Sword of Flames

27 The Sword of Flame

Finding the rebel encampment was simplicity itself for Vannor. Just as they had done for him when he had last been here, the trees simply opened up a path in the direction he wanted to take. The rebel leader looked around him, suddenly feeling happy, despite the peril they were in, and the ominous grumble of the storm above. He was not useless after all: his life had not been over when he’d lost his hand—far from it. Parric had been teaching him to fight left-handed—and though he had more sense than to trust his life yet to these new-learned skills, he had still come through his first battle without dishonor—and, more important, still in one piece. Apart from which, the expression of thwarted rage on Eliseth’s face when she had seen him had been well worth waiting for.

Vannor was also glad to be back in the Valley that had proved to be such a haven for himself and for his little band of rebels. How he was looking forward to seeing them all—but especially Dulsina, who must be worried sick about him by now. No doubt he’d better steel himself for a tongue-lashing from her the likes of which he’d never known… Vannor grinned. He’d let her have her say, and then hug the breath from her before she could scold him any further.

His eyes twinkling in anticipation, the rebel leader turned to Parric, who had elected to ride next to him, insisting on sticking to Vannor’s vulnerable right side. “It’s a pity that you missed all this before, through going south. What do you think of the forest, then?”

The cavalrymaster scowled darkly. “Frankly, I don’t like it one little bit,” he retorted, to Vannor’s great surprise. “I hate these bloody trees—they make my flesh creep. Trees should stick in one place if you ask me—not go roaming about dropping branches on people, no matter that it did save our skins back there. Who is behind all this—have you ever wondered? And how can we be sure they’ll stay on our side?”

“Oh, come on, Parric,” Vannor protested. “Of course the forest is on our side—it always has been, since first I brought the rebels here, and the wolves and trees killed Angos and his mercenaries.”

“Well, even if they are,” the cavalrymaster argued stubbornly, “there’s no guarantee that they can protect us against Eliseth. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you look behind you?”

Obediently, Vannor glanced back over his shoulder. Far away on the eastern borders, a thick, black column of smoke was rising, to mingle with the brooding skies.

“Thara’s curse upon her! What is that bitch Eliseth doing to my poor, poor Valley?” In the unearthly realm of the Phaerie, Eilin sat in the Forest Lord’s strange palace, with her face pressed to the mysterious window that looked out upon the Mortal world. Her attention was torn away from the dreadful events that were taking place in the forest by the sound of hasty footfalls behind her.

“You sent for me, Lady?” Hellorin’s voice held a faint edge of irritation. Doubtless, he was not accustomed to being so peremptorily summoned in his own land. Eilin, however, was not impressed—for as a Mage, she was endowed with a temper hasty enough to match the worst of his rages. Running to take his arm, she all but dragged him up the steps toward the great circular window.

“Look at that!” she demanded, her voice breaking with anger and grief. “Just look at what is happening out there! After all my years of labor to make the Valley fruitful again, Eliseth is destroying the forest. Oh, hear the trees screaming! I heard their cries of agony in my very dreams, and when I woke and came to look… And where is D’arvan? Why is he letting her do this? My Lord, she must be stopped!”

“Courage, Lady.” Hellorin’s fingers closed on her shoulder. There was a grim edge to the Forest Lord’s voice. “There is nothing that we can do to stop her. We Phaerie are imprisoned here, helpless—unless…” Suddenly a strange, wild light kindled within the fathomless depths of his eyes. “Why is the renegade Magewoman attacking the forest? My Lady—have you thought to search for your daughter?”

“Aurian? Here?” Eilin cried, whirling back toward the window. She concentrated her will upon the thought of her daughter, and the image of the buring forest wavered and vanished in mist. When it cleared, the window showed her… “Dear gods—she is! She’s heading for my island, with Anvar and a lot of strangers…”

Suddenly Eilin was roughly thrust aside as the Forest Lord flattened his face to the crystal panes and gave a roar of delight. “The horses! O Phaerie; in this glad hour, our horses have returned!” He turned to the Magewoman, his eyes gleaming in a face alight with excitement and a savage joy. “Eilin—this can only mean one thing! Your daughter has come to claim the Sword of Flame, as was foretold—and when she takes it, at long last the Phaerie will be free!”

