Niffa caught her breath in an audible gasp.
“Truly,” Dera said, nodding her way. “It be a terrible, terrible omen. All this food? It were few of the guests who stayed for the feasting, so Verrarc, he did pile our arms high with it.”
“Huh,” Lael said. “Bad omens twice over. Nah, thrice, I’d say, and three times thrice at that.”
As winter turned toward spring, Evandar began to visit Cengarn and Dallandra more often. In back of the kitchen hut he’d spotted the herb garden, dead under the last of the snow, lying at some distance from any iron. Toward dawn on one frosty morning he sent her a dream, and once the sun rose, they met there, well out of sight of the main broch.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Dallandra said.
“Indeed?” Evandar said. “What’s so wrong?”
“I’m worried about Elessario. I’ve just spent a long night trying to get her to go to sleep so Carra could get some rest.”
“Is she ill?”
“No, but she will be if the baby keeps running her ragged.”
“I meant Elessi.”
“Ah. No, not at all.” Dallandra hesitated for a moment, thinking. “But she’s not—she’s not quite right. I don’t know how to explain it, but while she looks like a normal infant, she’s not. Her mind works very differently.”
“Like little Zandro?”
“Who?”
“My apologies. I forgot you wouldn’t know. Salamander’s youngest child. He’s one of Alshandra’s people, but born, I mean, into a human body now. His mother’s in despair over him.”
“What? How could he—”
“I’ve been thinking about that very thing. When we were scheming to get our magical child born, didn’t Alshandra the Hag try to stop us? She set her spies to watching and following Elessi everywhere she went. And then, when you were teaching the child what it might mean to be born into this world, didn’t you take her to Bardek? The spies obviously followed you.”
“So they must have. I suppose it’s possible, that one of them got fascinated with the place and its people, but—”
“Not fascinated with Bardek, my love. Fascinated with Salamander. Spirits swarm around him all the time. It’s like his soul is a lantern burning out on the astral, and they’re the moths.”
“Oh.” Dallandra considered this with a small frown. “Well, that would explain it, all right. Now, what about the rest of Alshandra’s pack? Have you taken them into yours yet?”
“I have not, and I shan’t, either, the ugly little spawn! It’s bad enough that I’ve saddled myself with Shaetano’s creatures.”
“But if you leave them running loose in the world, they’ll be working mischief.”
“I don’t care. Let them fade away into naught!”
“You can’t just—”
Evandar kissed her to silence her, then turned away with a laugh.
“We’ll speak of these things later, my love. I’d best see to Salamander’s troubles.”
“Come back here! We need to talk about this.”
Evandar walked over to the wall round the garden. In a shimmer of early light he could just see a link between the worlds.
“Evandar!” Dalla sounded furious. “You can’t leave those creatures to their own devices!”
With a smile in her direction, he sprang to the top of the wall and stepped through the link. Sure enough, one of the mother roads lay waiting. He walked onto it and followed a long shaft of sunlight south.
Although Evandar set out for Bardek, in a few moments he looked around him, saw pine-forested hills, and realized that he was heading north. He turned around and started to walk south again only to find himself circling back round, as if the road were moving under his feet. In the wind he heard a voice, whispering “danger, grave danger” over and over again.
“Should I go to Cerr Cawnen instead?” he asked aloud.
The wind hissed out a yes.
“Oh very well then!”
The road seemed to fly of its own accord, speeding him along. He stepped down onto the peak of Citadel, then picked his way through the boulders and down into the tunnel. If there were danger in this city, he was willing to wager that Raena was bringing it, but the ruined underground temple stood empty. Evandar hurried back out. He spread his arms wide, then took off running with a sudden leap into the air. He felt his wings grow as the wind caught them, and his body shrink and change.
With a chirp a sparrow flew over Citadel, banking into the cold wind. In this form he could search for Raena unnoticed. For some long while he hovered over the town and the lake, flying this way and that, perching on win-dowsills to peer in or listen. Finally he remembered Councilman Verrarc’s fine house near the crest of the hill. When he settled on the outer wall of the compound, he found the councilman outside, bundled in a cloak and arguing with an old woman who stood in the doorway.
