Rhiannon looked up at him, unable to find the words to explain. But Bryan was sensitive to the young witch’s dilemma; he had come to understand her quite well in their few days together, and he knew from the expression on her face that her release of power had nearly torn her apart.
“You did as you had to,” he said to her. “You cannot accept any blame for your actions.”
“Ye canno’ understand,” Rhiannon replied. “It takes me, steals me from meself.”
“But it passes,” Bryan reasoned.
“And leaves nothin’ but destruction in its wake.”
“Not true!” Bryan was quick to protest. “You saved my life! And many others, from what you have told me of your work on the field of Rivertown.”
“Suren it is two-faced,” Rhiannon admitted. “But the healin’ side and the seein’ side are at me bidding. This other, this anger ye’ve seen, comes of its own and goes when it’s through with me.”
“Accept it for what it is,” Bryan urged her. “How many lives did you save this night, dear Rhiannon? How many men would have died on the bridges fighting off the talons you dispatched?”
Somehow the answer seemed inadequate to the young witch. “I have scarred the earth,” she said. “I have killed-talon and beast.” The image of her black and white horse on the northern field, lying dead after it had split the earth with its enchanted run, assaulted her thoughts.
“You have done what you were forced to do,” Bryan said stubbornly. “Thanks are owed to the daughter of Brielle. Yet to herself she gives only blame.”
“Ye canno’ understand,” the young witch whispered again, and she dropped her face back into the security of the folds of Bryan’s shirt.
Bryan did not reply; for all of his pretty words, he suspected that Rhiannon was right in her estimation. He had seen the coldness in her eyes as she executed the spells of destruction upon the talon caravan, a simmering wrath so foreign to the young woman’s gentle character. Such emotions exacted a heavy toll, Bryan knew from his own grim experiences. He tried to remember the last time he had flashed a carefree smile, and he wondered if he would ever smile that way again.
“And it must be worse for you,” he whispered, though his voice was so soft that the witch, finding comfort in slumber, did not stir. While his strength came from his skills, he could see that the power that Rhiannon used insinuated itself into her being, possessed her and controlled her.
That image of the young witch, standing coldly beside him as her fires burned away the stain of the talons, stayed with Bryan for the remainder of the night. He wanted to tell her that she would never have to use that destructive power again, that her world would be one of creation and healing. He wanted to help her fight off the insinuating power and be true to her gentle spirit.
But the thought of the armies on the fields beside the Four Bridges washed away Bryan’s hopes. For all of his desire to shield Rhiannon, the awful reality told him the truth of his duties.
Rhiannon had a part to play in all of this, Bryan knew, a voice in the outcome of the war and the very future of Ynis Aielle. Her power was there whether she or he accepted it or not, and with the carnage of war so thick in the air, that power could not be denied.
“I will help you,” Bryan promised when Rhiannon awoke the next morning-the first sunless morning.
Rhiannon considered the gray shroud of Thalasi’s dark magic, now stretching from horizon to horizon, and knew she would need that help.
Chapter 24
Mortality
HAD HE LOOKED back to Kored-dul, to his black fortress of Talas-dun, Morgan Thalasi might have been concerned. In the weeks after he had found harmony of his twin spirits, before he set out with his talon army, he had reinforced the iron fortress to its previous state of power.
But now, with Thalasi out on the Calvan fields, pulling at the magical plane with all of his power-hungry desperation, some of those old cracks in Talas-dun had reappeared, and when the heavy sea breeze rolled in on the high cliff, the tallest of the black castle’s towers swayed ominously, no longer able to fully defy the force.
The Black Warlock was consumed in the business at hand, with his eyes looking to conquest in the east, not back to those lands he already claimed as his own. He took no note of the strain his dominating will, and the responses of his magic-using adversaries, placed upon that shared magical plane.
Brielle walked slowly through Avalon, taking advantage of the unexpected lull in Thalasi’s attacks to soothe her trees with comforting promises of a brighter time. But while the Emerald Witch held fast to the belief that Morgan Thalasi would once again be defeated and driven back to his black fortress, she honestly wondered whether Ynis Aielle would ever be as it had been.
Avalon, the shining light of all the world, had weakened in the weeks of Thalasi’s assaults, and more than the borderlands of the forest had been affected. Even in the heart of the wood, in the fields and groves that Brielle held most dear, the colors of the flora seemed less vibrant and the permeating fragrance of the wildflowers could not hold up against the burning stench of decay and devastation. For Thalasi’s assaults were more than physical manifestations of destructive power. The response demanded by the Black Warlock’s attacks heavily taxed the defending witch, to the core of her magic itself. Brielle had aged more in the past weeks than she had in a dozen centuries, and her growing weariness, she feared, was merely a reflection of the exhaustion of her magical energy.
And it was that same magical energy, drawn upon by the Emerald Witch, that bound the forest of Avalon in its perpetual enchantment of beauty.
“What will we be when the last sounds o’ battle echo o’er the fields?” she asked her forest. The cry of a loon sounded in the unseen distance, its mournful wail seeming a fitting eulogy to the ears of the witch. Brielle shared that lament fully. She reached out to lean on the trunk of a large tree, seeking solace in its enduring strength.
But the boughs of Avalon, wrapped in a silent sadness, could not grant her any measure of hope.
Istaahl also spent those hours of welcome calm surveying the damage and assessing how to effect some measure of repair to his home. The White Mage remained torn by his duties; he felt that he should be in contact with King Benador, his liege, preparing for the inevitable conflict that would erupt any day. But after a quick tour of the White Tower, Istaahl knew that he had no choice in his course of action.
Thalasi’s assaults had both weakened him greatly and had struck devastating blows to his enchanted home. Great cracks lined the structure, running from the very tip of the tower all the way down to its foundations. Istaahl understood that if he did not take prompt action to reinforce the place with spells of strength and warding, it would crumble to dust with the Black Warlock’s next attack.
And like his counterpart in Avalon, the White Mage of Pallendara was beginning to suspect that the scars of this war would be enduring.
“Alas for the wizards of Aielle,” he muttered to himself that gray day. “Our time is passing; the race of mortal men may soon be left to their own resources.”
All of the wizards had known from the beginning that this day would eventually come. But after centuries of serving as the guardians and advisers to the races of Aielle, the sudden apparent change had them perplexed indeed.
Brielle knelt over a pool of clear water. Its glassy surface showed only the dull pall of Thalasi’s gloomy sky, but the witch ignored the dismay the sight brought to her. Waving her hand and casting a simple enchantment, she hoped that Istaahl was not too engaged in yet another battle against the Black Warlock to answer her call.
At that same moment, Istaahl was entertaining similar thoughts of contacting Brielle, and he was near his crystal ball when the Emerald Witch called upon him. He accepted the magical contact eagerly, needing the comfort of a friendly face in this dark hour.