Besides which, those heavily-warded rooms were where he made his communion with his Dark lady, something Anigrel did not think he could manage unnoticed within the walls of Tavadon House.
“Of course, my son. You must do just as you think is best. And, Anigrel… you must call me ‘Father.’”
“Yes… Father.”
He would serve the City with as much devotion as Lycaelon could wish. And if he served it to a different purpose and a different end, it was entirely possible that Lycaelon Tavadon would die without ever knowing.
—«♦»—
IDALIA did not know how long she lay unconscious before the pain roused her. She was disoriented and terribly thirsty, and lay in darkness so absolute that for a moment she thought she must be blind.
Her head spinning, her mind blank, at first she wasn’t quite sure what was going on. Where was she? Where were the children? Then, unwarily, she tried to move, and savage pain shocked her, hammering her senses with nausea and vertigo, and the agony brought her fully to consciousness. She relaxed as far as she could, waiting for the pain to subside.
She was deep within the caves, and safe. Well, safer than she would be if she were in the hands of the Shadowed Elves, anyway. The children and Lairamo— Gods grant—were also safe and far away from here with the rescue party. She knew she could count on that much: Kellen was in charge, and he would make sure that the children were safe away.
She wondered how far she’d fallen, knowing even as she wondered that her mind was wandering—a symptom of concussion. How peculiar that she was alive to be wondering that at all. Her life had been forfeit to the Gods from the moment she had done the weather-working that saved the Elven Lands from flood. Her life had been the cost of that spell, and Idalia had paid it, if not gladly, then willingly and freely.
But though the Gods of the Wild Magic might ask for her life, suicide was no part of her Mageprice. She had the right and duty to preserve her life for as long as possible.
Even now.
Escape on her own—well, that was impossible, for certain. No walking out with two broken legs, a shattered collarbone, and worse. She could not Heal herself—the pain and her injuries made her magic too hard to control.
But she could call for help. She had control enough for that, she thought. Call for help… call for help… oh, fool, you should have agreed to marry Jermayan when he asked…he’d know right where you were, now … yes, and come charging right into a trap against any odds to save you… and then you could be dead together, your lives just the same length, just as you came to realize in the end …
She came to with a start and realized she’d been drifting, only half-aware. She must do what she could now, before her strength ebbed any further.
She shifted position slightly—kindling a new bright flare of pain that brought tears of furious pain to her eyes—and closed her eyes tightly, though closed or open made no difference here in the stygian darkness of the cave. With all her remaining strength, Idalia focused her will on Calling.
A friend—an ally—someone to carry my message to anyone who can hear and will help—
So long a time passed that Idalia began to wonder if there was anything at all within range of her call, or if perhaps the power of the Wild Magic had deserted her utterly. But at last she felt a faint disturbance in the air, and a substantial weight landed on her chest, making her gasp and cough. With her uninjured hand, she reached out toward it.
She could feel the heat of its body, and her fingertips brushed leathery wings as it moved suspiciously away from her touch.
A snow-bat.
White-furred, nocturnal, the size of chickens, they fed on mice, small birds, even fish, and were dormant through deepest winter. There was a certain justice in her aid coming from the distant—very distant—cousin of the creatures that had carried off the Elves in the first place. She extended her magical senses, and felt the spark of the bat’s life; a small consciousness, occupied mostly with thoughts of food and flight. But there was room there to imprint the snow-bat’s mind with her cry for help, and with the last of her strength, Idalia added her Call, giving the little creature a new desire, stronger than any natural desire it possessed: Find an ally. Deliver the message.
She felt the Wild Magic well up in her and flow through her and into the snow-bat, and when the power had crested and ebbed away, Idalia’s consciousness ebbed with it.
—«♦»—
THE pulse of magic washed over the bat like a pulse of the strongest moonlight it had ever imagined, sending it hopping awkwardly away from the strangewarmthing, scurrying and flapping across the floor of the canyon until it could manage to take flight. Its new need was strong, sending it soaring through familiar territory, toward the opening that led to its hunting fields. Its keen predator’s senses told it that the weather outside was still and clear: perfect for hunting.
But as it neared the outer tunnels, the light drove it back. Too bright! Too bright! Now is a time for sleep, not flight! It veered back, into the welcoming darkness, and would have resumed its interrupted slumbers if it could have, but the need planted in it by strangewarmthing drove it onward.
It would have approached the cavemothers if it could—even though they often hunted its kind for food—but the Need told it that they were not the allies it sought, and so it flew onward, deeper into the darkness, singing the high-pitched song that created the world around it in pulses of form.
Deeper it flew, far from the sleeping places of its sept, into territory unknown. Its wings grew tired, and many times it stopped to rest, but each time the Need drove it on again.
