As he hurried off, Dulsina noticed that his sword was still where he had left it—planted in the mud of the lakeside. Hargorn wasn’t usually so absentminded.—Was age catching up with the veteran at last? She called him back. “Hargorn—
you’ve forgotten your sword.”
He looked at her bleakly, and shook his head. “It was a sword that was responsible for this disaster in the first place. I’m finished with fighting, Dulsina. I haven’t the heart for it anymore—not after today. I’ll never touch a sword again.”
After a time, Parric pulled himself out of his dazed reverie, and realized with dismay that dusk had fallen. He was aghast to discover how long he had been simply standing there, lost in anguish and horror—and thoroughly ashamed to find that Dulsina and Hargorn had been forced to cope alone. They had managed very well without him, the Cavalrymaster admitted—but it shouldn’t have been necessary.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dulsina told him. “Once we got our belongings moved from the old camp, the rest was easy. There’s dry wood enough for burning now, on the edge of the fires where the trees are still just smoldering—and there was no need to hunt. Lots of animals were killed by the smoke—if you look in the woods there are bodies all over the place.” A slight catch in her voice and her pale, strained face were the only things about her that hinted to Parric of the carnage she had witnessed in the forest.
Now that Dulsina had mentioned it, the Cavalrymaster became aware, for the first time, of the mouthwatering aromas of roasting meat. A short distance away from him, a rough camp was taking shape, with primitive shelters constructed from wooden frameworks draped with blankets, cloaks, and hides. A huge fire blazed like a beacon on the shores of the lake, with a cluster of smaller cooking fires close by.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Parric asked guiltily.
“Yes,” Dulsina told him. “You can go and comfort your friend Sangra and that poor young man you brought with you from foreign parts.”
The Cavalrymaster looked through the gathering darkness, across the yard to where Sangra and Yazour were sitting close to the fire, deep in talk and holding tightly to one another’s hands.
“It looks like the two of them are managing well enough without me,” he grumbled. “Where’s Vannor?”
The deep line of a frown appeared between Dulsina’s dark brows. “Never you mind about him,” she retorted firmly. “You go and help your young friends over there. I’ve dealt with Vannor myself—instead of letting him sit there and brood, I’ve sent him to talk to the Lady Eilin. The Gods only know, someone ought to do it.”
Eilin cursed and clenched her fists at her sides in annoyance as she saw the Mortal approaching. Once her unwelcome guests had begun to set up their camp—near the very beech grove where Forral had first made his shelter, she thought, with a flash of old pain that she’d believed to be long behind her—the Mage, seeking solitude, had retreated across the charred and splintered wooden bridge to the sanctuary of her island. No one, she’d been certain, would dare to follow her there. How wrong she had been—but when Eilin’s unwelcome visitor came close enough to be recognized, she found that she was not in the least surprised.
Over the years the Mage had heard a great deal about Vannor from Aurian, during her daughter’s summer visits. More recently she had observed him through Hellorin’s magical window until his rash return to Nexis in search of his daughter, and had been impressed by the compassionate, levelheaded way in which he’d ruled his band of rebels who had taken sanctuary in her Valley. He had been the first to recognize that his folk were being helped, albeit by some mysterious, invisible entity—in this case, D’arvan—and he had made his followers obey the strictures and limitations that the Forest Lord’s son had set about the rebel camp.
Nevertheless, despite her respect for the former rebel leader, Eilin was still irritated by his unwelcome intrusion upon her peace. No doubt he would be wanting to discuss the details and possible repercussions of Eliseth’s attack and disappearance—and what of Miathan? What part had the Arch-mage played in the drama that had occurred? What would he do next? The Mage sighed. May the Gods forgive me—I just can’t face this, she thought. She knew that these matters were important, and would eventually have to be addressed—but not just yet. She was too heartsick and weary right now to worry about the future.—In the blood-red light of the setting sun, Eilin stepped back from the bridge and deliberately turned away from the approaching Mortal to regard the ruins of her old home. Following the vanishment of the Sword of Flame, the tower had returned to the Lady’s island—after a fashion. The damage by wind and weather, the scarred black stone and twisted ironwork, the fallen ceilings and gaping windows with their drifts of shattered crystal, the sense of desolation and abandonment—these sights were painful beyond all bearing. How will I ever build it up again? she thought desperately. Where should I even start?
“We—your Mortal friends—would be more than happy to assist you, my Lady, if help you need. It’s a daunting task to be faced alone.”
The Mage swung round with a gasp. Had the wretched man been reading her mind?
“I need no help from Mortals,” she snarled. How dared he suggest that she was not capable of rebuilding her own home? Vannor bowed low, but said nothing.—Eilin let the silence stretch out between them until it became a gaping chasm.—The Mortal waited until the suspense stretched put to breaking point, but she proudly refused to acknowledge him further.
Eventually Vannor spoke, his voice very gentle, just as though her previous angry words had never been uttered. “Lady, there’s food and fire and companionship on the other shore. Will you not cross your bridge and join us?”
Eilin could not meet his eyes. It had been bad enough to hear the kindness in his voice; if she saw the sympathy and concern that she knew would be written on his face, the brittle citadel of pride she had constructed around herself would shatter into shards. She could not countenance the idea of breaking down into tears in front of this wretched man.
“I need no charity from your kind,” she snapped at Vannor, biting off each word with savage emphasis. “A plague on your food and fires and company! You have no business here, and I want you all gone by noon tomorrow or you must face the consequences.” She turned, at last, to glare at him. “This Vale is my place, Mortal. Mine.”
Vannor, clearly unimpressed by her threat, looked at her long and appraisingly. “As you wish,” he said at last. “No one would dispute your right to this place, Lady. But if we can ever assist you . . .” He stopped himself, and shook his head. “No,” he muttered softly, as if to himself. “You wouldn’t, would you? In your stupid, stiff-necked pride you could never bring yourself to ask for, or accept, Mortal help—not supposing you were to perish here, of hunger and cold and loneliness.”
At his words, her anger boiled over at last. Eilin flew at him like a harpy, shrieking curses at the top of her voice. It was a relief to have a target for the rage that had been building within her. Vannor faced her, unintimidated, with steady calmness and—yes, there it was, the pity that she had so dreaded to see, clearly written in his face. It stopped her dead. Suddenly the Mage realized what a spectacle she must be making of herself—a distraught, disheveled harridan, pathetic and ridiculous in the tattered remnants of her pride.
Her curses spluttered into silence, and she closed her mouth abruptly.—Vannor inclined his head respectfully. “Lady,” he told her, “Aurian taught me everything I need to know about both the stubborn Magefolk pride and the stormy Magefolk temper—but it didn’t make me love, or respect her, any less.”
Unexpectedly, Eilin found her mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Your friendship with my daughter has given you a rare insight into our character,” she admitted.