"Arafel!" he cried. He went as wildly as Ciaran would have done, hearing the dragon-whisper threatening all that he had loved.
Aodhan leapt the lesser darknesses, dodged the greater, evaded roots and branches in the flicker of an eye. Drow loomed before him on beasts of glowing fire, of watery shifting shapes and every sort of horror. They wished to hold him, but he would not be held: the elf horse overrode them as they caught and clawed at him, outraced them in wind and moon-green light.
Life struggled all about him. Now there was grass beneath, now barrenness and dead trees about them, now clear air, now mist, and the rushing shapes of riders on black beasts that constantly shifted aspect. Fear was the venom of their swords, poisoning the Man with the dread of death, the Elf with doubt and hate at the kiss of their tarnished blades; but the Man was dead already and the elf had no doubts to use. "Go!" he urged Aodhan, and the elf horse flew be neath him, finding ways through ambushes, through mist and shad ows. He felt battle through the stone, felt danger and desperation. "O Arafel, holdfast!"
A mass of shadows gave way before him. He saw a clearing, a snarling horde that circled Arafel. She was afoot and bleeding, her brightness dimmed with dark; Fionnghuala struggled to rise again from falling, dark-streaked with blood, sent a horror flying, light ning-struck, while Arafel used her sword.
Aodhan never stopped: the dark Sidhe scattered from his hooves, scattered from his lightningbolts, and the elf horses circled, herding all the shadows, striking and harrying them in retreat until there was space within the grove.
Then Arafel sank down on one knee, her hand upon the ground, her head drooping, for her hurts were many and deep. There was pain within the stone, great pain and weariness; he took it such as he could, sliding down from Aodhan between her and the dark.
"Liosliath," said a voice from among the shadows. It touched Ciaran's self, deep within the stone.
Donnchadh, that memory said. But his own: Duilliath.
The wind streamed past, but there was no chance of falling: that was the nature of what they rode, with neither rein nor saddle: There was no need of clinging as the fuaths ran, matching strides with the Sidhe host's elvish mounts, black amid their light.
They had left the shore behind, and Meadhbh wept for her mother, for Beorc and Domhnull, Rhys and all the others—"Stop!" she had cried; and Ceallach: "Help us!"
But nothing would stop the rush that swept them on, and nothing stopped the fuaths.
Now they came up beside the first, the elvish captain. Unarmored he was, like the rest a bowman, his arrows fletched with light. His white horse ran because it would, reinless as the fuaths. He seemed young: there was none of the Sidhe but looked both young and fair: there was no age among them. They were all cold light and dreadful and there was terror about them as they came.
"Turn back," Ceallach pleaded still. "At least leave someone be hind to help them!"
"It is not our people," said the elf, "not our war."
'Then let us go!" Meadhbh cried.
"It is what you bear that draws you," said the elf, "not what bears you."
Meadhbh touched the gift that she wore. A virtue of finding, she remembered.
They have no hearts, a whisper came to her. They hung them all on trees, to forget this land, to forget all that they have done here.
"That is the dragon speaking," said the captain staring straight ahead. "Do not heed it; shut your ears—"
That one's name is Nearachd. He has no love of Men. He covets what you bear—would have it if he could. Beware him.
"Be still, old Worm!" Nearachd cried into the air.
What are you to them? What was your father? They killed him. Your mother left to die—
They rode suddenly into mist and trees, shifting and turning now; branches came between. "Keep with us!" Nearachd called. "Keep with us, young Sidhe! Do not listen to that voice!"
"King without a kingdom, queen born of thieves and murderers—o hear me, young ones: see what virtue brings—what it brought your father."
Be still, be still, Meadhbh told it. She clenched the elf-gift in her hand and thought of Ceallach beside her, only, only Ceallach, made a wall with him, to shield them from the dragon.
She grew calm and still inside: perhaps it was her doing; perhaps Caolaidhe's cold heart. Beside them the pooka ran, at home in this shadow. She saw her brother's face, that it had shed its grief, that it grew very like the Sidhe. Dark things took shape before them: elvish arrows flew with light no less dreadful than the shadow.
It is not a place for us, she thought, despairing, and then cast despair away, remembering Liosliath, and the kindness in his eyes. She felt a strength within her hand, imagining a tree—young it was and few its leaves and yet it lived, lent something of warmth and life.
Find them, came a voice within her heart, bubbling like waters. O hold, hold, hold, the precious thing I bear upon my back. Dark water, dark paths, no fuath fears them.
She feared, feared for all the world, for what was left worth loving, for the least light and the last beauty and the small band standing against the dark somewhere behind them. Home, she kept thinking, remembering the faces. Home, home, home.
Her brother rode beside her. There was a light about him, about her, and the elf-gifts were that brightness.
The drow's sword was in his hand, tarnished silver, poisoned. His comrades made now a ring about the grove, a darkness cold with hate.
"I would not fight you," said Duilliath, "either one. There is noth ing more to gain but wounds—on either side. Give up, cousins."
Liosliath stood watching, every shift of eye; and at their backs the two horses moved, circling, small mutters of thunder, pacing the ring that was all that remained of Eald on the earth, protecting Arafel.
Arafel gained her feet, such as she could. But the circle diminished more, grass curling black. "Liosliath," she said. A sword-hilt touched his hand. He took it, lifted it; the blade shone bright against the dark.
"We have done this before," Duilliath reminded him.
"Not well enough," he said.
More grass perished. A flower died. The drow came nearer, and there was about him the gleam of sullen fires. The blades lifted, crossed, flickered with subtle passes, feigning ease, feigning move ments that led to this side and that.
Faster, then and faster. The line of green drew inward, held. They battled back and forth on that line which he could cross and drow could not; and the wind was blowing, with chill that grew and grew. He heard his name called, heard the dragon-voice.
"Ware!" cried Arafel.
The border yielded all at once, a falling inward. Grass blackened, a flower died and went to dust: Duilliath thrust forward on the instant and Liosliath flung up a hand, took the point, unarmored as he was. The blade slid through, venomed, cold and keen. His own moonbright point touched armor, found a hold, went deep, and snapped within the wound.
"Brother!" wailed what had been Donnchadh.
It perished. The drow lingered longer, fading even so, a fair cold face, a wail, a passing chill. Horns were sounding, riders were com ing; the drow sped in retreat, racing for Dun Gol.
The trees faded; the mist remained. The riders came in sudden pallor, and two that rode on fuaths, hair red as sunrise; two steeds black and sleek. Thunder muttered; elf horses neighed and stamped. There was light within the grove.