When her unwelcome guests were ready to take their leave, however, Eilin discovered that Vannor and Parric were still so deep in their discussion that they scarcely even took the time to say goodbye to her. So full of anticipation and a certain amount of apprehension were they, at the thought of returning home, that everyone seemed to have forgotten her already. The Mage, who was standing near the end of the bridge ready to say her farewells, found it difficult to dismiss a pang of hurt at such a slight. Typical Mortals, she thought as she watched the knot of ragged figures diminish into the distance.—Selfish, thoughtless, and ungrateful! She had given them sanctuary and saved them from the Phaerie—and they lacked even the consideration to thank her or even say a proper farewell. Well, good riddance to them all. Thanks be to the Gods that they were gone at last, and she had her Valley to herself again.—She had no idea that she was wrong. Enjoying the tranquility, Eilin made her way along the shores of the lake, completely unaware of the eyes that observed her from the nearby forest fringe.
How could he break the news to Eilin that he would be staying? Up to this point, Yazour’s plan had been simple enough—just make himself scarce and find a comfortable hiding place until the others had gone. Vannor had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to make a hasty departure, in the hope that the Lady wouldn’t notice that one person was missing from the group. Once they were safely gone, Yazour had only to wait for a while (Dulsina’s plan, this), to give the solitude time to take its toll on the Mage....
Which was all very well, of course, but Yazour was still extremely doubtful of his welcome, and now that the time had come, he was finding it very easy to put off that initial moment of confrontation. It was important to both of them that Eilin accept him—he felt very strongly that he owed it to Aurian to take care of her mother in her absence. Perhaps he should wait a little longer, just to be on the safe side....
As the sun reached its zenith he ate the food Dulsina had left for him—cold venison and hard biscuits of flour and water that she had baked on hot stones at the edge of the fire. Afterward, Yazour decided to explore his surroundings a little. He could come back later—there was no hurry, after all. He already knew that the Lady Eilin was very perceptive—it wouldn’t do to linger too close and have her discover him before he was ready. Keeping low to the ground, he slipped stealthily away from his hiding place in the bushes and headed for the depths of the woods, taking great care not to betray his presence by any telltale movement of branches or snapping of twigs.
Time passed quickly for the warrior. He enjoyed exploring this northern forest—it was unlike any place he had ever known. Woodlands were completely unknown in the dry, desiccated climate of his own land, and both the great forest on the desert’s edge and the high, sweeping pinewoods of the Xandim mountains had lacked the lush verdancy of the broad-leaf trees that graced these rainy, temperate lands. Everything was so very different here: he savored the aromatic scents of the grass and the tiny plants that he crushed underfoot with each step; he reveled in the endless, restless sway of twig and bough and the swirling dance of light and dappled shade as the sun flashed against the pale surfaces of the leaves. Best of all, though, Yazour loved the sounds: the incessant susurration of the wind in the trees mingled with a torrent of bird-song that drenched him in a downpour of glorious bright notes.—After the terror of yesterday’s fire, the birds and animals who had fled for protection to the lakeside were beginning to creep back to their former territories. Yazour the hunter could observe them with ease—he knew how to move soundlessly and melt his silhouette into the background, and the wild creatures, protected as they had always been in Eilin’s Vale, were still in too much of a state of turmoil and confusion to take much note of one unaggressive human. An uneasy truce seemed to exist between predators and prey—for the present. There was food in abundance for the carnivores closer to the area of the fire’s destruction, for here lay carcasses aplenty, killed by smoke and untouched by flame. The survivors of yesterday’s inferno were currently preoccupied with seeking lost mates and offspring, or attempting to establish new territories or defend their former ranges against homeless interlopers from the Valley’s immolated, uninhabitable outer reaches. There were tracks everywhere, crossing and re-crossing one another, and the young warrior followed them with interest, finding an endless fascination in the various struggles for supremacy.