At last—there! below!—the Need touched a suitable mind.
—«♦»—
ANCALADAR dozed, dreaming of centuries past. They weren’t terribly pleasant dreams, but they were his.
They were all he had left.
Something landed on his nose with a thud.
Ancaladar went from half-sleep to wakefulness in an eyeblink. He reared back, dislodging the small weight, which flittered around his head, crying out in a high irritating voice.
A snow-bat.
Ancaladar relaxed. For a moment he’d thought…
But for some reason, the bat wouldn’t go away. It circled his head like a maddened wasp, landing on his head again, and this time Ancaladar caught the scent of magic.
His nostrils flared, nearly sucking the bat inside.
Magic—Wild Magic! It was a scent Ancaladar had fled from all his life, for it posed a unique danger to his kind.
But…
The bat was a messenger. Someone—some Wildmage—needed something. Very badly, if the sense of urgency Ancaladar could read coming off the little creature was any guide. He sniffed—more gently this time—but could detect no more to the message. Apparently the bat had been sent to guide whoever found it back to the Wildmage.
Ancaladar sat back with a sigh.
If he had any sense, he’d stay right here. He could ignore the bat. Or eat it. He was safe where he was.
But a Wildmage?
Here?
It was an odd place for a Wildmage. These caverns were overrun with stinking Tainted mock-Elves. They’d come burrowing in to Ancaladar’s nice safe retreat—oh, he couldn’t really remember how long ago. Sometime after the Great War, anyway. They’d started overrunning the caverns, scaring off the local game, and generally making a mess of things.
Maybe the Wildmage had come to fix things.
And Ancaladar didn’t have to get involved, not really. He could go give the Wildmage whatever he—she—it wanted, and then go back to sleep. So long as what it wanted was something small and insignificant.
He’d be careful.
With a grunt, he levered himself to his feet, careful not to dislodge his furry guest.
“Show me,” he rumbled softly.
—«♦»—
THE pain pulled her toward consciousness and pushed her away from it at the same time, until Idalia floated in a
dazed state, only half-aware of her surroundings, knowing that Death was only days—perhaps hours—away. Her pain-fevered body was wracked by shivers—it was cold here in the cave—and the cold and shivering stole what little strength she had left.
Sometimes she forgot entirely where she was. Sometimes she thought she was back in Ondoladeshiron, where she had first met Jermayan, walking with him beneath cloudless skies. Sometimes she was still a Silver Eagle, soaring through those same skies.
Sometimes—those fantasies were the worst—she was a girl in Armethalieh again, living in her father’s house, her horizons no wider than the walls of Tavadon House and the short walk to the Ladies’ Academy where the daughters of the Mageborn received their lessons in dancing and painting and other ornamental arts suitable to ornamental females. Prison and torment all in one, knowing she was scorned and shunned by the other girls as a half-breed, knowing there was so much more in the world than she, a mere girl, was allowed to see and be, and knowing that nothing, bar a miracle, was going to give her access to that wider world.
Suddenly she was conscious. The nightmare vision of the Ladies’ Academy dissolved, and the tinkling laughter of the other girls—how she’d always hated it!—became a scraping sound, as of something—something heavy—being dragged over the rock. Her heart beat wildly, and she strained her eyes in the darkness, turning her head cautiously as she tried to locate the source of the sound.
Two glowing lights hung somewhere in the darkness, their size and distance impossible to judge. Eyes? Lanterns? Idalia didn’t know: she only knew that the sudden strength she felt came from the presence of another’s magic, not her own strength. It was a brief gift, she could tell that much, and she dared not waste it. “Wildmage. You called for me,” a deep soft voice said. “Help me,” Idalia whispered. “The Endarkened rise against the Elves.” To speak aloud had taken all the strength the stranger’s magic had lent her, and Idalia fell into a deep and final unconsciousness.
—«♦»—
ANCALADAR regarded the Wildmage. He wondered what her name was, not that it mattered to him.
The Endarkened, now, that was another matter. He’d known they were active again—they’d been hunting dragons lately, which was one of the reasons he’d taken such pains to hide himself so carefully. But if they were going to war against the Elves…
Then the Wildmages would want the dragons to fight for them.
Again.
He reached out one taloned claw toward the woman, and drew back. He could not help her himself. He was a creature of magic, but he could not use his magic himself—only his Bondmate could. And Ancaladar had no Bondmate.
Oh, yes, he’d been so clever, Ancaladar thought in disgust. He’d watched his brothers and friends die in the Great War—not only in battle, but from linking their immortal span of years to the brief mortal span of their Bondmate’s lives, for a Bonded dragon died when his Bondmate did.
He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of that, and so he’d hidden, making himself safe from meeting the one Mage—whoever he or she might be—who could be his Bondmate. What could one dragon do to tip the balance, anyway?