“Ifshe can take it, you mean,” Eilin murmured, in a voice too low for him to hear. She turned away from Hellorin so that he would not see her frown. She was thinking, not about the Phaerie but about those poor Horsefolk out there who would suddenly turn back to simple beasts if Aurian claimed the Sword—but more than that, she was worrying about D’arvan, under attack in the beleagured forest. Had Hellorin forgotten that his only son was out there, under attack? And what of Maya, who must fight her daughter, though the women were the closest of friends? But most of all, her heart was filled with fear for Aurian, who must undertake the perilous task of claiming the Sword of Flame. Shutting her ears to the glad cries of Phaerie voices, Eilin turned back to the window and began to pray.

D’arvan ran through the storm-darkened Wildwood in the bottom of the bowl, toward the rising column of smoke upon the eastern rim of the Valley, the death screams of the forest ringing in his ears. But even as he ran, he knew he was too late. The Mage’s thoughts were bitter. His father and the Lady Eilin had trusted him—but he had already failed of his guardianship. To wreak such destruction, Eliseth must possess a power far beyond his own. It seemed that Aurian had been right—the Weather-Mage must have somehow stolen the Caldron of Rebirth from Miathan. And what can I do, he thought wildly, to counter one of the ancient Artifacts of the High Magic?

Suddenly he knew he could do nothing. His only hope must lie in Aurian claiming the Sword of Flame. He must go back to the island at once—where he should have gone in the first place. It seemed that he was under an evil star today, for all his choices were turning out to be wrong. Cursing, he took one last, despairing look at the blazing rim of the Vale before turning back toward the lake—and froze, with a cry of horror on his lips. The conflagration had finally reached the upper edge of the cliffs, where he had counted on it to be stopped by the steep stone walls—but even as he watched, the burning trees began to topple, crashing over the precipice like comets trailing tails of flame. New smoke rose up to darken the skies as the trees below began to catch—but now another horror intruded itself upon D’arvan’s ravaged consciousness, for the Valley itself was home and haven to many creatures of the wild.

The very air groaned beneath the burden of a host of birds who had taken abruptly to the skies, swooping and piping piteously, and colliding with one another in confusion. The undergrowth began to stir and rustle as mouse and vole scampered for safety, and snakes shot out into the open, their forked tongues flicking in and out to taste the smoke. Squirrels swung shrieking though the branches overhead. The first terrified animals began to stream past the Mage, fleeing for their lives from the spreading fire. Wild-eyed deer leapt past him down the forest trails, their white tails flagged high in alarm. Wolves streamed after them like a gray mist curling through the trees. Sleepy badgers, confused by this new-made night, blundered through the bushes. Hare and rabbit bounded between the trees in perfect safety, for their enemies—the sinuous stoat and weasel and the elegant bold-brushed fox—were also occupied in fleeing for their lives. D’arvan gathered his scattered wits and called to all the terrified creatures. “Head for the lake, O forest-dwellers! Seek out the water—there is safety there!”

He was turning hastily to follow his own advice when he heard a pitiful whimper coming from the nearby bushes. D’arvan ran forward into the thickening smoke, following the tiny thread of sound. Plunging his hand into a tangle of briars without a thought for his own skin, he groped, touched fur—and brought out a young wolf-cub, little more than two moons old. It seemed to have been in the fire already, for patches of its dark-gray fur were singed darker from smoldering sparks. “How did you get there?” D’arvan muttered in surprise. “Did your parents get frightened by the fire and forget you?” But there was no time to wonder. Thrusting the squirming wolf-child into the pocket of his robe, he fled toward the lake.

As Aurian and her companions picked their cautious way down to the floor of the crater, events seemed to have come full circle in the Mage’s life, and she was transported back to the time when, as a tangle-haired and grubby-kneed urchin, she had first guided Forral down into the Valley. She seemed to feel him very near her, on this dark day.

