodcurdling sound of his ceaseless cursing. Sangra was struggling valiantly, with little success, to stifle her tears. She was grasping the hilt of her sword so tightly that her hands were a knot of bones, as if by force of arms she could defeat the sense of dread and desolation that had overtaken her.

Fional, though utterly distraught at the loss of his friend D’arvan, was with the stranger—the exotic man with a tanned face, long dark hair, and the lithe, muscled body of a dancer. The archer was trying his best to calm the stranger as he cried out loudly in rage and anguish, in some foreign tongue, while Vannor—dear, good-hearted Vannor, who, up to a moment ago seemed so calm and collected—had sat down on the ground so abruptly that it looked as though his knees had turned to water, his hand across his eyes. Worst of all, the Lady Eilin stood unmoving, a little apart from the others, her eyes blazing with a bleak and terrible light in a face that had been turned to stone.

Someone would have to take care of them all—that much was plain. Perhaps, Dulsina thought, it might be better if they could leave this unhappy place with its tragic associations and return to what remained of the rebel camp—if, as she hoped, their sanctuary had been spared from the blaze. Her companions, however, seemed unable to rouse themselves from their shocked and grieving lassitude—and when she tried to persuade the Lady Eilin, she was repulsed by an impenetrable wall of ice, and behind it, a blaze of suppressed rage that Seared like flames.

There was little in life that daunted Dulsina, but the way the Mage’s eyes looked straight through her chilled her to the heart. For her very life, she dared not push Eilin any further—for she was certain that the next time the Lady’s dreadful gaze turned upon her, it would not be chill with indifference but burning with wrath. Dulsina, no fool, changed her plans with alacrity. We can move what’s left of the encampment here, she decided briskly. The Gods only know, we’ll need some comforts about us, after the terrible things we’ve seen and suffered today. The sun will be setting before much longer, and we must have food and shelter organized before it gets dark.

Already the sun was sinking into the wrack of smoke that hung over the Vale like a grim, grey pall. Dulsina sighed. Surely there must be someone here who could help her? Someone sensible, and capable, who was still in possession of his wits? It was with a sense of profound thankfulness that she noticed Hargorn, standing a short distance away on the shore of the lake. The veteran was looking out across the water at the island, leaning heavily on his sword, which he had planted, point down, in the muddy bank of the lake. As she approached him, Dulsina’s relief vanished abruptly. For the first time since she had met him, Hargorn looked like an old man. But as he heard her footsteps he straightened, and there were telltale glints of moisture on his seamed face as he turned toward her, he was dry-eyed and seemed in full possession of his wits—save for the dread, bitter emptiness that lurked behind his gaze.

“Maya’s gone,” he said softly, before Dulsina could speak.

“The poor lass was here in the Vale all the time and I never knew it—and now she’s gone again.” His voice sank to a whisper-“I was always so proud of her—what she made of herself, didn’t know it, but she was like the daughter I never had” Then he shook himself, and his eyes became alert once again. “But there’s no sense in mourning her as if she’s dead we don’t know for sure,” he added decisively. “Maya I’d have a thing or two to say about that—she’s got more balls than most men put together—sorry, lovey,” he apologized to Dulsina, remembering, belatedly, that he was not talking to one of his men. “What can I do for you, anyway?”

Dulsina had to swallow back her own sadness before she could reply. His words had reminded her of the Solstice Eve when she had lost Vannor’s daughter in the crowded Grand Arcade. Maya and the Lady Aurian had rescued Zanna from the throng and brought her back safely to the carriage. The two young women, warrior and Mage but the fastest of friends, so full of the courage and promise of youth, had been through so much hardship and suffering since then—and now both of them were gone.

“Come on, now,” Hargorn gently interrupted her thoughts. “It doesn’t do to dwell on it—I shouldn’t have set you off. The Gods help anyone who dares to tangle with Maya and Aurian—and standing around here like a bunch of wet hens won’t get us anywhere, either. Thank goodness the two of us are here—somebody’s got to have their wits about them.”

Dulsina smiled, comforted by the warm sense of comradeship that existed between them. She and the ageing warrior had shared a soft spot for each other ever since he had smuggled her to the Valley with the rest of the rebels after Vannor had forbidden her to come.