But there were worse horrors, he discovered, than dying in service to the Light. Dragons had fallen to the Dark when their Bondmates had been corrupted by the Endarkened with the promise of immortality.
Now he was safe. One of the last of the dragons. He ought to congratulate himself on his prudence at surviving this long, but more and more these days, it felt as if he’d cheated, or been cheated, or both at the same time. It certainly felt as if he hadn’t been clever at all, that he’d shirked his duty. He was a creature of the Light, wasn’t he? He was bound to help the cause of the Light. Except that he hadn’t. He’d been a coward, done as little as he could, and run away as soon as possible.
Maybe what he felt like was a failure.
Maybe this was a chance to make things right. He regarded the Wildmage with faint suspicion. At least he felt no hint of a possible Bond with her.
Ancaladar made up his mind. He’d help the Wildmage. And perhaps the Elves would be willing to provide him with something in the way of steady meals in return. In the Old Days, his kind had been able to bargain for nice, tasty domestic cattle or sheep, and having to hunt for himself—and hide while he did it—just was getting to be too hard. Was this what getting old felt like? Or was it only that he was becoming less?
He raised his head and looked around, extending his senses as far as they would go. He didn’t sense any of the mock-Elves anywhere around. It was daytime, anyway—even far underground Ancaladar could sense the position of the sun—they’d all be securely asleep for some time yet. She’d be safe enough while he went to look for her friends.
He didn’t really want to expose himself in daylight, but if he actually intended to help, he had no choice.
Humans were fragile things, and this one looked badly broken. If she was going to be fixed, it would have to be soon.
Chapter Ten The Return of the Dragons
KELLEN HAD MANAGED to convince Jermayan not to go charging in after Idalia during the night—though it took every bit of diplomacy that he had—but when dawn came, and Idalia still hadn’t come back—he was starting to run out of ideas.
He knew she wasn’t dead. But what if she was a prisoner? Or trapped somewhere? Or hurt? Or just lost somewhere down in the cave system? Jermayan had suggested all those possibilities and more in the past hours.
Any of those things might be true. The one thing Kellen knew for sure was that there was only one tarnkappa, and that if anybody was going down into the caves after Idalia, it had better be him.
The question was, how to convince Jermayan of that. There’s no way. There’s absolutely no way.
“Look. I agree. You’re right,” Kellen said, about two hours past dawn, two hours of intermittent, polite, Elven “arguing.”
“We’ve got to go after her.”
“Finally—!” Jermayan said, making a grab for the tarnkappa. “But we have to do this right,” Kellen said, holding on to the bundle of fabric firmly. “We need to find a more secure place to leave the horses than right in front of the cave, and I’d kind of like to know if there’s anything out there looking for us before we go in. If Idalia… if she’s hurt, we’re going to have to spend the night right here, and it’s going to have to be a place we can defend if we have to. Also, maybe you can find another way in. They might be watching this one.” Please, please, let him decide he’s the best one to do this because his woods skills are better than mine…
Jermayan studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
“Very well. You can break camp. Be ready to ride out the moment I get back. I won’t be long.”
Just be long enough, Kellen thought.
He watched as Jermayan saddled Valdien and rode away over the snow.
He hated running out on Jermayan this way—not that the Elven Knight would hesitate to do the same if their positions were reversed—but one man alone had a better chance than two down there in the caverns. Between the tarnkappa, and the fact that Kellen was going to risk a Finding Spell, Kellen was pretty sure he could get to Idalia wherever she was.
He shook out the tarnkappa and looked at Shalkan.
“I hope you can—” Kellen began.
Shalkan cleared his throat. The unicorn was looking over Kellen’s shoulder with a very odd expression on his long equine face.
Kellen whirled, dropping the tarnkappa to the snow, his hand going to his sword.
And stared.
He was face-to-face with a dragon.
A very large, very black dragon. Its head shimmered iridescently in the strong sunlight, the blackness of its armored plates sparkling with all the shades of a midnight opal: blue and gold and fire-red.
He’d seen dragons before, but only in visions, and then only from a distance. They had seemed vaguely lizardlike, but borne as much resemblance to the lizards of the forest as Shalkan did to a horse, and as li
ttle. Long sinuous necks, tails twice the length of their bodies, ending in a broad flat barb to help the creatures steer in the currents of the upper air—for most of all, dragons had wings.
This one was only a few feet away. Its head alone was the size of a boat, and took up so much of Kellen’s field of vision that he couldn’t see any of the details he remembered from his visions. It blinked golden pupilless eyes the size of large melons at him.
How had it gotten so close without him knowing? Why hadn’t he at least heard it? The thing was the size of a building—and not a little cottage, either—it should make some noise!
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