Impatiently, Aurian shook her head. If he was here, she thought to herself, the first thing he’d tell you is to stop this woolgathering! There was too much at stake now for that. Aurian glanced worriedly behind her, toward the eastern border of the Vale, and the pall of smoke that hung over it. “Hurry!” she urged the others in low voices. “It looks as though Eliseth is gaining on us!”

Willingly, Schiannath quickened his pace—but there was no clear trail through the tangled forest, and the undergrowth and twining roots were too thickly entwined for the horses to gallop. Aurian swore. It seemed that the trees were too perturbed now to open up a proper path for the companions. Thinking quickly, she laid a hand on the Staff of Earth and reached out her will toward the Wildwood.

No sooner had she touched the Staff when the Mage was almost knocked from Schiannath’s back as the full rage and agony of the trees came blasting into her mind. The valley itself was burning! Frantically, she put forth her powers to soothe the forest, begging the trees to open up a path and let her through. “Don’t fight the Evil One,” she told them. “Protect yourselves. If you flee from your burning brethren and surround them with a barren, open space, the fire will claim no more of you. Let Eliseth come to the lake if she must. Open up a path for her, by all means—but let it be a long one…”

Suddenly, Aurian grinned to herself. “She does not know the Valley. Lead her around by circuitous routes, and delay her as long as you can—but as soon as she becomes impatient, let her through to the lake, and I will deal with her. Many of you were my childhood companions. I played among you and you sheltered me with your branches. I would lose no more of you today.”

From the trees came a rustling murmur of assent, like a soft breeze in the branches. The Mage heard her companions gasp as a broad avenue opened up before them. As Aurian rode into it at the head of her little column, the trees of the Valley bowed down their branches, in homage and in thanks. “Follow!” Aurian cried. “To the lake!” Schiannath neighed shrilly and reared, then broke into a bounding gallop as they raced toward the center of the Vale.

The rebel camp was in chaos and utter turmoil as its inhabitants raced about, packing up their slender goods and preparing to flee the burning Valley. Dulsina seemed to be needed everywhere at once: to calm, to help, to organize and advise. Fional and Hargorn were assisting her in the evacuation—or at least the young archer was doing his best, but he seemed to be best at getting under her feet, she thought impatiently. Hargorn’s battle-trained bellow, however, was proving extremely useful, and she was glad that the veteran had left the Nightrunners as soon as his wound had healed, leading back the group of Nexian fugitives who had elected to join the rebels. He had been a tower of strength to her since word had reached the camp of Vannor’s murder at the hands of the Magefolk.

Once again, pain stopped her dead in her tracks, like a fist clenched around her heart. Try as she might, Dulsina still could not come to terms with the news of Vannor’s death. It had taken all her courage to get through the days knowing that little Zanna was missing, but she had forced herself to carry on and be strong for the sake of the rebels under her care—until the stranger Bern’s ghastly tidings had almost brought the stalwart woman to her knees. For all his faults—and over the years his patient housekeeper had become well acquainted with every last one of them—Dulsina’s fondness for the blunt, outspoken merchant had matured into a steady, abiding love that had been neither challenged nor changed by her close friendship with his first wife. The practical housekeeper had too much sense to be romantic. Even though his marriage to Sara had put paid to any notion that he might one day return her feelings, Dulsina had always known that she was indispensable to Vannor, and with that she had been content—until his untimely death had even robbed her of that comfort.

“Damn you, you stubborn old fool—why did you have to go and get yourself killed?” Dulsina muttered. “If I’m not around to take care of you, you can’t do anything right!” Then, chiding herself for standing around moping when she was needed, she shook herself, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and went to take care of her rebels. Despite her best efforts to shut him out, however, Vannor went with her in her thoughts.

Vannor heard the shouted orders in the distance as he hurried through the trees at the head of his Xandim warriors. “Why, I know that voice,” he exclaimed. “It’s—”

“It’s Hargorn!” Parric yelled delightedly, attempting to spur his mount to greater speed before remembering, belatedly, that he was riding one of the Xandim. “Sorry,” he apologized hastily. The horse whinnied and shook its head in irritation, but obligingly picked up its pace.