Taking a grip on herself, the woman explained her predicament to Hargorn: “The Lady Eilin won’t shift from this spot, poor thing, and the rest of them are more like headless chickens than wet hens. We need to get a camp together before nightfall...”

“Don’t worry,” the veteran reassured her. “I’ll round up our folk and get them busy. I’ll set some of them to building shelters, if you can come back to the camp with the rest of us y and choose what you want us to bring. We can be back here with food and blankets in no time.”

As he hurried off, Dulsina noticed that his sword was still where he had left it—planted in the mud of the lakeside. Hargorn wasn’t usually so absentminded.—Was age catching up with the veteran at last? She called him back. “Hargorn—

you’ve forgotten your sword.”

He looked at her bleakly, and shook his head. “It was a sword that was responsible for this disaster in the first place. I’m finished with fighting, Dulsina. I haven’t the heart for it anymore—not after today. I’ll never touch a sword again.”

After a time, Parric pulled himself out of his dazed reverie, and realized with dismay that dusk had fallen. He was aghast to discover how long he had been simply standing there, lost in anguish and horror—and thoroughly ashamed to find that Dulsina and Hargorn had been forced to cope alone. They had managed very well without him, the Cavalrymaster admitted—but it shouldn’t have been necessary.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dulsina told him. “Once we got our belongings moved from the old camp, the rest was easy. There’s dry wood enough for burning now, on the edge of the fires where the trees are still just smoldering—and there was no need to hunt. Lots of animals were killed by the smoke—if you look in the woods there are bodies all over the place.” A slight catch in her voice and her pale, strained face were the only things about her that hinted to Parric of the carnage she had witnessed in the forest.

Now that Dulsina had mentioned it, the Cavalrymaster became aware, for the first time, of the mouthwatering aromas of roasting meat. A short distance away from him, a rough camp was taking shape, with primitive shelters constructed from wooden frameworks draped with blankets, cloaks, and hides. A huge fire blazed like a beacon on the shores of the lake, with a cluster of smaller cooking fires close by.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Parric asked guiltily.

“Yes,” Dulsina told him. “You can go and comfort your friend Sangra and that poor young man you brought with you from foreign parts.”

The Cavalrymaster looked through the gathering darkness, across the yard to where Sangra and Yazour were sitting close to the fire, deep in talk and holding tightly to one another’s hands.

“It looks like the two of them are managing well enough without me,” he grumbled. “Where’s Vannor?”

The deep line of a frown appeared between Dulsina’s dark brows. “Never you mind about him,” she retorted firmly. “You go and help your young friends over there. I’ve dealt with Vannor myself—instead of letting him sit there and brood, I’ve sent him to talk to the Lady Eilin. The Gods only know, someone ought to do it.”

Eilin cursed and clenched her fists at her sides in annoyance as she saw the Mortal approaching. Once her unwelcome guests had begun to set up their camp—near the very beech grove where Forral had first made his shelter, she thought, with a flash of old pain that she’d believed to be long behind her—the Mage, seeking solitude, had retreated across the charred and splintered wooden bridge to the sanctuary of her island. No one, she’d been certain, would dare to follow her there. How wrong she had been—but when Eilin’s unwelcome visitor came close enough to be recognized, she found that she was not in the least surprised.

Over the years the Mage had heard a great deal about Vannor from Aurian, during her daughter’s summer visits. More recently she had observed him through Hellorin’s magical window until his rash return to Nexis in search of his daughter, and had been impressed by the compassionate, levelheaded way in which he’d ruled his band of rebels who had taken sanctuary in her Valley. He had been the first to recognize that his folk were being helped, albeit by some mysterious, invisible entity—in this case, D’arvan—and he had made his followers obey the strictures and limitations that the Forest Lord’s son had set about the rebel camp.