“I be sick to my heart with worry,” Verrarc was saying. “Not one soul in the town has seen her. I’ve asked everywhere.”
“Huh, and where would she be going, anyway?” the old woman said. “I’ve not seen her since last night.”
“Ye gods. Ah ye gods!”
Where, indeed? Evandar thought to himself. Either to my lands or to Deverry, that’s where, and the one leads to the other!
With a flap of wings the sparrow leapt from the wall, but as he flew, circling higher, he transformed himself into the red hawk. On long wings he flew fast, heading to his country and the magical roads.
“Those wards of yours must be powerful things,” Rhodry said. “I’ve not dreamt of Raena in a long time now.”
“Good,” Dallandra said. “I set them fresh every night.” She paused, glancing around the great hall. “Which reminds me. How long do you plan on being away from the dun?”
“Just the short day. The prince is no fool, and we shan’t ride far.” Rhodry followed her glance: sure enough, Daralanteriel was waving at him from the main door. “I’d best be gone.”
Out in the main ward the prince had assembled his hunting party. The men of his personal guard carried short curved bows and their shorter hunting arrows. Behind them stood a kennelman, surrounded by his pack of black and tan hounds, and a couple of servants with a pack mule to carry home their kill, though in truth they had little hope of finding game. During last summer’s siege the Horsekin invaders had overhunted the countryside.
“I’ve told the men that they’re not to bring down any does or yearlings,” Dar said. “We need to let the herds build up again. I’m hoping we can find a buck or two. The does should all be carrying fawns by now, and one male won’t be missed.”
“It’ll be more meat than none,” Rhodry said. “And it’ll get us out of Cengarn for an afternoon’s ride.”
Dar flashed him one of his brilliant smiles.
“I hope I never have to come back to the stone tents again,” Dar said. “The way they stink! But it’ll be spring soon, and we’ll be gone, and in the meantime, let’s ride!”
Despite the snow on the ground and the damp wind, the horses pranced and snorted, glad to be free of their stalls. The hounds raced this way and that, barking and sniffing the wind, tails wagging hard. As they left the dun, the men sang in elaborate elven harmonies, and on the streets of the town, the folk came to door and window to listen as they rode past. At the town gates they let the horses trot for a mile or so, then slowed them to a walk lest they sweat in the icy air. For some long while they rode north, leaving the settled farmlands behind, but the dogs raised nothing more than rabbits.
The sun had climbed to zenith when at long last the dogs flushed a deer, a button buck and thus no loss to its herd. With the dogs yapping behind, it came crashing through the sparse winter underbrush to fall dead from a few well-placed arrows. On the spot the servants butchered it, throwing the liver and other entrails to the half-starved pack.
“It’s a good fat one,” Rhodry said. “I’m surprised.”
“Don’t be,” the kennelman said.
“The fewer the deer, the more winter fodder to go round, like.”
“Well, true spoken.”
“Save a bit of that liver, will you?” Dar put in. “For my lady’s dog.”
They left the servants with the kill and rode out again. Since the gwerbret’s farmers cut this stretch of forest for fuel and timber, the trees thinned out to scrubby grassland. Snow lay thick in the hollows, but on the side of a hill the wind had scoured it away to expose dead grass and twiggy shrubs, a veritable banquet for deer. The kennelman called in the dogs and trotted with them on foot as they put noses to the ground and headed up the hill.
Rhodry saw the stag first, standing between two trees and watching. With a yap and a bay the dogs sighted it next and raced uphill. The stag leapt and ran, bounding across the hillside, heading up to the crest and forest cover. Rhodry yelled at the others to follow and kicked his horse forward. The stag was a fat one and pure white, an omen of good fortune as well as food. He was thinking of nothing but turning it back to the waiting archers when Dar’s voice reached him on the wind.
“Come back! Don’t! Dweomer, Rhodry! Come back!”