When they reached the edge of the trees, they found that the clearing of the rebel encampment was filled with a mass of panic-stricken folk who were running, lifting, shoving, tripping, and generally trying to do everything at once. It seemed impossible that he could pick one figure out of the seething mass—but Vannor’s eyes went unerringly to the tall, dark-haired figure of Dulsina.

“Dulsina!” he bellowed, his face breaking into a grin. “I’m back!”

The result was not what he had expected. Utter silence descended on the clearing as everyone turned to stare at him, openmouthed. And Dulsina—his brave, levelheaded, sensible housekeeper—whirled to look at him, her face stark white and blank with shock. “Vannor!” she whispered—and crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

“Don’t just stand there!” Vannor roared. “Somebody help her!” Leaping down from his horse, he ran to her side, with Parric close behind him. When he reached her, she was already opening her eyes, with Hargorn helping her struggle into a sitting position. But the veteran was looking not at Dulsina, but at Vannor, and his eyes were suspiciously bright. “They told us you were dead,” he gasped. “Bern said that the Magefolk had killed you.”

“You thoughtless, boneheaded idiot,” Dulsina interrupted furiously, her eyes sparkling with her anger. “Did you ever find Zanna? Where in all perdition have you been these last few months? Didn’t you care about the anguish you were putting us through?”

Abruptly, Vannor decided to forgo the tongue-lashing after all. Throwing his arms around Dulsina, he hugged her tightly until she squeaked in protest. “Yes, I found the lass,” he told her, “or she found me, at any rate. She’s safe with your sister now.”

Letting go of her reluctantly, he turned to the waiting rebels. “Come on,” he told them. “Explanations will have to wait—we’ve got to get to the lake as quickly as possible. Just take all the weapons you can come by and leave the rest of this stuff where it is. Fetch the horses—those who don’t have mounts will ride double with the rest of us. Don’t stand there gaping—move!”

As they scurried to obey him, something that Hargorn had said nudged its way into Vannor’s memory. He grabbed the veteran by the arm, detaining him. “Hargorn—who the blazes is this Bern who told you I was dead?”

Hargorn shrugged. “Just some fugitive from Nexis who came to us a while ago. He said you’d sent him with a message—but before he could escape, they had killed you…” His brows knitted in a scowl as he realized how badly the rebels had been duped.

“Come to think of it,” Dulsina added, her voice sharp with anger, “I haven’t seen him since the fire started.”

“It’s not surprising,” Vannor replied—but he had an uneasy feeling that whoever this Bern might be, they hadn’t seen the last of him.

Beside the bridge the unicorn waited. For those with eyes to see her, she shone more brightly than the evenstar itself, in the shadowed murk of the beleaguered Vale. But no one could see her beauty save D’arvan, and she sensed that he was far away, though returning to her swiftly. But still more swiftly came another—the One with whose fate she was so closely entwined. The unicorn pricked up her ears and turned her lovely head toward the east with a toss of her silver mane. In the distance, far around the lakeside, she could see a group of riders emerging from the trees. Two figures rode together at their head, both blazing bright with power. Maya would have recognized them, but the unicorn saw them only as invaders, trespassing on forbidden ground that she must defend. But—and she pawed at the ground in puzzlement, scattering sunbursts from her gleaming hooves—there shouldn’t be two powers. Which of them was the One who, in claiming the Sword, could set her free at last—or send her to her death? Until she could find out, she would have to fight them both.

Aurian’s heart twisted within her as she emerged from the forest onto the open turf of the lakeside and saw that the island was bare now of the tower where she had spent her early years with her mother and Forral. She turned to Anvar, who was riding by her side. “The tower!” she cried. “It’s gone! Why didn’t Chiamh warn me when he performed his seeing?” She knew she was being irrational, but felt as though someone had wrenched her childhood away from her. Though she had rarely visited the tower in recent years, she had always felt secure in the knowledge that it was there.

Anvar glanced back at the Windeye, who was in his human form and was riding Iscalda, who had refused to be parted from her brother. “How could he have warned you, when he didn’t know there was a tower here in the first place?” he asked her reasonably. “Hellorin told me, but I forgot,” he added in apology. “It was destroyed when Davorshan came here to kill your mother. The Lady Eilin knows about it,” he added, trying to comfort her. “She didn’t seem upset.”