Nevertheless, despite her respect for the former rebel leader, Eilin was still irritated by his unwelcome intrusion upon her peace. No doubt he would be wanting to discuss the details and possible repercussions of Eliseth’s attack and disappearance—and what of Miathan? What part had the Arch-mage played in the drama that had occurred? What would he do next? The Mage sighed. May the Gods forgive me—I just can’t face this, she thought. She knew that these matters were important, and would eventually have to be addressed—but not just yet. She was too heartsick and weary right now to worry about the future.—In the blood-red light of the setting sun, Eilin stepped back from the bridge and deliberately turned away from the approaching Mortal to regard the ruins of her old home. Following the vanishment of the Sword of Flame, the tower had returned to the Lady’s island—after a fashion. The damage by wind and weather, the scarred black stone and twisted ironwork, the fallen ceilings and gaping windows with their drifts of shattered crystal, the sense of desolation and abandonment—these sights were painful beyond all bearing. How will I ever build it up again? she thought desperately. Where should I even start?

“We—your Mortal friends—would be more than happy to assist you, my Lady, if help you need. It’s a daunting task to be faced alone.”

The Mage swung round with a gasp. Had the wretched man been reading her mind?

“I need no help from Mortals,” she snarled. How dared he suggest that she was not capable of rebuilding her own home? Vannor bowed low, but said nothing.—Eilin let the silence stretch out between them until it became a gaping chasm.—The Mortal waited until the suspense stretched put to breaking point, but she proudly refused to acknowledge him further.

Eventually Vannor spoke, his voice very gentle, just as though her previous angry words had never been uttered. “Lady, there’s food and fire and companionship on the other shore. Will you not cross your bridge and join us?”

Eilin could not meet his eyes. It had been bad enough to hear the kindness in his voice; if she saw the sympathy and concern that she knew would be written on his face, the brittle citadel of pride she had constructed around herself would shatter into shards. She could not countenance the idea of breaking down into tears in front of this wretched man.

“I need no charity from your kind,” she snapped at Vannor, biting off each word with savage emphasis. “A plague on your food and fires and company! You have no business here, and I want you all gone by noon tomorrow or you must face the consequences.” She turned, at last, to glare at him. “This Vale is my place, Mortal. Mine.”

Vannor, clearly unimpressed by her threat, looked at her long and appraisingly. “As you wish,” he said at last. “No one would dispute your right to this place, Lady. But if we can ever assist you . . .” He stopped himself, and shook his head. “No,” he muttered softly, as if to himself. “You wouldn’t, would you? In your stupid, stiff-necked pride you could never bring yourself to ask for, or accept, Mortal help—not supposing you were to perish here, of hunger and cold and loneliness.”

At his words, her anger boiled over at last. Eilin flew at him like a harpy, shrieking curses at the top of her voice. It was a relief to have a target for the rage that had been building within her. Vannor faced her, unintimidated, with steady calmness and—yes, there it was, the pity that she had so dreaded to see, clearly written in his face. It stopped her dead. Suddenly the Mage realized what a spectacle she must be making of herself—a distraught, disheveled harridan, pathetic and ridiculous in the tattered remnants of her pride.

Her curses spluttered into silence, and she closed her mouth abruptly.—Vannor inclined his head respectfully. “Lady,” he told her, “Aurian taught me everything I need to know about both the stubborn Magefolk pride and the stormy Magefolk temper—but it didn’t make me love, or respect her, any less.”

Unexpectedly, Eilin found her mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Your friendship with my daughter has given you a rare insight into our character,” she admitted.

Vannor grinned back at her. “Indeed,” he agreed, “but Aurian taught me far more about the good side of the Magefolk character than the bad. Courage, loyalty, a rare honesty ...”

His words were interrupted as the air above him was split asunder by the belling of hounds, the clamor of horns, and the wild, triumphant hunting cries of the Phaerie, who came hurtling out of the sky like thunderbolts, bearing with them the ghastly trophies of their hunt. The Forest Lord had returned to the Valley.

Though Parric and Sangra had been arguing with him for some time now, Yazour refused to be browbeaten, intimidated, or persuaded into changing his mind. He was determined to head back to the Southern Lands, in search of his friend and mentor Eliizar, and admit to the older man then he had made a mistake. He should never have come north with the Magefolk—this was not his land, and now there was nothing left for him here.

