3 When Darkness Falls.8 (13 page)

"Are you ready, Bonded?" Ancaladar asked, breaking into Jermayan's thoughts.

"It is now, or not at all," Jermayan responded with grim humor. It was a favorite expression of Kellen's, and one that had always puzzled him. For the Elves, there was always another time one could do a thing.

Until
They
had returned. And at last, "now" was the only time there was, for all the races of the Light.

He concentrated his mind upon his purpose, and let it fill with the unnameable colorshapes that were the forms of the spells of Elven Magery.

To do even that much filled him with pain, but Jermayan had felt pain before. He gathered up the spell waiting in his mind, and struck.

The snow and ice of the pass suddenly glowed as brightly as if the sun had suddenly come forth from behind the clouds, and for a moment that was all.

Then suddenly the pass itself began to boil with mist, as the ice and snow, down to the bare rock of the mountainside itself, began simply to waft away.

Jermayan felt as if he could not breathe. His heart hammered in his chest, the air darkened in his vision, as if Ancaladar had unwarily flown too high. He felt the power of the spell flow from him as if it were the blood from his veins. Each beat of his slowing heart bound the magic more firmly to its course — and drained away more of his life with it. A spell was only as strong as the focus of its power — while Jermayan's power was the limitless power of a dragon's magical might, his focus was the mortal power of an Elven Knight.

But he did not die. He
would
not, for if he did, Ancaladar's life would be extinguished with his own, for the Bond that was the source of the Mage's great power was also the dragon's greatest weakness.

At last the spell was run, and Ancaladar carried them gently to the ground, and Jermayan roused himself to gaze up at his handiwork.

The mountains that ringed the valley of Bazrahil were white with snow, save for the few patches of gray where a snow-spill had ripped the burden of snow and ice from the face of the rock — in every place but one. The pass the Elves called the Gatekeeper was now a dark scar against the whiteness, its rock as bare as it would be at summer's height.

"One obstacle gone," Ancaladar said, both relief and satisfaction in his voice. "Now all that remains is to convince the Vicereign of the wisdom of abandoning her city."

The Smoke of That Great Burning

BUT IN THE end, that was far easier than casting the spell had been — easier, in fact, even than the return to Lerkalpoldara itself, for with the clear weather, the Deathwings were out in force, hunting for any prey they might find, and Jermayan was in no condition to offer battle. It was left to Ancaladar to outfly them, which was a long and delicate matter. The dragon's one advantage was that he could fly far higher and faster than his enemy, and unlike in his previous clashes with the Deathwings, he did not have to worry about protecting the army from aerial attacks. In the end, Ancaladar carried Jermayan high above the clouds, where the creatures could not follow.

"This," Jermayan observed, gazing down at the tops of the clouds speeding by below them, as Ancaladar made a wide circle about Lerkalpoldara far below, "may provide the two of us with a temporary respite, but it does nothing to accomplish our return in safety."

And in fact he was not certain how safe Ancaladar would be once the dragon was on the ground, even if he could land within the walls of Lerkalpoldara. The Deathwings' favorite tactic, as they had seen so far, was to swoop upon their victims and carry them off into the sky. Obviously that would not work on Ancaladar — but it was always possible they might have another form of attack held in reserve.

"If we are quick, we can land before they are aware of us. I can see them through the clouds — they circle the city like ravens over a battlefield. I will take off again to draw them away, and return again at nightfall. You need not fear for my safety — they are nasty and foul-tasting, but their claws cannot pierce my hide, and I will take care to fly high."

Jermayan knew that Ancaladar was being optimistic for his benefit, but he also knew they did not have the luxury of waiting out the day in the hope — no more than that — that the Deathwings would leave with the darkness. The creatures had flown by night before, and Ancaladar's presence might incite them to do so again.

"Very well," he said.

"Then we go — now."