Instinctively he slowed his horse and looked ahead. Tangled in the trees at the crest of the hill hung a pale lavender mist, shot through with opalescence. Like a gigantic wave from some unseen ocean it rose up, towering above him. With a yelp he jerked his horse’s head around so fast the poor beast stumbled. Rhodry kicked his feet out of the stirrups and threw himself clear as his horse went down, rolling. He scrambled up to see the horse, unhurt, doing the same. Around them the sunlight darkened. When he looked up, he saw the mist breaking like a wave and plunging down. He took one step back; then it hit, pouring over him with a blinding glitter of multicolored light.
By yelling curses and orders at the top of his lungs, Prince Daralanteriel managed to get all of his men, all of the dogs, and the kennelman down from the hillside and back to safety on the flat. Rhodry’s gelding, reins trailing from the bridle, trotted down to join them. The kennelman caught the reins and tossed them up to Dar.
“It looks calm enough,” Dar said. “It must not have been able to see—well, whatever that was.”
The archers nodded grimly. At the top of the hill the dweomer mist had vanished, except for a few scant shreds caught like tufts of wool on the trees, but for all he knew the wretched fog would reappear and devour them all.
“Your Highness!” The kennelman was shaking so hard that he could barely speak. “What—by the gods—where’s the silver dagger?”
The elven archers were staring at him with the same question in their eyes. Dar merely shrugged and turned in the saddle to watch the torn mists. Melimaladar urged his horse up beside the prince’s.
“That stag!” Mel said, in Deverrian for the ken-nelman’s sake.
“It wasn’t real,” Dar said. “I’ve seen it before, last summer it was, just before the siege. I took some of my men out hunting, and the cursed stag led us too far away to get back that night.” Dar’s voice tightened at the memory. “And then the Meradan caught us by our campfire.”
“That’s where Farendar died?”
“It is, and too many other good men.” Dar rose in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with one hand. “It’s dissolving, that’s the last of it. Ah horseshit! We could ride around here all day and not find a trace or track of Rhodry!”
“But we can’t just leave him here!” Mel said.
“He isn’t here for us to leave.”
Mel started to speak, then merely shuddered. As if to agree, one of the dogs whined.
“Well, what can we do?” Mel said at last. “We can’t stay here all night. We’ll freeze.”
“I know that,” Dar snapped. “I—well, ah by the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell! I don’t have one cursed idea of what we do next.”
“Ye gods, I wish Dalla was here! She’d know.”
“Wait! Maybe I can reach her.”
“But it’ll take us a long time to ride back.”
“I didn’t mean by riding.” Dar shot him a dark glance. “Hear me out!”
“I will. My apologies.”
“Very well, then.” Dar paused, thinking. “You know my bloodlines as well as I do. But the princes of the Vale of Roses were supposed to have dweomer of their own, weren’t they? A kind of inborn thing that they passed on to their heirs. Well, I’ve got a touch of it. It was the same night I was just speaking of, when the Meradan laid a trap for us. Jill came to me in a sort of vision or sending or somewhat like that. I don’t understand it, but I heard her and saw her, and she warned us about the trap. So hold your tongues, all of you. I’ve got some hard thinking to do.”
Dar glanced at the sky. Already the sun was hanging low in the cloudy west, sending streaks of gold across the sky like spears aimed at their hearts. He would try to contact Dallandra, but then he would have to lead his men home to the warmth and safety of the dun, no matter how much it ached his heart to abandon Rhodry.
Dallandra was sitting in her tower room with one of Jill’s books open on the table in front of her. Her mind kept drifting from the particular passage she was reading, which in the event proved a fortunate thing. Out of a daydream she heard Daralanteriel’s voice, so clear and close that she turned round in her chair, expecting to see him standing in the doorway.
“Dalla! We need help. Dalla, I hope you hear me!”
All at once a flock of Wildfolk swept into manifestation. Sprites hovered round her in the air, holding out translucent little hands. Warty grey gnomes mobbed her, grabbing her tunic’s hem, pulling on her sleeves.
“What is this?” Dallandra said. “Is the prince in danger?”
