As the figure drew nearer, the swordsman recognized the slender silhouette of Eilin, her hair soaked into whipping, snakelike tendrils, her cloak blown back from her shoulders, her brown robe flattened by the wind against her bony frame and whitened by a dusting of snow. The glimmer that he’d mistaken for a lantern was the bluish-white glow of a pale, cool ball of Magelight that hovered over the head of her staff,
“Forral, she’s gone. Aurian is gone!” Eilin tugged at his arm, distraught. The swordsman stared at her. Somehow his brain wouldn’t focus on her words.
Eilin cursed and fumbled beneath her cloak, bringing out a small flask which she unstoppered and forced between his lips. The liquor seared a trail of fire down Forral’s throat, making him gasp for breath. He had no idea what the stuff was, but it was effective. Within minutes he felt his limbs beginning to tingle painfully as the feeling returned to them. His mind was clearing rapidly.
“What did you say? Where’s Aurian?”
“I told you! She’s gone! I locked her in and she broke the window. There’s blood everywhere and she’s out in the storm and—”
“This is your fault!” Forral slapped her out of her hysterics, feeling grim satisfaction at her gasp of pain. With an effort he checked the urge to throttle her. They had to find the child. “Come on,” he shouted, plunging ahead into the blizzard, leaving Eilin floundering behind. Common sense told him that he would never find Aurian in this blinding storm—that it was already too late—but he cast the thought savagely away from him. It hurt too much.
“Forral—wait!” Eilin cried, but the swordsman took no notice. Try as she might, she could not keep up with him. Another instant, and he had vanished without trace into the storm. The Mage cursed savagely. “Oh, you fool!” she muttered. “You hotheaded, idiot Mortal! Now both of you are lost.”
For a moment Eilin stood, oblivious to the freezing gale and paralyzed by guilt. Geraint would have been furious, to see how she had put both his daughter and his friend at risk. Forral was right to say it was all her fault. Had she only let him stay with Aurian in the tower, this tragedy would never have happened.
Then she gathered her wits. She had already alerted those of Aurian’s animal friends who could endure this storm to search for the child, but Forral could not understand them. If she were to save the swordsman, she would need to find him a surer guide. Such a guide could be summoned, she knew—but the risk was appalling!
Mortals had ceased long ago to believe in the Phaerie, Only the Magefblk knew the truth behind the tales of a fey and ancient race rhac wielded the powers of the Old Magic—for the ancient Magefolk, fearing their mischief and meddling, had exiled them outside the world, imprisoning them in a mysterious Elsewhere beyond the realms of Mortal ken. The Phaerie could not return into the world unless summoned by a Mage— and such a summoning always bore a price. But it was her only chance to save the swordsman and her child . . . Gripping her staff with shaking fingers, Eilin spoke the words that would summon the Lord of the Phaerie.
She never saw him appear. One minute, Eilin was peering blindly through the spinning snowflakes—the next, a patch of the whirling blizzard seemed to darken and congeal to form a towering shape, its outline shadowy and indistinct, save for the eerie glitter of eyes that caught and threw back the gleam of her Magelight with the intense and changeful brilliance of two winter stars.
“Who summons the Lord of the Phaerie?” The voice, deep and vibrant, cut like a blade of steel across the howling of the storm.
Eilin braced herself hard against her staff, to prevent herself from sinking to her quaking knees. “I . . .” The Earth-Mage swallowed hard to clear a throat gone suddenly closed and dry, and tried again. “I did,” she said faintly.
“Who are you, that you should presume to call upon the Forest Lord?” The voice was harsh with scorn, and Eilin was stung by anger at such arrogance.
“I am Eilin, Earth-Mage, Lady af the Lake and Mistress of this Vale,” she snapped. “As well you know, my Lord, for I have sensed you watching my labors often enough, I have need of your aid, and there is little time to lose. Our Mortal companion, Forral, is lost in the blizzard, seeking my daughter Aurian, and—”
“What!” cried the Forest Lord, his manner changing instantly. “Your daughter is in peril? This cannot be! The future of the Phaerie—and more—rests in the hands of that child! We have foreseen it. It will be a black day, indeed, if harm befalls her.” His form trembled. “I will summon my people to help you at once.”
I
Forral staggered blindly through the snowdrifts, fighting cold and exhaustion, feeling as though he were trapped in an endless nightmare. The effects of Eilin’s potion were wearing off, and his aching limbs were stiff with cold. Each time he slipped and fell, it seemed less likely that he would ever get up again. But lost as he was, spent as he was, he refused to give in. “What sort of feeble excuse for a warrior are you?” he goaded himself, to blot out the fear that coiled within his breast, far colder than the blizzard outside. “Aurian needs you! No, by the Gods—if this is the bloody end, you’ll die on your feet, still searching.”
For a while he had left the woods, but now he was back into them, staggering like a drunken man on strengthless legs. The going was easier here—the trees broke the force of the wind, and Forral could use their branches for support. And thank the Gods—that must be Eilin, ahead of him. He could see the glimmer of her light, dancing between the tree trunks. “Eilin!” he bawled, with all the force that his laboring lungs could muster. Curse the woman—why didn’t she hear him? “Eilin!” But she did not stop, and Forral, terrified of losing her, had no choice but to follow the eerie glow.
Suddenly, the trees came to an end—and there, flickering fitfully through a whirl of snow, were two lights, side by side. “Forral!” He heard the Mage’s voice. As the swordsman staggered toward her, he slipped and fell once more. When he picked himself up out of the snow, Eilin was bending over him —and the two lights had somehow become one.
After a sip from Eilin’s flask, Forral began to feel better. “Thank goodness for that,” he muttered. “I was seeing double there for a minute! Have you found her?”
“No—but I know she’s close by,” replied Eilin. “Can you go on?”
Forral nodded. “Aurian,” he cried desperately, trying to pitch his voice over the keening storm. But it was not the wind that he heard. Through the blizzard came the chilling howl of a wolf, eerie and triumphant. Forral stopped dead, transfixed with horror. “No!” he whispered.
Eilin tugged at his arm, her face alight with joy. “They’ve found her!” she shouted.
Forral flinched as huge gray shapes materialized in the blinding white storm. Gods, was she truly insane? Did she really hate the child that much? Sickened beyond measure, he raised his fist to strike her down.
“Forral, no!” Eilin screamed. “These are Aurian’s wolves— her friends. I called them to search for her.”
Stunned, Forral slowly lowered his arm. The wolf howled again.
“Hurry,” Eilin said, as she rushed to where the wolves were gathered.
Forral, keeping a wary eye on the gray forms that surrounded him, lifted a limp little body out of the snow, feeling for a pulse with chill fingers. “She’s alive!” He could have wept with relief, but that was for later. “We’ve got to hurry. Can you find your way back?”