Ancaladar folded back his wings, and for a moment he hung weightless in the sky. Then he began to fall — no, more than that, to dive, his long sinuous neck extended, the wind whistling along his neck-barbs as he arrowed head-first toward the earth. Even through his armor, the saddle-straps cut into Jermayan's shoulders and torso; he hung against them rather than being pressed down into the saddle.

They flashed through the clouds, and now Jermayan could see the Winter City far below. Gray-white shapes circled above it, seeking for some unwary victim to snatch, but everyone had retreated within the Flower Forest, and the Deathwings dared not venture too close to its protection.

Then they plunged through the flock of Deathwings. Pain lanced through Jermayan's head as the creatures shrilled their soundless cries. Ancaladar spread his wings with a boom like distant thunder, his body jerking itself level with a whiplash crack that tattled Jermayan's teeth. The Elven Knight had been waiting for that part of the maneuver; the moment it was done, he began loosening the buckles and straps of the flying harness. A fall from this height would not kill him, and it would save precious moments on the ground.

Even though he was expecting it, the jarring shock when Ancaladar dug all four sets of claws into the ice to stop himself flung Jermayan from the saddle. His training in the House of Sword and Shield stood him in good stead, however, for he converted the motion to a forward roll and came up running, fleeing for the safety of the Flower Forest as if his very life depended on it. Behind him he heard the hiss and squeal of the ice as Ancaladar sprang to his feet and turned, bounding toward the wall and then over it as lightly as a unicorn could leap a hedge.

Jermayan did not stop running until the green shadows of the Flower Forest had replaced the bright glare of the Winter City outside.

"One hopes that your flight this morning was all that you hoped for from it," Magarabeleniel said, stepping out from behind a tree. Here in the Flower Forest, she had exchanged her furs and robes of winter's white for garments that echoed the browns and greens of the winter forest — for the Flower Forest was in leaf at every season.

"I did what I had intended to do," Jermayan said, "but it is with regret that I must say I was unable to bear your word to Chalaseniel, for Ancaladar and I found ourselves to be of unbearable interest to those flying tats that plague your city."

Unexpectedly, Magarabeleniel laughed. "Jermayan, you malign rats! Their skins have a hundred uses, they are loyal, they make good pets — and one may even eat them if one is starving. None of these things is true of those creatures — even when we kill them, the stink is nearly unbearable, no matter what we do, so that even in death they strike at us. As for Chalaseniel, I shall send riders to him tonight, if I can."

"Perhaps you have more to tell him than you know," Jermayan said.

"The Lady of Lerkalpoldara knows all that transpires on the Plains of Bazrahil," Magarabeleniel assured him. "It was my nurse's first teaching, when I was scarcely old enough to follow the talldeer. Come. We will take tea, and you will tell me what I am presumed to know already."

* * * * *

SOON Jermayan was settled in her tent — a much smaller tent, tucked among the trees, but no less the House of Sky and Grass for that — with a cup of hot tea in his hand. It smelled of honey and new-mown hay — an odd tea to drink in the depths of winter, but no one in the Winter City thought that they would live to drink the teas of summer in their rightful season. They spoke for a few minutes about the weather—not idle pleasantry for a tent-dwelling people — and Jermayan learned that Tanarakiel believed that the clear weather would hold for some days yet. How long she could not say, though surely four or five.

"A blessing and a curse, that, both — but clear weather for your flight, at least," Magarabeleniel said.

"A flight I must make soon, but before I go, I would see you safely upon your way. This morning I have opened the Gatekeeper, and the road to Windalorianan lies clear. I would counsel you to take it while you may, and if you would take it, you must go soon."

There was a long pause after such blunt speaking. Magarabeleniel gazed off into the distance, seemingly entranced by the muted glow of light on the bronze trunk of an alyon, and the winter-gold carpet of moss at its feet. In spring the bronze of the alyon's bark would warm to copper, the moss brighten to green, and the forest waken to even more vibrant life.

Were any of them here to see it. If, in fact, the forest itself were here at all.