Following the disappearance of Aurian, Anvar, and his friends among the Horsefolk, Yazour was finding himself very much adrift and alone in a land of strangers. Of the companions who had set out with the Mages from the Khazalim city of Taibeth, only he remained. Harihn, the young warrior’s former prince, had betrayed the Mages twice and formed an unholy alliance with the Archmage Miathan. As a consequence, he had been slain in the Tower of Incondor. Shia had followed Aurian and Anvar through the rift in Time, to meet some unknown fate. The winged girl Raven was now Queen of the Skyfolk, and when Yazour had last seen her, she had been well on her way to finding a new maturity, and beginning to atone for her former mistakes.

Poor Bohan, the gigantic eunuch who had been so devoted to Aurian, had perished at the Xandim stronghold, and even Schiannath, Chiamh, and Iscalda, Yazour’s newfound friends among the Horsefolk, had met with an uncertain fate when the Phaerie, freed by Aurian’s failure to master the Sword, had reclaimed their horses back from human form. In one lethal stroke the Xandim had lost their leaders. Schiannath the Herdlord and the Windeye Chiamh had been saved from the Phaerie but had followed Aurian in their equine form. Along with the remainder of the Xandim, Iscalda—Schiannath’s sister, who had befriended Yazour—had been transformed irrevocably into her equine shape of a white mare and claimed by Hellorin, the Phaerie Lord.

Yazour had been forced to look on, helpless, as the humanity of his friends had been ripped away. Aurian and Anvar had vanished, and the young warrior had been forced to remain behind, alone, because he had not been quick enough to follow them through the rift in Time. And now he must live with the guilt of his failure. Though his fellow-warriors Parric and Sangra were doing their best to be kind to him and make him welcome in their midst, the Khazalim soldier knew himself for an alien and an outsider. Without Aurian—without some point to his existence here—he could feel neither at home nor at ease.

“Yazour, don’t leave us. You’re our friend—we need you here.” Sangra returned to the attack. “There’s so much to do—so much to put right.”

Yazour sighed wearily and shook his head. “I want to go back to the South, to my own people,” he insisted. “I can be of far more use to Eliizar and Nereni now that Aurian is gone and her quest has failed. .. .”

“Failed! Don’t you dare say that, you bastard!” Parric snarled. Yazour ducked reflexively as a fist whistled past his face. The Cavalrymaster, beside himself with rage, pulled his arm back for another try, but Sangra, just as swift, caught his wrist before the second blow had time to descend. “Parric, no!” she cried. “That’s not going to help matters.”

The Cavalrymaster subsided, but glowered at Yazour with an unwonted look that mingled coldness and misery. “Don’t you ever say she’s failed,” he muttered.

“It isn’t over yet.” He jumped to his feet and walked stiffly away.—Yazour realized, too late, that his careless words had wounded Parric deeply.—He was sorry—he liked and respected the little man. Not knowing how to take back his words without making matters worse, he mumbled an awkward apology to Sangra and scanned the encampment, desperately seeking a diversion that would take their talk in a less painful direction. His attention was drawn by the sound of shouted imprecations, to the island across the lake. “Who is the woman yelling at Vannor over there?” he asked.

“Why, that’s Aurian’s mother, the Lady Eilin,” Sangra told him. “She lives alone here in the Vale. The poor soul—I don’t blame her for sounding so angry.—How can she bear it? Her daughter is gone, her Valley burned, and her tower in ruins. She’ll be lonely now for sure—in fact, depending on what’s happened to Miathan, she could be the last of her kind.” The warrior shook her head. “The death of the Magefolk—who would have thought that would happen in our lifetime?”

Poor woman! thought Yazour. The only one here of all her kind—just like me. He looked again at the slender figure, his heart aching in sympathy. She seemed so isolated; so vulnerable. And she was Aurian’s mother. . . . An idea began to take shape in Yazour’s mind, but before it could resolve itself, the voice of the Forest Lord thundered down from far above:

“See your prey, my warriors. Take them now!”

“Take cover,” Vannor yelled. “The Phaerie are attacking!”

How dared they. Eilin’s anger, so recently directed at the hapless Mortals, now found its true and fitting target. “No!” she cried. She ran back across the bridge toward the fires, Vannor a stride behind her, even as the Phaerie came arcing down out of the sky. Eilin reached the great campfire ahead of the Forest Lord. All around her people were drawing swords, shouting, running, crazed with panic.