Aurian made no reply. She was still looking—staring, in fact—at the little isle, denuded of its dwelling. “I don’t see any sign of the Sword,” she muttered worriedly. As they rode closer, however, her eyes widened, her gaze becoming intense. “Anvar,” she whispered, her voice rising with excitement. “It is there… Chiamh was right—the Sword is on the island! Can’t you feel it?”

“I can’t feel anything,” Anvar answered, frowning. “Perhaps only you can sense its presence, because you’re the One for whom it was created.”

While they had talked, they had rounded the lakeshore, and at last the slender wooden bridge came into sight. “I’m glad the bridge survived, at any rate,” Aurian said, suddenly practical again. “We’d have had problems getting across without it—the lake is very deep there…”

Her words were drowned in a thunder of approaching hoofbeats, but—and she looked around wildly—there was no one there! But the hoofbeats kept coming, growing louder and louder… “Ware!” Aurian shouted, pulling the Staff of Earth from her belt—but it was too late. Suddenly Schiannath stumbled, as though pushed aside by some unseen force. Aurian threw her weight back to help him regain his footing—and as he recovered, she heard the sound of screaming: a horse in mortal torment. Esselnath, the Xandim who had carried Anvar, was rolling in agony on the ground, his gleaming chestnut coat dyed with the deeper red of his blood, the loops of his gut bulging out of a long wound in his belly that looked as though it had been ripped open by a sword.

Anvar, who had rolled clear of the thrashing mount, was just picking himself up as the sound of the hoofbeats bore down on them again. “Schiannath!” Aurian screamed, and the great horse wheeled and sped toward her soulmate. She grabbed Anvar’s wrist and yanked him up behind her as some unseen thing whistled past them, blowing her hair back with the wind of its speed.

Aurian glanced over her shoulder, hardly daring to look, but Anvar was safe on Schiannath’s back behind her, gaping at the ragged rent that had appeared in his sleeve. “Gods!” he cried. “What is it?”

Whatever it was, it was heading back toward them. The remaining Xandim scattered in all directions. One of them fell, pierced through the chest, and its rider did not get up again. Shia leapt toward the sound of the hoofbeats and was hurled backward, yowling. Khanu ran to her side, snarling fiercely, as the great cat staggered to her feet. Again, the sound of the hoofbeats veered, heading for Schiannath once more, who now carried both the Mages on his back.

Confused by his own blurred impressions of the battle, Chiamh galloped toward the Magefolk on Iscalda’s back. He had put down his inability to perceive their assailant to his defective vision, but though he could neither see nor understand what was attacking them, he knew that the Magefolk were in deadly peril. He knew he must help them, even at the risk of his own life—and Iscalda was desperate to go to the assistance of her brother. In desperation, the Windeye changed to his Othersight. Maybe it would help him to see more clearly. The blurred shapes took on the form of the glowing phantasms that, to his Othersight, were the shapes of living creatures…

Even as Chiamh approached the battle, Schiannath was attacked once more. Hearing the pounding of hooves grow louder, the Herdlord had waited until the very last second and wrenched himself aside—but the weight of two riders slowed him, and he squealed as a thin red line of blood sprang out of nowhere across his shouder. As Iscalda raced to the side of her stricken brother, the hoofbeats hesitated, and veered toward the Windeye and his mount. Chiamh squinted, putting the whole force of his will behind his Othersight. What in the name of the Goddess was attacking them? And why couldn’t he see it? Yet even as Iscalda turned to run, he was sure he could make out something—a slight ripple in the light, a disturbance in the swirling passage of the wind that, as it came closer, began to take on definition and shape—a shape he had seen once before, in a vision…

“I see it!” Chiamh yelled. “I see it—it’s a unicorn!” Thinking fast, he reached out his mind to link with Aurian, to embrace her in his Othersight that she might see as he did.

“What the bloody blazes—” He caught the Mage’s fleeting, startled thought, and then…

And then suddenly there were no more hoofbeats. Only the slender, leather-clad figure of a dark-haired woman, standing dazed upon the grass.