Suddenly Yazour stopped, a startled exclamation on his lips, and bent low to touch the ground. There, cut into the moss, was a line of tracks—the sharp indentations left by a horse’s unshod hooves, galloping at breakneck speed.—Iscalda! He had forgotten all about her in the fear of the Forest Lord’s attack, and his relief at Hellorin’s dismissal. Had she managed to escape the Phaerie completely? Could she still be free?
There was one way to find out. Yazour was an accomplished tracker, and in her heedless flight, the mare had left ample evidence of her passing in the form of scattered leaf mold, churned soil, and broken twigs and branches. The tracks circled in a wide arc through the broad band of woodland, gradually heading back toward the center of the Vale. With his heart in his mouth, Yazour pieced together what had happened on the churned-up stream bank, and frowned with concern as the pattern of hoofprints changed to an awkward, three-legged gait.
Eventually, drawn by the frenetic buzzing of flies, he found Iscalda in a shadowy clearing that was overhung by the branches of the surrounding trees.—She was a heartbreaking sight. Afraid to startle her, he remained hidden downwind of her while he tried to work out the best way to approach a creature that was clearly at the, very limit of her endurance.
The mare was in a sorry state. Her head drooped and her body sagged with weariness. One foreleg was swollen and held up at an awkward angle so that the hoof barely touched the ground. Iscalda’s long, silken mane and tail hung in tangled strings all snarled with twigs and leaves. Her once-white coat, caked with sweat and clinging patches of brown mud, was stained with smears of green where she had crashed into trees during what must have been a headlong flight.—Her legs were cut and scraped and her hide was striped with streaks of blood where thorns had gouged their deep and stinging tracks. A ragged wound, presumably from the sharp end of a branch, was torn across her face, narrowly missing one eye.
Then Iscalda lifted her head and saw him, and let out a loud, joyous whinny.—Yazour smiled with pure relief. She had retained enough of her human wits to recognize him. Only when he stepped forward did he notice the wolf cub that lay on the ground within the mare’s protective shadow. What in the name of the Reaper was Iscalda doing with a wolf, of all things? Yazour bent down to examine the little creature, that by now was too enfeebled by hunger to even lift its head. It took longer than it had taken Iscalda for him to realize the cub’s identity, since he refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes, but its markings were too distinct for there to be any mistake. Yazour was horrified. Wolf must already be dreadfully weak—and here he was, tarrying like a moonstruck idiot when he should be getting Aurian’s son to safety. If she ever found out, she would have his hide!
Yazour scooped up the cub and buttoned it inside his tunic for warmth. Not without a pang of guilt at increasing her pain, he grabbed a handful of Iscalda’s mane to hurry her along as best he could. “I’m sorry,” he told the mare, “but we must get Wolf back to Eilin as soon as possible.”
The Mage wandered down to the side of the lake and sat down on a large rock that overlooked the water. The lake was deep blue and tranquil, spangled with quicksilver flashes where ripples caught the sunlight. What few sounds could be heard were all very much a part of the scene: a whispering breeze in the reed beds, the piping of birds in the nearby grove, and the gentle, rhythmic sigh of wavelets lapping against the rounded stones that edged the shoreline.—Eilin sat there for a long time, soaking up the blessed solitude and letting the peace and beauty of the scene soothe her abraded feelings—her irritation at the unmannerly Mortals, her smoldering anger against the Phaerie and especially their Lord, and her deep, abiding anguish over the uncertain fate of her only daughter. Eventually, however, she realized that it wasn’t working. With no other human company to distract her, she found her mind returning again and again to the very subjects that she wished to escape.—Sighing, she looked out across the lake toward the ruins of her tower. She ought not to be sitting here brooding in any case. She should be out there working on her island, building temporary shelters for herself and for her livestock, which must be rounded up and brought from the rebel camp. She ought to be making a start at clearing the debris from the tower site, thinking about the beginnings of a new garden and generally making a start at putting together a new life from the wreckage of the old. After all these years, she had it all to do again. The Mage put her face into her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. She had not even started yet, but already, the sheer immensity of the task ahead seemed too much for her.