“Stay by the fires.” The Mage augmented her voice by magic until it rang out clearly above the noise. “Stay close to me—it’s your only chance!” As the terrified Mortals began to collect around the great bonfire, Eilin looked wildly around her. A staff—she needed her staff! But she had relinquished it to D’arvan, long ago, and now it had gone with him to some unknown fate. All she really needed was something through which to focus her power.... Through a gap in the gathering crowd, she saw Hargorn’s abandoned sword, still planted upright in the mud by the edge of the lake. The Earth-Mage ran and snatched up the unclaimed blade. She poured her power into the sword and felt a shock run through her as her magic took on a sharp, raw, aggressive edge far different from the nurturing forces concentrated by her staff.

Closer and closer the Phaerie came, sounding their silver horns and singing their eerie songs of death as they rode. Already they had descended to the level of the treetops. They were an awe-inspiring sight, terrifying in their beauty. Now freed from that amorphous otherworld in which they had been imprisoned, they had cast off their grey and shadowy forms, and now were clothed in robes of shimmering, many-Hued luminescence that trailed behind them in sparkling drifts like comet tails. The Phaerie rode bareback, but the horses, with their streaming manes and tails, were controlled with bridles and reins of pure white light, and sparks flew from their hooves as they raced through the air. As the riders reached the tops of the trees, everything that their trailing vestments touched took on the same mysterious radiance, to be limned in frosty rainbow sparkles that spread from branch to branch, outlining the boughs and leaves in delicate traceries of light.

Eilin forced herself to ignore the beauty, remembering the cold, cruel hearts and minds that concealed themselves behind such glorious magic. She cried out once, to focus her powers, and struck the ground hard with the point of her sword. A dome of glimmering green force sprang into being over the entire encampment to shield the helpless Mortals just as Hellorin came charging down heedlessly, on the heels of his hounds and in advance of his followers, heading straight into the midst of the camp. As the shield sprang up in front of him he tore at the white mare’s mouth, trying to divert her from her headlong course, but it was too late. As one by one his hounds came within range of the magical barrier, they were stung by sizzling bolts of green lightning. Yelping, they recoiled and retreated. Terrified by the roaring wall of light that had appeared almost beneath her hooves, Iscalda reared and shied to one side. The Forest Lord, caught off balance, lurched forward across one snowy shoulder and fell. Striking Eilin’s barrier in an explosion of emerald light, he slid down the shield’s curving hemisphere in a spray of spitting green sparks, crying out in agony as he slithered inexorably and ignominiously to the ground. The mare gave a shrill scream of triumph and bolted, vanishing into the trees.

Hellorin clambered painfully to his feet. The rebels broke into cheers and hoots of derision, but there was a deathly silence from the Phaerie who landed close to their ruler. The Lord of the Phaerie, backed by a menacing phalanx of his followers, faced the Earth-Mage through her translucent shield of energy.—The Forest Lord was the first to break the silence. His tones, at first, were conciliatory, belying the glint of anger in his eyes. “Lady, you are an Immortal, like myself. You dwelt in my realm for some time, and I almost began to think of you as one of the Phaerie. Surely you cannot be siding with the Mortals against me?” He shrugged. “No, it is impossible. Are you angered because I rode off and forgot you? Now that the Phaerie are free, do you wish to strike a bargain or obtain some favor from me, that you use these pathetic creatures as bait?”

“I want nothing from you but your absence.” Eilin spoke through gritted teeth.—Hellorin seemed taken aback. “Is this how you repay me, Lady, for the healing and sanctuary you received in my realm, and for the kindness that was shown you by my people?” Now he no longer troubled to hide his anger.

“I have not forgotten that I was succoured and sheltered by the Phaerie—but the contrast between your compassionate behavior then and your brutal activities now is more than I will tolerate.” Eilin clenched her hands round the hilt of Hargorn’s sword, to still their trembling. “This is my Valley.” Her words rang out in challenge like the clash of steel on steel. “We are in my realm now, and these Mortals are here under my protection. How dare you attack them?”