Chiamh whirled, staggering, as Aurian broke the linkage abruptly. She let out a whoop and hurled herself from Schiannath’s back. “Maya!” she yelled. By the look of delight on the Mage’s face, this must be an old friend.

“Wait!” Anvar reached down to grab her arm. “It might be some kind of trick!”

“It’s not a trick…” To Chiamh, the woman Maya seemed unsure of her own voice. “I was the guardian…” Her brow creased with the effort to remember. “In the shape of the unicorn, I didn’t recognize you.”

“But why a unicorn? What in the name of all perdition happened to you?” Aurian demanded.

Maya looked regretfully at the bodies of the Xandim in the grass, and at Shia, who looked up from licking her bruised side to glare at her. “I’m so very sorry about all this—but I couldn’t help it. I had no choice but to attack you. Hellorin turned me into an invisible unicorn and told me I was to defend the Sword, but if I became visible to anyone save D’arvan, my guardianship would end, and I could return to human form. He said that the One would find a way to see me…” She turned to Chiamh. “Are you the One?”

“Certainly not,” said the Windeye decisively. “Aurian is—the Dragon told her so. I was only the means that she used to see you.”

“But how did you see me?” Maya demanded. “No one could!”

“I’ve been wondering much the same thing,” Aurian put in dryly.

“Oh, I can see all sorts of things with my Othersight,” said the Windeye cheerfully. “If I can perceive the wind itself, then a unicorn made up of light shouldn’t present too much of a problem. If only I wasn’t so nearsighted, I would have seen you sooner, and saved a lot of trouble.” He sighed wistfully. “I’m sorry the others couldn’t see you, though. You were so very beautiful…”

“Meaning that I’m not now, I suppose,” snapped Maya. “Well, things are certainly back to normal.” She held out her hands to Aurian. “I’m so very glad to see you, though.”

And Chiamh smiled, as Aurian ran to embrace her friend.

“Just how far is it to this blasted lake?” Eliseth muttered irritably. Having once gained entry, she seemed to have been wandering around in this benighted forest forever. Her stupid escort seemed to have lost themselves, too—but that didn’t matter now. They had served their purpose, and after her victory over the Wildwood the Weather-Mage felt quite invincible. With the refashioned Caldron she had such power at her command…

Eliseth pulled the tarnished chalice from the pocket of her robe and looked at it thoughtfully, feeling it grow warm and vibrate with resentment against her skin. Who would have thought that so small a thing could hold so much power? And now something was calling it, pulling it toward the lake… Could another of the Artifacts be hidden there? It would certainly explain how that wretched Eilin had gained enough power to murder Davorshan. Eliseth scowled. Well, soon she would see for herself. She had taken one of the Artifacts from its rightful owner—it shouldn’t be difficult to steal another—especially not from Eilin. At least it wouldn’t if she could only find that accursed lake…

She had ridden only a little farther down the narrow, twisting trail, when she heard the cries for help. Spurring her lathered horse to greater speed, she rounded a corner to see a familiar figure, suspended and writhing in the branches of a tree that seemed to be tightening around him…

“Bern!” snapped the Weather-Mage. “What the blazes are you doing here? You were told to stick with the rebels!”

“I did,” Bern wailed. “But when they saw the fire, they started to move camp—and when I saw it, I knew it must be you, and came to warn you. Please get me down, Lady. Please …”

“You should have gone with them, you fool,” said Eliseth. “Now how will I know where they were heading?” Nonetheless, she turned to face the tree and lifted her hand in a threatening gesture. “Let him down,” she snarled, “or—”

There was a thud as Bern fell to the ground, almost weeping with relief. “Oh, thank you, Lady!” He picked himself up, wincing, then seemed suddenly at a loss. “What shall we do now?”

“Well,” I am going to the lake, you wretched Mortal,” Eliseth told him. “If you want to come with me, you’ll have to keep up—I’m not waiting for you. I’ve had enough of wandering around this accursed forest.” She scowled. “If the trees don’t let me through, I’ll burn them, as I did the others.”

“But you don’t need to, Lady,” Bern protested. “Look—the track’s right there.”

The Weather-Mage turned to follow his pointing finger—and cursed vilely. “That wasn’t there before! Are you sure it’s the right trail?”

