Hellorin ground his teeth as he glowered across at the island, and its scenes of bustling domesticity. What had the wretched woman been up to in his absence? Who was that accursed Mortal? He had expected to find Eilin alone, grieving, desolate—and vulnerable. He had intended to bargain with her—to offer his help with the rebuilding of her tower if she would welcome the Phaerie back into the Vale. Now, when he saw the Mage so busy, so purposeful and no longer alone, his heart misgave him.
The Phaerie Lord continued to watch until the long blue shadows that pursued the sunset had stretched out their arms to embrace the Vale. For the first time, he asked himself why he kept on hounding this woman—and to his utter astonishment, he discovered that he missed her demanding company and acerbic tongue more than he would ever have thought possible. How she reminded him of Adrina, D’arvan’s mother, also a Mage and until this time, his only love.—Also, for the first time in an incredibly long existence, Hellorin had discovered that he could not always have his own way—that here was an indomitable personality who, if it suited her, would continue to defy and thwart him until her last, dying breath. And while he was aware that he could force his will upon her by claiming the debt she owed him, he didn’t want to incur her outright enmity. He had enjoyed their sparring, their regular battles of will, far too much for that. Besides, though conscience and contrition had previously been unknown to him, he realized that yesterday, his behavior had appalled and disgusted the Mage, and he had no wish to put himself further into the wrong with her.
For the first time, Hellorin admitted a hard and painful truth—that despite all the power of his rule, he could not escape the consequences of his own actions. If he had not ignored Eilin’s desperate pleas the previous day, she would not be shunning him now—and he might still have his son. The recovery of the Xandim was too high a price to pay for what he had lost—yet now, the horses were all he had to show for his return to the mundane world, and he would continue to cling fiercely to his possession of them.
Well, so be it. Hellorin straightened his spine. It would be a bitter dose to swallow, but it seemed that he must face up to his own mistakes—and then see what he could do about recovering lost ground. Forcing himself on the Mage would bring him nothing but trouble. Sooner or later, Eilin would need his help—and until then he must be patient. In the meantime—who needed her precious Vale? Instead he would build a city—a marvelous and magnificent home for the Phaerie.
It was an idea that had been born the previous night on the bleak, inhospitable moors, and had been growing at the back of his mind ever since. Hellorin felt his heart stir within him in excitement as he began to formulate his plans. Why, he had not enjoyed such a challenge in aeons! He remembered a place, far to the north of the Vale in the high, windblown mountains where humans rarely ventured. There was a deep, broad cleft between the arms of one such mountain, with steep, pine-clad slopes on either side that cradled a grey and misty lake—Flying Horse Tarn, it had been called in the old days, for it was virtually inaccessible to any but the Phaerie and their magical steeds. At the mouth of the valley a high green hill arose from the feet of the tarn—Flying Horse Tor. That would be the perfect place for his city.—Hellorin’s lips stretched wide in a smile. Even with magical help, it would take a great deal of labor to construct such a place from nothing. He would need many Mortal slaves to build on so grand a scale. What entertainment his Phaerie would have, raiding Nexis and the lesser human habitations for slaves so that they could build a city of their own. It would be just like the old days!
The uneasy thought crossed his mind that Eilin wasn’t going to like this in the least; then he shrugged. Hellorin reminded himself that he was Lord of the Phaerie. He had no intention of letting a Magewoman’s whims rule his life—and besides, it would teach her a valuable lesson. If she had not crossed him in the first place, he would simply have settled his people in the Vale, and never even thought of building a city. Hellorin turned away and prepared to take his leave of the Valley. So be it. Let Eilin think she had won for now.—Hard though it was, he would even sacrifice the white mare to keep up the pretense that he was vanquished. Soon enough, she would find out what she had done.
Hellorin smiled, envisaging the havoc he would wreak in the city of the hated Magefolk. Ah, but now there were no Mages left, save Eilin. Would it be better simply to occupy Nexis, and save much time and trouble? No, the Forest Lord resolved. It was useful as a breeding ground for human slaves, but the leavings of their former foes were not good enough for his folk—not initially, at least. Yet when his son returned to the world, as Hellorin was certain he would, Nexis would make a princely gift for him.
The Lord of the Phaerie smiled at the notion. Two great cities, one in the north and one in the south—and all the lands between ruled by the Phaerie, released from their imprisonment at last. He would build his own city first, he decided—and one of the first things he’d create would be another magic window, one tuned, this time, specifically to D’arvan so that as soon as he returned to the world, Hellorin could send warriors to bring him home. Though they had not parted on good terms, the whelp could be brought to reason, the Forest Lord was certain. There were ways and means. Once D’arvan had joined his father’s ranks, Nexis could be taken at their leisure.
Had Hellorin, in that moment, been able to look as far as Nexis, he might have felt less sanguine. With the departure of Eliseth, the last magic wielder had gone from the city, and unclean powers, no longer fettered by the presence of the power that fueled the ancient spells, were stirring in the depths beneath the earth.
Once, he had walked the earth in giant form. Once he had been more than this broken, raving creature left imprisoned in a tomb of stone down all the long ages; wits scattered, lost... lost. Bound and fettered under the iron control of minds hard and brilliant as diamonds, sharp and merciless as steel. Aeons he had waited, helpless, hopeless, a prisoner of the Old Magic, enmeshed in the coils of long-forgotten spells. Then, long after all hope had gone, there came a feeling, a stirring—almost imperceptible—a lifting of pressure, a faint promise of hope. A glimmer of light in his eternal darkness—a slender crack in the walls of his tomb. The Moldan’s hatred stirred, and began to expand as slowly, slowly, thought returned, and strength. The spells of control were decaying—the endless night of his imprisonment was drawing to its close. And, after all this time, there was still such a thing as vengeance.
Little by little, Ghabal began to stretch forth his will, pushing with all his might against the strait constriction of lifeless rock that surrounded him.—His searching tendrils of thought encountered a fissure, a hairline fault in the rock that widened to a narrow chink. Concentrating all his powers into that one spot, the Moldan pushed with all his might. The rock creaked in protest, then the chink expanded with a loud, reverberating crack as the widening fissure snaked like a jagged lightning bolt through what once had been a solid mass of stone.
The Moldan rested, spent. A trickle of ancient dust slithered down through the new crevice, whispering secrets in a soft, sibilant little voice as it fell.—When he had regained his strength, Ghabal pushed again, widening and extending the fissure a little further. Once more, he paused to recover. With freedom in sight—and after so long—it was difficult to be patient, yet he knew he must take whatever time he needed. It could prove a fatal mistake to overextend himself at this point—he might be trapped down here forever.