Now, at last, the Weather-Mage was making headway. Though her mastery of its powers was as yet uncertain, her own relentless will had overcome the Caldron’s capacity to protect itself with excessive force, and though she could feel, as it stood on the table before her, the pulsing waves of resentment and reluctance that emanated from its blackened depths, she knew, if the need were desperate enough, that she could bend it to her desires.
And now it seemed that the need was upon her. The Weather-Mage looked again into the depths of her scrying crystal, where she could distinguish the troop of shadowy shapes that rode across the moors toward the Vale. So Aurian was moving at last. No matter how deep the darkness, or distant the Vision, Eliseth would have recognized the shape of her nemesis anywhere. But why the Lady’s Valley, rather than Nexis itself? For months now, some impenetrable barrier of magic had shielded it from Eliseth’s perception. Frowning, she began to wonder. What could Aurian be seeking there? What did the renegade Mage know that she, herself, did not?
The Weather-Mage put down her crystal thoughtfully, then summoned the captain of her mercenaries to prepare his troops with all hast. Whatever Aurian was seeking in the Vale, she would find that Eliseth was there ahead of her.
26
Lightning Strike
Dawn was gilding the curled fronds of the new green bracken, and the skylarks were climbing in dizzy spirals to shower the earth with song. The early sun shone unchallenged in the east, its splendor defying the heaviness of the air—unusual for spring—and the dark, forbidding mass of storm clouds that were forming on the western horizon. As Aurian crested the final rising swell of moorland and looked down across the last mile toward the home of her childhood, Schiannath, who was carrying her in his horse-form, hesitated on the brow of the hill and came to an uncertain halt as he felt her body grow tense with doubt and dismay.
“Now what’s wrong?” Shia demanded. Her temper was shortened, as was Aurian’s own, by the long, grueling three-day run, traveling all night and only stopping briefly by day for food and rest in a cheerless, tireless camp. Khanu, who had also been running at the Mage’s side, looked up questioningly.
Aurian stared in disbelief at the dark, impenetrable tangle of trees that surrounded the Valley and filled the bottom of the great bowl of obsidian stone. “I just don’t believe this—I would hardly have known the place. Anvar—what can have happened here? It all looks so different?” The Mage turned to her soulmate, who had been riding at her side, borne by Esselnath, the Xandim warrior who had volunteered to carry him—in his horse-shape a magnificent chestnut stallion who glowed like fire in the golden early light, his coat as deep a burnished red as Aurian’s hair.
Anvar rubbed at eyes that felt hot and gritty from three long nights of riding with no sleep. “It was the Phaerie who brought the Wildwood in to guard your mother’s Vale—I remember telling you, ages ago, after Hellorin and Eilin rescued me from the Aerillian Moldan and sent me to find the Harp.” His face darkened in a frown. “You know, they told me that D’arvan and Maya had been left here as guardians—but I thought they only meant guardians of the Valley. Why the blazes didn’t they tell me that the Sword was here? Think of all the trouble it would have saved if we had known.”
“I suppose they couldn’t—I think the location of the Sword was something I had to discover for myself,” Aurian said thoughtfully. “Besides, we would still have been forced to pass through the lands of the Xandim.” She glanced cautiously around to make sure that Cygnus was out of earshot. “You remember how the Skyfolk behaved toward us. They weren’t capable of carrying us all the way across the sea in any case, but even had it been possible, they would never have consented to do it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Anvar said. “At least if D’arvan and Maya are the guardians, we should have no difficulty getting through the forest.”
“I hope not, but…” A shiver of unease ran up Aurian’s spine, and she clenched her hands in Schiannath’s crow-black mane until he shook his head in protest. “Anvar, what if D’arvan and Maya were put there to guard the Sword itself? I couldn’t bear to think I would have to fight my friends.”
Anvar looked grave—then his jaw tightened with determination. “Well, there’s only one way to find out…”
“Yes,” Shia added tartly, “and it isn’t standing out here in the open in broad daylight like a pack of fools. Come, Aurian, this is no time for hesitation…”
Her words tailed off as she was distracted by a rush of wingbeats overhead. Cygnus, who had been scouting ahead, came hurtling down from the skies. “Move!” the winged man shouted. “Run! An army approaches, led by a silver-haired woman! They are heading this way at a gallop round the southern side of the forest. If you do not hurry, they will cut you off!”
“Damn!” Aurian cried. “Eliseth! Come on!” With a bound, Schiannath was racing downhill at a breakneck pace, with Anvar and Esselnath but a pace behind. Together they thundered toward the shelter of the forest, their hair—fiery red and burnished gold—streaming behind them like bright banners in the early-morning sun. Behind them galloped their companions and the Xandim, while Cygnus circled like a vulture overhead. Already, coming into the open beyond the dark mass of trees, Aurian could see Eliseth’s army, speeding toward them from the west like a wave of darkness, with the storm following fast upon their heels.
D’arvan and Maya, as was their custom, were watching the sun rise over the lake, seeking comfort in one another’s company and the peace of the fresh new morning. They had taken to avoiding the rebel encampment lately, unable to bear the grief of Vannor’s friends at the news, brought by Bern, of their leader’s death at the hands of the Magefolk. D’arvan sighed, wishing his worries wouldn’t intrude themselves upon this magical moment of the day. It seemed that the heart had gone out of the rebels when they had heard that the merchant no longer lived. The Mage wanted to help them, but how could he? They could neither see him nor hear him—and even if they could, what words of his would be sufficient to allay their grief?
Suddenly the unicorn stiffened, her silver ears pricked forward, as D’arvan caught the sound of an agitated murmuring among the ranks of trees behind him. The word was being passed back through the forest of an armed and mounted troop who were circling the Wildwood from the west. A moment later came the word of another wave of invaders, riding down like the wind out of the east.
“From the east?” the Mage muttered to Maya, frowning in puzzlement. “But there’s nothing that way but fishing settlements. Where can they be coming from—and who in the name of all the gods can they be?” He felt a stab of anxiety. Eliseth and the Archmage had been quiet far too long—he had been half expecting something of this kind for some time. “This has surely got to be some kind of trick!” Leaving the unicorn to guard the bridge according to her task, he hastened away toward the eastern side of the vale.
Neck and neck, the two Horsefolk with the Mages that they carried came bounding to an abrupt halt, almost beneath the very eaves of the forest, with their companions racing up behind them. There was a moment’s hesitation. There was no obvious way into the Wildwood through the dense and tangled growth, and the sinister darkness of the forest was bristling with threat. Anvar looked at Aurian. “What do we do now?”
Aurian shrugged helplessly. “You were the one who met the Forest Lord—I was hoping that you might know.”
Already they could hear the thunder of hoofbeats growing ever louder as the enemy drew closer. Already they were near enough for the Mages to make out the flash of sunlight on naked steel, and to recognize the tall figure that rode at the head of the advancing foes, her silver hair streaming behind her in the wind.