"We are too late!" Grogor was yelling and hauling his beast up. He almost collided with me, the six-legged animals struggling together and staggering sideways.
"Get out of my way, rast!" I said, hauling my mount up, driving it to stand and run although it was almost done. "Look!" Grogor pointed. He pointed up. I looked. If the king was away in the voller it would be over.
A great winged shape lofted from the top tower of the Volgodonts’ Aerie. Against the radiance of the moons the fluttrell soared up, his wide pinions beating in that long, effortless rhythm of the saddle bird. Grogor yelled in openmouthed disbelief. The truth was plain. More argenters had arrived from Hamal and as well as vollers they carried saddle birds. The fluttrell was the most common saddle-mount of Havilfar. Thyllis had spared a few to please the whim of King Genod and he had mastered the knack of flying and had come here, in person, to show off his prowess to his new conquest, the Lady of the Stars, who had once been the lady of Gafard, the King’s Striker, and was now the lady of the king — for a time.
"The devil from the bat-caves!" yelled Grogor. My sectrix staggered with exhaustion. Grogor hauled out his bow, drew and nocked an arrow, lifted and let fly. I reached out to him, dropping the blood-choked Ghittawrer sword. But his fingers released the string and the shaft flew. If he hit Velia. .!
The fluttrell winged up, its pinions beating. I did not see the arrow strike. I saw those wings suddenly flap limply; they beat off-rhythm; and the bird swerved in the air.
Grogor’s arrow had wounded the fluttrell, yet it could still fly. I saw it curve around in a mazy, sweeping circle. It was dropping. The wings beat erratically. The bird extended its legs, talons spread wide. Grogor hauled out his sword. He yelled, high and fierce. He sent his mount charging for the point where the bird would land. I could see two figures on the fluttrell’s back, abaft the wide head vane. Two figures, struggling. I held my breath.
The king must have newly learned the art of flying a saddlebird. I guessed my Velia — my Velia! My daughter! — would be an expert in the air, trained by my Djangs astride flutduins. She would not thus foolishly struggle as a bird planed in for a landing.
Grogor’s sword blurred in the mingled light of the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom. The king saw us below him. I saw his face, a pale blur in the light, saw it lift and stare past that other face so near his hateful features, stare and look past me. I turned. A body of men rode in the shadows of the trees. It was difficult to distinguish them, save for the green and the mail and the glitter of weapons and war harness. I did not think they rode on behalf of Gafard. But they might. Gafard, himself, might ride at their head.
This is what the king thought.
I swung back. Grogor was bellowing and shaking his sword.
The bird made a last effort. It beat its wings and tried to rise. The two faces up there were close together as the bird tried to lift and fly in obedience to the frenzied flogging from Genod’s goad. It tried to beat its pinions and rise up, and could not. I saw those two faces — then there was one face only above the fluttrell’s back and a white-clad form pitching headlong from the air. King Genod, the genius, had thrown my daughter from the fluttrell, thrown her to the ground beneath. Relieved of the extra weight the fluttrell beat more powerfully and rose. Its wings thrashed the air. It lifted and soared up. Grogor’s second shot fell far too short.
I saw all that from the corner of my eye, not heeding.
I saw the spinning form of Velia, her white dress swirling out, pitch down through the empty air. She fell. She fell to the ground. She fell. She fell on the ground.
I was riding hard.
How often I had picked up little Velia as she tottered on her chubby little legs, there on the high terrace of Esser Rarioch, learning to walk, determined, clambering up and trying again, to tumble down again in a sprawl of her short white dress.
I rode on.
An arrow whipped in past Grogor’s ear. He swung his mount about, yelled, high: "Overlords! We are dead men! We must run!"
He stuck in his spurs and was away, the sectrix hurtling along low over the ground, its shadows spreading about it, undulating eerie blobs of half-darkness.
The overlords of Magdag trotted over the meadow toward me.
I galloped and I did not care what the damned overlords did.
The six legs of my beast skidded and splayed as I reined it up. I was off its bare back. It just stood, waiting for me to remount.
I knelt.
She lay crumpled, her white dress spread out, with no sign of blood anywhere. Her eyes were open, those beautiful brown eyes I could see now were those of a Vallian; beautiful brown eyes like my Delia’s. Her glowing brown hair was dyed black and artificially curled, in imitation of a Zairian. That was so.
"Velia," I said, and I choked.
"Why, Gadak," she said. "You know my name." As she spoke a tiny line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "I–I like that, Gadak, for I have always been fond of you."
"Velia-" I took her hand in mine as I knelt. It was cold. "Velia — I am not Gadak. That is not my name."
She smiled up. Now I could see my Delia in her face — my glorious Delia reborn in a subtly different way, as glorious, as wonderful — and thrown callously through the air by a genius.
"You will look after me, Gadak? And my lord? He is safe?"
"He is safe, my heart. Listen — I love your mother as no man has loved a woman. There in Esser Rarioch we were happy, and we joyed in our twins, Segnik and Velia-" She stared at me, her soft mouth curling in puzzlement, for she felt no pain.
"What do you say, Gadak? What of — Esser Rarioch, and Valka? And — my mother — you — I have no father. He is gone away, a long way away, a long time ago."
Those Star Lords! If I’d had one under my hands then, he would never more play cruel tricks on plain men.
"Yes, Velia, you are my dear daughter, for I am your father, and I have sinned — it is all my fault -
and-"
"Father. .?"
"Yes."
I did not know what she would do. Had she cursed and reviled me I would know she was right. She said, "Gadak — you do not say this — to please me? Where is my lord? Has he told you to say this?"
I held her hand and it was cold. I touched her lips with a silk kerchief and wiped away the blood. I smoothed her hair. We spoke, then, and I told her little things, things that she would understand Dray Prescot, the Strom of Valka, would understand. She could not move. She smiled and I saw in her face that she forgave me. I did not deserve that, but she forgave me. We talked — and I took her into my arms and held her and smoothed her hair and looked down upon her face. Her pallor gave her an ethereal beauty there in the light of the moons of Kregen as the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom gleamed in pure brilliance against the stars.
"Father?" She understood I spoke the truth. "I wish my lord were here. We are married. In the rites of Zair and Opaz. He is a fierce man, proud and brave, but very gentle. He means well." She moved her head slowly to one side, and then back, nestling in my arms, and looked at me. "There is a child. My little Didi. Gafard — my lord, my beloved — keeps her well hidden. She will love her new grandfather."
I had to close my mouth. I could not speak.
"I came with Zeg to the Eye of the World. He is a great Krozair, Father, a famous Krozair of Zy. And
— and I was taken. I fought them with my dagger as Mother knew I would. The Sisters of the Rose. . but it was Gafard, my lord. I knew, even then, and he knew, too." She breathed a long, shuddering sigh and I looked down on her, but she went on speaking in that small girl’s voice through the gathering darkness about her. "The king — Genod — is evil, Father. Drak and Zeg have told me. Now he has vollers and birds. The overlords — they laughed when the king flew off with me. If only Gafard-" The mists were closing down over her eyes. She stared up, trying to see me clearly. "Father — where is Mother? Where is my lord?"