“What?”
D’arvan felt very calm. It was a dangerous thing to try, a desperate thing—but it was their only chance. “Maya, get out of here. You mustn’t be caught up in this.”
“Damned if I will!” She scrambled to her feet, her hands and knees stained with blood. “You haven’t time to fight me over it.” She picked up the Lady’s staff from the floor and handed it to him. “Here. You’ll need this for support—in more ways than one.”
“Stubborn bitch!” He kissed her mouth, overwhelmed by love for her, and felt the tension of her lips melt as she return his embrace.
“Pigheaded bastard!” she retorted. “Be careful, D’arvan She stepped back, unsheathed her sword, and flung it out of the door. “You can’t have iron near the Phaerie, the legends say, she explained.
“Really.” D’arvan was annoyed with himself for not knowing that. “Do they say anything else useful?”
“Umm . . . yes. You have to call him by three true names. Hurry, D’arvan.”
Leaning on the staff to support his injured leg, D’arvan gathered his powers, hurling his mind and spirit forth, and tried somehow to reach the mysterious other place where the Phaerie were said to dwell. Once more he invoked the essence of the forest—its scents and colors, all its moods through the changing days. The sounds of drowsy bees and bright birds, the rustle of leaves and ripple of stream, the scuttling dash of rabbit and squirrel, the soft, careful footfall of deer and stealthy glide of fox and weasel. Taking a deep breath, he called, using both voice and mind. “Hellorin! Forest Lord! Father! In the name of Adrina, my mother, I summon you!”
Nothing seemed to be happening. Yet so clear, so real was his vision of the forest that he could almost see it taking shape around him. The ruined chamber faded from his sight, and as if through a shifting mist he saw trees take shape—the stately silver columns of beeches, a sturdy oak gnarled like the thews of a giant, supple willow and martial holly bristling with spears. Gay hawthorn like a flower-decked maiden and slender rowan, ethereal as a dream. Through the trees starlit water glinted— with a start he recognized the lake and its island, though the tower had vanished. He could smell the heady summer scent of the grass that covered the solid earth beneath his feet. But it was winter outside! How could this be? D’arvan’s eyes widened. Maya was standing ro one side of the forest clearing, her mouth agape, her hand reaching automatically for her missing sword. And at her feet, the still form of Eilin lay.
“Who summons the Forest Lord?”. The voice was deep and sad as the autumn wildwood, as light and merry as a summer breeze amidst the treetops. Before the mighty oak a figure stood, obscuring the great tree with its immensity. He was baked in shimmering, changeful gray and green, and so vast was he that the silver glinting in his long dark hair was the light of stars. His brow was circled with a diadem of golden oak leaves, and above them towered the shadowy branches of the proud stag’s crown. Once more he spoke, his voice like winter’s bite, like the gladsome warmth of a new spring day. “Who dares summon the Lord of the Phaerie?”
D’arvan, awestruck, almost dropped to his shaking knees. He took a firm grip on Eilin’s staff and reminded himself that this—this being—was his father. He bowed deeply, at a loss for words. This was far beyond his wildest imaginings. What could he possibly say to one such as Hellorin?
“My Lord, allow me to present the Earth-Mage D’arvan— your son.” Maya’s gruff voice cut through the silence.
“What?” the Forest Lord thundered, transfixing her with his glare. Lightning flashed in his eyes, beneath darkly frowning brows. As he raised his hand, the very trees seemed to quail. D’arvan suddenly found that he could move. Leaning on the staff, he limped across to Maya, placing himself protectively in front of her. “It’s true!” he cried. “I called you by your true name of Father, and you answered. My mother was Adrina of the Magefolk, and in her name I summoned you, for we have dire need of your help. The Lady Eilin, my mother’s friend and Guardian of this Valley, is dying.” It all came out in a rush. Before D’arvan’s astonished eyes, the awesome figure vanished. “Where has he gone?” D’arvan looked wildly around. Then, from behind the oak stepped his father—shrunk now to normal, Mortal size, but not a whit diminished in might and majesty. Great muscles etched and shadowed his bare chest beneath the cloak. Strong legs, clad in dark leggings and tall boots, were planted wide apart on the forest floor. A ghostly image of the antlered crown still rose above his oak-circled brow. His stern, kingly features and hard mouth were gentled now, and the expression in his dark eyes was indecipherable. “My son?” The deep voice was soft, and filled with a thousand questions. ”
The Forest Lord strode forward, and strong hands clasped D’arvan’s shoulders. Dark, fathomless eyes searched his face, and D’arvan found his own eyes brimming with tears. “My son,” Hellorin murmured, the beginnings of a wondering smile lifting the corners of his sculpted mouth. “My own son, and 1 never knew I had you.”
“Father . . .” D’arvan whispered. Dropping the staff, he flung his arms round Hellorin’s broad shoulders, and there, in the starlit forest clearing, father and son embraced at last.
“D’arvan? Lord Hellorin?” Maya’s hesitant voice broke into their silent communion. The tears in her eyes were evidence that she was far from unmoved by their reunion—but ever practical, she gestured toward Eilin’s stricken body. “My apologies, Lords, but the Lady’s condition is desperate. We may already be too late.”
The Forest Lord lifted an eyebrow. “Who is this temeritous person?” he asked his son.
“This is Lieutenant Maya, a peerless warrior, a brave and true companion, and”—D’arvan’s voice rang out with proud defiance—“my own lady.”
The Forest Lord burst out laughing. Maya was scowling, and D’arvan gestured urgently for her to be silent, fearing the furious outburst that he knew was coming. “I fail to see what is so amusing,” he said icily.
Hellorin took a deep, gasping breath, wiping his eyes. “Ah, my son,” he chuckled. “How good it is to see you already carrying on the ancient traditions of our people!”
“What?” D’arvan was stunned.
“Do you pay no attention to the legends?” his father asked, his eyes dancing with mirth. “All those stories about the Phaerie luring Mortals away to be their brides—and bridegrooms for that matter, for the ladies of my people would make my life a misery, indeed, if I were to deny them their chance at the occasional lusty Mortal stud!”
He turned to Maya with a deep bow. “Lady Maya, I am honored to meet my son’s Chosen, and I apologize for my unseemly mirth. In my opinion, he has chosen very well, indeed.” His gaze traveled over her like a caress—so blatantly, potently lecherous that D’arvan found himself grinding his teeth.
Maya crimsoned, uncertain whe’ther’to be indignant or flattered. Then drawing herself up to her full height, she looked Hellorin coldly in the eye. “My thanks for your courtesy, Lord, but this is hardly the time. Might we, perhaps, consider the urgent business at hand?”