“It’s heading in the right direction, Lady. If you follow me, I’ll set you right…”

Eliseth shrugged. Well, it was better than wandering round in circles, as she seemed to have been doing.

“Go on, then,” she told Bern, “and hurry up about it. And remember—if you lead me wrongly, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

“Don’t worry, Lady—I know the way.” And off he went, scrambling ahead of her along the forest trail. Eliseth shrugged again, and followed.

Aurian was walking slowly across the bridge, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden planks. D’arvan saw her from the lakeshore, where he had set the little wolf-cub safely down a moment ago, and his heart leapt in relief to also see, among the knot of people gathered at the mainland end of the bridge, his Maya, safe and sound—and human again. So far, then, Aurian had succeeded. He might have guessed she would. But the next part—the winning of the Sword itself—would prove more difficult. Anxiously, he hurried off to join the others—and suddenly remembered that they should be able to see him now. Gods—it had been so long…

Stifling a cry of joy, he broke into a run, forgetting all about the cub, who had wandered off into the bushes.

Cygnus soared over the lake—and suddenly caught sight of the little group of watchers by the bridge. There was Aurian, crossing to the island on her own—and there was Anvar, standing a little apart from the others at the very edge of the wooden span, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure of the Mage. He was alone now, and distracted… Cygnus smiled to himself. His chance had come at last, to seize the Harp of Winds! Banking into a steep turn, the winged man swooped toward his unsuspecting victim.

Vannor led his rebels out of the forest and saw the tableau by the bridge, around the curving sweep of the lake. What in the world were the Magefolk doing? Was the Sword hidden somewhere on the island? Then Parric nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Vannor—look over there!”

The merchant looked across the lake and saw Eliseth, emerging from the trees on the opposite side. She seemed about equally as far from the bridge as he was. Vannor cursed. There was no sense in shouting a warning—they probably wouldn’t hear him from this distance, and, besides, at this point, it might be fatal to interrupt Aurian’s concentration. “Come on—we’ve got to warn Anvar,” he told the Xandim he was riding, and it took off at a gallop, with the rest of the rebels following. Eliseth, on the other side of the lake, had seen them now, and had also spurred her horse into a run. But which of them would get there first?

As Aurian crossed the bridge, she was oblivious to the dramas that were going on around her. The Sword of Flame was calling to her now; holding all her attention in thrall. But she knew that winning it would not be so easy. There was bound to be some kind of test or trial—there had been with the other Artifacts. Suddenly, she was glad she had made Anvar stay behind, despite his protests. This could get dangerous, and she would need all her concentration on the task ahead…

Stepping off the bridge, Aurian caught sight of a great gray boulder, where the tower had once stood. She frowned. Now where had that come from? It had certainly not been there before! Its granite was a different stone entirely from the black basalt of the Valley, from which the base of Eilin’s tower had been constructed. The Mage approached it cautiously, as the warsong of the Sword rang louder in her mind. Carefully, she put a hand out to touch the masive rock—and it changed under her fingers to a giant crystal that pulsed with a light that was the crimson of new blood. Within the dully glowing facets of the gem, she could discern the gleaming outline of a Sword, created for her hand alone, that called out to her in its harsh, metallic voice to free it from its prison.

Aurian grinned to herself—but a warning voice was sounding in the back of her mind. Surely it couldn’t be this easy. The winning of the Staff had been so difficult…

Nonetheless, the Mage reached out and laid her hands upon the crystal, searching with her Healer’s senses for any weakness within the crystal lattice of the stone, as she had done once, long ago, in the tunnels beneath Dhiammara. Swiftly she found the spot and jabbed at it with all her powers, shattering the crystalline structure. With a sighing whisper, the great gem crumbled away to sparkling dust—and the Sword of Flame leapt out into Aurian’s hand.