The Forest Lord’s face turned dark with anger. “Do not cross me Mage, I warn you,” he snarled. In his wrath his form expanded, growing larger and larger until it towered over the Mage, higher than the treetops, blotting out the stars.

Eilin forced herself to face him without flinching. “Will you really try to match your powers with mine?” she demanded. “I think not. On your own ground, you could probably defeat me—but here? You are new in the mundane world—you have not had time to become accustomed to the workings of the magic here. Over many years, my power has created this place. The very bones of the earth will reach out to protect me. Perhaps you could prevail—but at what cost, to one so newly free? Is it worth the risk, for a handful of Mortals?”

“Curse you, Lady. Your kind were ever false and faithless,” Hellorin hissed.

“As yours are pitiless and perfidious,” Eilin shot back with equal venom.—Hellorin shrugged. “And your people, of course, have practiced only kindness and consideration toward your Mortal brethren down all the ages? Come, Eilin—surely this is a jest at my expense. What interest can you have in such lowly creatures as these? Since when did the Magefolk care about Mortals, save where they might be used as servitors or to further some scheme of conquest?”

The Earth-Mage tilted her head and looked him in the eyes. “Since one of those lowly creatures became the father of my daughter’s child. And since you have earned my undying contempt by using and betraying Aurian—not to mention the Xandim—in pursuit of your own ends.”

The Phaerie Lord gave a booming laugh. “The Xandim are our property. And as for Aurian . . . surely you did not expect us to swear fealty to a failure and a weakling—to bend our knees to one of the hated race that put us out of the world—when we had an opportunity to slip the Magefolk leash for good? You must think a great deal of your daughter, Lady, if you consider that she is worth the freedom of an entire race.”

Eilin, inwardly raging, struck her sword against the ground in a thunderclap detonation of power. “I think a great deal more of my daughter, evidently, than you think of your son,” she cried in a clear, cold voice.

Hellorin’s mocking laughter ceased abruptly. “Weigh your words carefully, Mage. I have destroyed beings of greater power than you, and for lesser insults.”

“And did you destroy them for telling the truth? That would be like the Phaerie indeed! You fool—you have no idea, do you?” The edge of Eilin’s voice was whetted with scorn. “In your insatiable lust for revenge on those who occupied the world while you were excluded from it, you seized the poor Xandim and went charging off before the matter of the Sword of Flame could be resolved. Haven’t you even noticed D’arvan’s absence? While Aurian and Anvar were distracted by your perfidy, Eliseth tried to steal the Sword and created a rift in Time. The Mages vanished into it—as did Maya and your son!”

Hellorin blanched. “This cannot be true,” he whispered.

“It can and it is,” Eilin replied remorselessly, “and had you been here when it happened, you might have been able to prevent it.”

The Phaerie Lord’s gigantic form thinned to vapor and vanished, as he dwindled back to human size. “But how did it happen?” All trace of his former anger had fled from his voice. “Where have they gone?”

“Beyond our help, I fear,” Eilin told him grimly. “You are free to seek your son wherever you will—but you must search elsewhere. You Phaerie are masters of bargains and debts, are you not? Though you did not swear fealty to her, you are still in debt to my daughter, because she has given you and your despicable kind your freedom. As Aurian cannot be here to state her terms, I will give you mine, in her place. This Vale belongs to me. Get you gone from here—and never return.”

“Is that really what you want?” Hellorin demanded in amazement. “To end our friendship thus?”

Eilin regarded him stonily. “Friendship indeed. Never again do I wish to hear that word debased by your lips? 1 saw little evidence of friendship when the Sword was found. The Phaerie idea of friendship seems to begin and end with their own convenience—and their Lord is the worst offender. I cannot end what no longer exists, my Lord.”

Hellorin sighed. “Very well. It shall be as you wish.” The gathered forms, of the Phaerie thinned like windblown vapor, and vanished like a dream.—Suddenly, Eilin’s knees began to shake. The Mortals all began to crowd around her, offering their thanks and congratulations. Roughly she pushed her way through them. “That goes for you Mortals, too. Get away from me! I want you out of here by tomorrow!”

With a curt, angry gesture she brought down her shields and, turning her back on them all, went back across the bridge to the solitude of her island. When no one dared to follow her, it proved to be a hollow victory.