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.