Aurian sank to her knees as a surge of fiery power consumed her in agonizing ecstasy. The world faded into a pulsing crimson haze as the song of the Sword rang in her mind…

“You are the One, as was foretold, and you have found me—but in order for you to wield my powers, I must first be claimed, as you claimed the Staff of Earth. There must be a bloodbond between us, Warrior—a sacrifice. The first blood I drink must be the lifeblood of someone you love—and then, and only then, will I be yours to command. …”

The world returned to Aurian with a jolt as she recoiled in horror. “What?” she snapped reflexively. “I’ll do no such thing!” The warning of the Leviathan came flooding back to her. “How can I use you for good,” she demanded, “if I begin my ownership with such an unspeakable act?”

“Then I am forfeit—and you have failed. …”

And, suddenly, everything began to go wrong at once.

With the sound of a thunderclap, the ranks of the Phaerie appeared to throng the lakeshore, led by the towering figure of Hellorin, the Forest Lord. “Free,” he cried. “After all these long ages, we are free at last! The One has failed to claim the Sword, therefore we no longer need to pledge allegiance to her! Come, my followers—we must ride!”

Eilin cried out in protest at his side, but he ignored her.

As Aurian looked on in horror, the Xandim who had followed her so faithfully changed into their equine shapes, their screams of anguish ringing in her ears. One by one, the Phaerie seized them—all but Schiannath and the Windeye, who were closest to the bridge, with Anvar. With a cry, the Mage sprang onto Schiannath’s back and flung up a hasty magical shield to guard both horses. They galloped at breakneck speed across the wooden span, knowing that across the waters of Ellin’s Lake, they would be safe from the powers of the Phaerie Lord.

Hellorin gave a howl of thwarted rage—then swung upon Iscalda, who seemed to have grown to giant proportions to match his own. “We ride!” he shouted. “Let the world tremble—for the Phaerie ride at last!” And then they were gone, racing up into the looming clouds, leaving only the sound of Eilin’s weeping.

Even as Anvar dismounted, Cygnus came hurtling from the skies and fell upon the Mage, knocking him to the ground and slicing at the thongs that held the Harp in place. The Xandim horses, already losing their human minds, were too stricken by terror at their ordeal to assist him. Aurian cried out in anger and ran to her soul mate’s aid, lifting the Sword to smite the winged man—and dropping it in horror as she realized what she had almost done. Drawing her own blade, she struck at the white-winged figure, and he fell away from his victim, writhing in agony with his lifeblood staining the grass around the Harp of Winds.

Aurian reached out to Anvar, who lay unconscious on the ground, an ugly bruise darkening his forehead—but suddenly Eliseth was there before her, the Sword of Flame clutched triumphantly in her hand, clinging to it grimly though her fingers were black and smoking, and her face was twisted into a rictus of agony. “I may not wield it,” she screamed—“but neither will you!”

The blaze of the Sword’s power drove Aurian back. Standing over Anvar, Eliseth took out the grail that was the Caldron and brought the two Great Weapons together with a resounding crash. “Slay her, O Powers,” she shrieked—but she had scant control over either of the Artifacts, and the result was not what she had expected. Aurian caught a glimpse of her face, twisted with horror as, with a soundless explosion, a great rent ripped open in the fabric of time itself, as though the world had been painted on a sheet of fabric that had been suddenly rent asunder. Shrieking, Eliseth was sucked into the gap—and Anvar with her.

With a cry of anguish, Aurian snatched up the Harp of Winds, and hurled herself into the closing rent, with the great cats leaping at her heels. Neighing shrilly, Schiannath and Chiamh followed. Maya and D’arvan came out of their frozen horror and exchanged a single glance. Clasping hands, they ran toward the narrowing gap in time—and disappeared as it snapped shut behind them.

Vannor and Parric, having lost their Xandim companions, came panting to a halt beside Yazour, who had been too late to follow, and the horrified Eilin. For a time they stood in silence, aghast at the enormity of what had taken place. “Well,” said the merchant finally, “at least she didn’t go alone.”

“What good will that serve?” Eilin flared. “We don’t even know if they survived to emerge into another time.”

“Aurian will survive,” said Vannor firmly. “I’ll lay money on it. And since we’d have certainly known about it if she had gone into the past, that can only mean she’ll be turning up again in the future.”

Smiling wryly, he looked at the place from which Aurian had disappeared. “I only hope I’m still alive to see it.”