They made their way down the mountain, to a low and sheltered vale, and encountered no more talons that day, nor trouble of any kind. True to Rhiannon’s prediction, a snow did begin to fall, but it was gentle down in the valley, not wind-whipped and stinging, as up on the higher plateaus. Often Bryan tried to broach again the subject of the talons, of his and Rhiannon’s respective roles in their alliance. By Bryan’s estimation, Rhiannon had done more good than any could have imagined, and she should rest now, let her powers be in case they would be needed again in more desperate times. “Whenever your animal friends speak of enemies in the region, pass the word to me,” Bryan said with all confidence, “then take your rest and await my return.”
Rhiannon was too weary to argue with the eager warrior. She understood that Bryan’s words were as much boast-and a boast aimed at her, and how that set her back on her heels!-as reason. The young warrior wanted to puff himself up-as Rhiannon’s mother used to describe it-in Rhiannon’s eyes. Given the honesty of their relationship, where they saw each other so clearly and truly, she could hardly understand any need he might have to boast.
Still, given the efficient manner in which Bryan had disposed of the last talon band, and the fact that he had long survived without her help, without anyone’s help, striking at talon encampment after talon encampment, freeing refugees and ushering them to safety across the river, Rhiannon had to admit that there was more than a little basis for his bravado. So the young witch-who had been sheltered in her mother’s forest for so much of her life, but was at last beginning to sort out the wide ways of the wide world-took Bryan’s boasting, his need to protect her and to impress her, as a compliment, and lay down by their fire that night thinking that she might find her first truly restful sleep in a long while.
Since before this power had awakened within her.
It was Bryan, supposedly keeping watch, but surely exhausted from the long hike and his escapades of the night before, who first began to snore. Rhiannon lay awake, smiling outwardly at the sound, but her inner turmoil roiled. She had not been properly schooled in the ways and the sources of magic, but she, too, like the other wizards of Aielle, knew that something was terribly amiss. At first she had thought the sudden magical weakness to be her own, but now she was coming to understand that it was the source of power that had been weakened, that those energies to which she might reach out were no longer pure and strong.
That notion brought other disturbing questions to mind. Her home, beloved Avalon, was a creation of magic, and was sustained by magic. If the source had been weakened, had the colors of Avalon, so pure and so rich, begun to fade? “Me mum,” the young witch whispered affectionately into the wind, and indeed, at that moment, Rhiannon would have given anything to be wrapped in Brielle’s warm embrace. She glanced over at Bryan, her would-be hero, leaning against a rock wall, his eyes closed, his snores as loud as ever, and she thought that she should take him there, to Avalon, to meet Brielle. This young man, barely more than a boy, had known only grief and war for so long, for months on end. Perhaps she might show him the quieter and more beautiful side of life, for if Avalon could not heal the emotional scars of war, then no place in all the world ever could.
She would take him there, she decided, and remind him of the goodness of life, to remind him of the beautiful things, to remind him of his own inner beauty.
Rhiannon paused in her musing and just stared at Bryan, and did not doubt that inner beauty for an instant.
She let those thoughts go at that, thoughts she had not held for any man save Andovar. Not yet, she silently told herself, and she lay back down, remembering her fine ranger, his easy yet emotional way with stories, his fine silhouette as he sat tall upon his horse, the graceful way the muscles of his legs held his seat as the animal galloped across the fields, leaping fallen trees with ease.
A darkness engulfed her, fell over her mental vision through the curtain of night; at first she thought it to be the emotions of the loss, the death of Andovar replayed in her imagination. But then Rhiannon recognized it as something tangible, not remembered or imagined, as some true darkness, and not so far away. The witch was up quickly, pacing about the encampment, wondering if she should try divining with a reflecting pool, or if she might simply concentrate and sense the presence more clearly. She reflected on it long and hard, and came to believe that whatever it was-and she feared it might be Morgan Thalasi-it was moving east to west, some distance north of her present position, out of the Baerendils and across the Calvan plain.
Indeed it was a darkness, a perversion, a hideous insult to Nature. That recognition angered the young witch, for indeed she was more like her mother than she could ever know, and her instincts to protect the natural world had her gathering together her things before she even realized the action. If she had sensed the darkness, then it would likewise recognize her, she suspected. Better that she go out and meet it on the open fields; better to be the huntress than the hunted.
But what of her companion? she wondered, glancing over at the sleeping young warrior. Should she wake Bryan and tell him her designs? Should she allow him to accompany her, as surely he would demand?
“No,” the witch whispered. Not this time. This was not a battle of swords, if a battle it would be at all. This was a matter for magic, and in that, Bryan of Corning could play no role. This perversion was an evil that the young half-elf simply could not know. Still, Rhiannon hated to leave him behind, and so she resolved to go out with all speed, better scrutinize the source of darkness, and then return to Bryan’s side, hopefully before the end of the next day.
She left Bryan with a gentle kiss on the cheek and floated out easily across the broken ground of the mountain trail, her black gossamer gown, the dress of her heritage, trailing behind her, shrouding her form in mystery.
Chapter 5
His Place and Hers
THE MORNING DAWNED soft and gentle, a growing hint of spring in the air, though the snow lay thick about Avalon. The warmer air brought up a wispy fog from that snow, veiling the dark trees, dulling the cold starkness from their leafless branches, and giving all the forest a surreal and dreamy quality.
Belexus stood perfectly still for a long, long while, collecting his thoughts one at a time, translating them into some tangible image-a block of stone-and then dismissing each of them into emptiness, throwing them away, falling deep into a meditative trance. Then slowly he began to reach for the morning sky, like the great oak, higher and higher, spreading wide the great limbs of his arms, stiffening them, grasping a firm hold on nothingness, the cords of his bulging muscles stretching taut. Then gradually he softened, became fluid, like the willow, that most deceptive of trees, the tree that successfully battled the greatest of winds through apparent submission. Side to side he went, always to his limits, always reaching. The ranger had seen fifty winters, but with the graceful stretching routines Brielle had shown to his father Bellerian, and that Bellerian had in turn taught to Belexus and to all the rangers of Avalon, his body remained supple and flexible, more the frame of a twenty-year-old.
It went on for many minutes, and then Belexus pressed his palms together and pushed with all his strength, working muscle against muscle, his forearms and biceps balling from the exertion. He came out of the isometric press with a violent leap, catching the lowest branch of a nearby tree and quickly inverting himself, wrapping his legs about the limb and hooking his ankles. Then he let go with his hands, hanging flat out, stretching toward the ground, again lengthening his back. Slowly he lowered himself, leg muscles tight so that his feet held strong as he gradually loosened his wrap on the branch. Then he let go with his legs altogether, dropping, outstretched arms first, to the ground, where he caught himself, holding the perfectly steady handstand for a calm and slow ten-count.