Maya stood on the lush green lawn in front of Hellorin’s palace and watched the early sun touch the soft grass with emerald fire. How she wished she had a sword in her hand! It might help her assume a bravery she did not feel—now, when she needed her courage as never before. This morning, her whole world seemed composed of things she did not want—she didn’t want D’arvan to go, she didn’t want to be left behind. And for sure, she didn’t want to be carrying a child at this time—and not one conceived with the help of the arcane Phaerie magic, instead of naturally and spontaneously, as it should have been. Gods—how can I possibly cope with a child? she thought desperately. I’m a bloody warrior—I’m not the motherly sort at all. The idea terrifies me—I don’t even know where to start.
She had no choice in the matter, however. The child was already within her.—After she and D’arvan had lain together, the Phaerie women had come, and cocooned her in a spell of sleep. By the time she had awakened, they had quickened D’arvan’s seed within her. There would be no backing out of the bargain now. It was my own idea, she reminded herself. The entire plan was mine. I have only myself to blame—me and my big mouth! Around her throat Maya could feel Hellorin’s chain to remind her of her new status—a glittering circle of cold that never seemed to warm to the temperature of her skin. Was this all that the future held for her? Chains?
D’arvan’s arm went round her shoulders, and she knew, with a sinking heart, that the very tension of her body had betrayed her fear and doubts. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Don’t worry—I’ll be back before you know it.”
Maya glanced up at him, storing details in her memory for when he had gone: the way his fine pale hair was blowing in the breeze, the way the early light cast dark shadowed hollows beneath the sharp bones of his face. She tried to avoid the eye of Parric, who was standing nearby with a pair of Phaerie guards and the unresponsive Vannor, who had been given leave to depart at the last minute, as Hellorin finally conceded that D’arvan could not help him. Though the dreadful chain had been removed from his neck, the Cavalrymaster was still scowling. He had been against this whole scheme from the start—he had already made it more than clear that he thought she was insane. As she was drawing breath to reply to D’arvan, there was a silvery fanfare of trumpets, and the Forest Lord emerged from the palace nodding grandly to the crowd of brightly garbed Phaerie, courtiers all, who fringed the stretch of grass. “Bring forth the steeds!”
Maya clenched her fists. Why the bloody blazes didn’t Hellorin just get on with it? He could have had the Xandim waiting here, as everyone else had been, but no ... Did all kings have this ridiculous need for spectacle?
In the brief pause before the Xandim arrived, Hellorin turned to herself and D’arvan, extending his arms as if to embrace them both. If he tries it, Maya thought grimly, Phaerie or no Phaerie, I swear he’ll be wearing his balls up around his ears.
Luckily, the Forest Lord restrained himself. “Is it well with you, my children?” he cried.
D’arvan, in the same grand manner, flashed him a dazzling smile. “It is well, my Lord.”
Maya gritted her teeth. If my child ever tries to behave like this, she thought, he won’t be sitting down for a week.
Before the warrior could think of a reply of her own, the two Xandim arrived: a magnificent huge warhorse, darkly dappled in cloudy black and grey, and a somewhat smaller beast with a shining bay coat and a shaggy, crow-black mane and tail. To Maya’s eyes, it was hard to imagine them as men. What did they look like in human form? What must their lives be like, living their whole lives as two different beings? She wished she could have a chance to know them, to speak to them. She only had a fleeting, clouded memory of the one time she had seen them as humans. Then, she herself had been the one to wear the form of a beast, for Hellorin had put her into the shape of a unicorn. The warrior smiled sourly to herself at the thought. Maybe we’re not so different after all, she thought. I, too, have lived as two different creatures—at the Forest Lord’s whim.
Maya could feel D’arvan straining forward, anxious to be away, lest his capricious father should change his mind. This was no place for farewells—it was too public, everything was too hurried—and besides, he and Maya had said goodbye already. D’arvan exchanged a few soft words with his father, too low for Maya to hear, then he was embracing her for the last time in a long time—maybe forever. . . . The warrior tightened her arms around him. “You’d better be careful,” she hissed at him, “or you’ll have two of us to reckon with.”
D’arvan smiled. “Trust me,” he said. “Everything will be all right. Take care of our child, my love—no one could do it better.” Then he was gone. With a wrenching effort, Maya stopped herself from holding her empty arms out toward him. Keeping them firmly down at her sides, she clenched her fists. Then the Phaerie guards were helping the Cavalrymaster hoist Vannor up in front of him on the big grey horse that she knew must be Schiannath, and D’arvan was mounting Chiamh, the bay, who was clearly far from happy with the situation.—He plunged and wheeled, throwing up clods of turf from under his churning hooves—until the Mage bent forward and whispered something in his ear.—Whatever D’arvan had said, it seemed to work like magic. As one, the Xandim leapt into the air, heading back to freedom. A piece of Maya’s heart went with them—in one flashing instant, she knew joy, and sorrow, and bitter, bitter envy. Then the sky was empty.
Hellorin put an arm around her shoulders. “Come, my little she-wolf. All you can do now is care for your child, and wait for D’arvan to return.”
One of the beech trees in the grove had grown too tall, and had fallen to a bolt of lightning during the last of the summer storms, Yazour was chopping the earthbound giant into logs for the winter woodpile, hurrying to get as much of the task completed as possible, for the summer was sliding gently into autumn now, and it would not be too long before the sun went down. Already there was a lamp burning in the ground floor of the tower across the lake, and he could see a faint glimmer of Magelight moving like a firefly in the garden, where Eilin wandered between the rows of vegetables, picking out the ingredients for supper. The evening was still and tranquil; the only sounds were sleepy birdsong mixed with the gentle rippling murmur of wavelets by the lakeside, and the rasping sound of Iscalda tearing up the grass as she grazed companionably nearby.
He never knew what made him look up just then. Some instinct, perhaps left over from his far-off days as a warrior, drew his eyes toward the north....
“Reaper of Souls!” Yazour dropped the axe. The next minute, he was astride Iscalda’s back and galloping across the bridge, yelling frantically for Eilin.—The day they had long been dreading had come at last. The Phaerie were returning to the Vale.
“Get inside, Iscalda—you’ll be safer there.” Without ceremony, Yazour opened the tower door and pulled the horse into the kitchen. He met Eilin in the doorway, on her way out. The Mage, carrying his sword and her own staff, looked at the white mare and moved aside to let Iscalda pass. “That’s everyone safe under cover then,” she said. “Don’t worry, Iscalda,” she added, with a glint of anger in her eye. “We’ll soon send that blasted Hellorin on his way.”