They shook their heads, but apparently someone was facing a threat. Some of the gnomes pantomimed the act of loosing arrows; others pretended to attack an invisible foe.
“Who is it?” Dallandra leapt to her feet. “Rhodry?”
This time they nodded yes.
“Do you know where he is? Can you take me to him?”
They nodded and caught her hands. As she hurried to the window, she was thinking of Evandar, picturing him in her mind and calling out to him with her thoughts. No answer—she could only pray that he’d heard her. She pulled off her clothes, tossed them on the bed, then yanked the leather covering from the window in a cloud of dust and mildew. Icy wind slapped her and pushed past into the chamber. She ignored it and perched naked and shivering on the broad stone windowsill.
In her mind she summoned her bird form, a thought picture only, but she’d trained her mind through long years of this working to make thoughts that had a reality of their own. In an instant she first imagined, then saw the construct perched beside her on the windowsill. It was strangely featureless, a smooth grey creature with a songbird’s beak and the general shape of a linnet. When she transferred her consciousness over, first she heard the usual rushy click; then she was aware of warmth. The linnet’s feathers kept off the cold a fair bit better than her elven skin could. She shook her wings and with a hop leapt into the air. The linnet could fly fast when she needed to. Dallandra winged her way north with the sprites to guide her.
When the dweomer mist cleared away, Rhodry found himself standing on a dusty plain under a copper-colored sky. Overhead dark clouds churned and roiled; off at the horizon smoke billowed in front of an enormous sun, turned blood-red and swollen. He’d seen the place once before, during the last summer’s war, when Evandar’s magic had brought him here.
“Evandar!” Rhodry yelled it as loudly as he could “Evandar! Are you here?”
Nothing but silence answered him. He realized that he was holding his silver dagger, though he couldn’t remember drawing it. Something about it struck him as odd, but when he examined the blade, it looked perfectly normal, except perhaps for the oily way the metal reflected the unnatural light. Finally, he realized that the heft felt wrong, perhaps twice as heavy as it should have been. With a shrug, he sheathed it and drew the bronze knife instead. The triangul
ar wedge of the blade, bound into a cleft stick with thongs, caught the light and gleamed as bright as a candle flame. He waved it in the air and saw long red sparks fly from the point.
“Huh, you look a cursed sight more dangerous here than in my world. It’s a pity you’re not a spear. I’ve got an ugly feeling I’m going to need a dweomer weapon soon enough.”
In his hand the bronze knife suddenly twisted like a living thing. The wood stick turned slippery, or so it seemed, and sped through his fingers. With a yelp he nearly dropped it, caught it again in both hands, and by then he needed both hands. The knife had transformed itself into a spear about six feet long, made of solid wood. When he hefted his new weapon, the bronze point still flashed with red fire.
“Well, then,” Rhodry said aloud. “If I wish for a war-band, will I get that too?”
He heard nothing but the wind, scouring dust over the coppery plain, and the spear stayed a single spear. Apparently he’d used all its dweomer. Clutching the spear, he turned around in a slow circle. Off in the direction of the perpetually setting sun, he saw a plume of what looked like dust. At first he thought it might merely be more smoke, but the plume grew taller, thicker—and faster, travelling straight for him. Slowly it resolved itself into a pair of riders, one on a black horse, the other on a blood bay. He had nowhere to hide and no speed to outrun them. He took the spear two-handed and held it ready across his body. The riders came closer, slowing to an easy walk, as if to tempt him to run.
“Ah ye gods!” Rhodry snarled. “I might have known.”
Raena rode up on a glossy blood bay gelding. She was wearing unusual men’s clothing, a shirt and tight brigga of rusty black cloth. Around her neck hung a leather thong bristling with talismans, which Rhodry recognized as Horsekin work. In her right hand she held a long black whip with a gold handle, much like the ones Horsekin officers carried as a mark of rank. Beside her on a black horse rode a creature that seemed more fox than man, though he was wearing black armor and held a black plumed helm tucked in his left arm. His pointed ears pricked like a fox’s, and his shiny black nose presided over a face covered with russet fur.