The death of a Flower Forest was rare, but not unthinkable. The Flower Forests themselves were but the remnants of the great Elven Forests which had once covered the mountains of the east, where now there was little more than sparse grass and a few stunted trees — where anything would grow at all. The forests had been re-seeded before — and could be again, if Lerkalpoldara's was lost.

But the thought of destroying it lest it be denied by the Enemy was heartbreaking.

Jermayan realized that without noticing he had been straining to hear the sounds of birds, for even in winter the Flower Forests were filled with them. Many had no other home. But there was silence in the trees.

"There are no birds, Jermayan," Magarabeleniel said softly, seeing his face. "Even here." She took a deep breath. "This is my word to you: We will cross the pass. I do not know how many of us will survive the journey, for I know the creatures of the Enemy will not wish to lose their prey, but it is a chance at life, at least for some, and we will take it."

* * * * *

THE winter days were short this far north, and a few hours after dark, Ancaladar returned.

He was not alone.

"Ancaladar has told me that the Gatekeeper is clear and we may all leave — if we do not mind fighting off Coldwarg, shadewalkers, and herds of serpentmarae," Chalaseniel said, appearing in the doorway of the House of Grass and Wind. He did not sound as if the prospect dismayed him particularly.

Though he had been dressed for riding with the herd, it was still not sufficient protection from the cold of the high sky, but though he looked chilled through, he also looked like someone who had received unexpectedly good news — as indeed he had.

Chalaseniel was co-Viceroy of Lerkalpoldara, Magarabeleniel's brother — reckless where she was prudent, optimistic where she was dour, impetuous where she was cautious, cheerful where she was bleak. Or so the Elves judged them; Jermayan suspected that humans would see little difference between the siblings' behavior at all.

"I have sent the word among the herd-riders. They must bring the talldeer and the horses here as fast as they can, as many as the can manage and still come quickly. We will go as soon as they arrive and the beasts can be set to harness."

If Magarabeleniel was surprised at her brother's unlooked-for arrival, or at his presumption of knowing her mind, she did not show it. "We will burn the forest before we leave," she said calmly, as Chalaseniel went to change his wet and frozen riding leathers.

When he returned, she poured tea, and Chalaseniel seated himself beside Jermayan.

"I See you, Jermayan, son of Malkirinath, Elven Knight, Ancaladar's Bonded," he said formally, now acknowledging Jermayan's presence.

"I See you, Chalaseniel, brother of Magarabeleniel, Viceroy of Lerkalpoldara," Jermayan returned, equally formally.

"You have our gratitude for this," Chalaseniel said simply. "And now, there is much to do."

"Much has been done," Magarabeleniel said. "Elodiane and Tanarakiel oversee the preparation of sledges to carry the tents. Lauryoneth and Sarimarel check to see that the harness is strong and will not break, for we dare not stop to mend it this side of Windalorianan. If we can pass the Gatekeeper, the Enemy can do so as well, unless he is sealed again."

She glanced at Jermayan, the unspoken question plain in her eyes.

"Sealed or unsealed, Lady — and I confess, I am not certain if I am able to seal the pass again — your mountain passes will not stop the creatures of the Enemy from going where they will. They are creatures of Shadow, who thrive upon the dark and the cold."

Magarabeleniel gave a faint shrug. "Then we shall pray for Leaf and Star to favor us, and hope that Windalorianan will look favorably upon us, despite the plague we bring with us."

"It is a plague that will be everywhere in the Elven Lands soon," Jermayan said grimly. "The ancient subject-races of the Enemy — Ice Trolls, snow giants,
duergar
, goblins, and the like — might need the help of the Shadowed Elves to cross the ancient Elven land-wards, but either the monsters of the Enemy's breeding needed no such aid, or they had been smuggled in long since."

"Three days to reach the mountains, another day to reach the pass itself," Chalaseniel said, and now the lightness was gone from his voice. "I think they may toy with us at first. That will give us a day, perhaps two. Then they will begin to attack in earnest. Shadewalkers do not range so far from their home dens, but neither Coldwarg nor serpentmarae have dens, and both will be eager to hunt us."