When Idalia finally regained control of her mount several minutes later and was able to pay attention to something other than Cella, the scene that met her eyes was barely-controlled chaos.
In the distance—at least a mile behind her—she could see the shimmer of Jermayan’s door. Leading away from it, there was a wide swath of trampled snow. The herds had simply … fled. Their handlers had not tried to stop them, for the most vital thing at the moment was to clear the area around the door itself. And many of the handlers had been thrown from wildly shying mounts as they came through. The Centaurs had carried them to safety, but Idalia could see blood on the snow. There were injured.
The Centaur army was scattered in clumps over a great distance, in two wide arcs to each side of the doorway, a ragged line of warriors almost a mile in length. Some of the Centaurs were sprawled in the snow, others had Elves mounted on their backs—the injured horse-handlers, Idalia guessed.
Riderless horses—those that had not simply followed the herd—were running everywhere.
It looked like the aftermath of a battle.
Few of the other riders that had come through the door at the same time she had fared much better than she and Cella, though most of the Mountainborn had at least stayed in the saddle. The important thing, now, was to keep the doorway clear.
She rode up to the nearest Centaur she saw.
“That stand of trees! It should be far enough from the door! We must move the injured there and reorganize!”
He nodded. The Unicorn Knights were already regrouped in good order, but they could not approach the main army. The Centaurs were scattered.
The Centaur Captain raised his horn to his lips. Compared to the sound of the Elven horns, it was harsh and strident, but it performed its task just as well. The Centaurs began re-forming into units, converging on the thicket of trees in the distance, and the Mountainfolk and the Healers followed.
In the distance, three sledges came through the door, side-by-side.
The oxen bawled in terror. They had been moving at what passed for a swift trot among their kind before, but now they shifted into an all-out panicked gallop, lunging forward across the well-beaten snow as fast as they could go.
If they run into each other—if the traces break—if one of them breaks a leg—
Then there would be a barrier in front of the door that no one could shift.
And the rest of the Elven Army would ride right into it, with no way of knowing what they were about to encounter.
But the others had seen the danger as well as she had. The Mountainborn Wildmages turned and rode back.
“I will Speak to them as they come,” a Wildmage named Ardir said, as the first three sledges thundered past, miraculously unscathed. “You all must help me.”
“Consent freely given, as is our aid,” Hudirg answered.
“Of course,” Idalia said. Behind her, she heard murmurs as the other Mountainborn each offered up his or her own consent.
The next team was already coming through. Behind the Wildmages, some Centaurs rushed to the heads of the lead yokes of the other ox-teams, grabbing their headstalls and turning them away from each other and slowing their headlong flight.
She had no time to think of Jermayan now, only to offer up a quick prayer to the Gods of the Wild Magic that Ardir’s spell—and Jermayan’s—would hold for as long as they needed it to.
Ardir took a handful of herbs from a pouch on his belt, quickly pulling off his glove and slashing his hand, moistening them with his blood.
He raised both hands, bare and gloved together, stretching them out toward the oxen coming through the doorway. Idalia could see his lips move, but heard no words.
Suddenly her senses seemed both sharpened and dimmed—sight was nearly gone; the world was a dim place of dull confusing shadows, but scent was now keen: she could smell snow, and wind, and an oncoming storm; the bright verdant scent of distant trees, withered grass beneath the snow, the possibility of a buried stream, horses, Centaurs, Men, other things for which she had no name.
And there was more.
It seemed as if she could suddenly feel the blind animal terror of the beasts at having been wrenched so suddenly out of the familiar world they knew—and then felt, as well, waves of soothing calm and love wash over her, stilling that terror and replacing it with the assurance that all was still well.
Though they had begun by bolting forward at the same dead run as the first three teams, this set finished by trotting forward gently, and allowing themselves to be led off by the next set of waiting Centaurs.
Over and over the same performance was repeated. The ox-teams would appear through the veil of light, panic-stricken and frenzied, and Ardir would speak to them with his magic, causing them to trot calmly away.
But such magic came at a price. Though only Ardir would pay the Mageprice for this spell, they were all giving Power to it, and Idalia had been exhausted to begin with. She had not hesitated, for the very survival of the army depended on keeping the doorway clear, but as team after team of oxen came through and was lulled, she felt as if her own life’s blood was being poured out with the spell.
She hardly believed her eyes when ox-carts were at last replaced by horses. The Elven Knights were riding through, moving over the beaten snow in a swift glitter of lances and armor. Though the destriers danced and shied at their passage through the door, they did not break ranks, nor once slow their headlong pace. The wall of Elven Knights swept across the snow like a sword-stroke, following the beaten path in the snow, clearing the way for those who came behind as fast as they could.
Redhelwar rode in their midst.
And as the last of them rode through the doorway, the shimmering dance of light… vanished.
It is done, Idalia thought.
It was the last thing she remembered.
Fourteen
In the Room of Autumn Birches
THE WORLD WITHOUT Sun was the true center of the universe, and all knowledge, whether good or bad, resonated there. When the ancient Power came back into the world, Savilla knew it. It summoned her out of her deepest contemplation, that state which a mere human might mistake for death, as she felt the painful tides of Light dispelled some of the web of glorious Darkness she had so painstakingly wrapped around the World Above.
And thicken the Veils she had worked so hard and so long to thin.
She rose from her bed, veiling herself in magic to keep from summoning all her Court into consciousness, for in the World Without Sun, all time was measured by the Queen, and when she Rose, so did all the Endarkened. And it was not her wish, just now, that this should happen. Alone and unadorned, she padded through a dark and silent world, her only companions the breath of the Deep Earth, and the cries—faintly heard—of the mortal captives in their slave pens, whose bodies still measured time by the lights in a sky they would never see again.
Her senses were keen, honed by the spells she had cast Rising after Rising.
She knew what had summoned her out of contemplation.
The Starry Hunt rode the world once more.
The doorway by which she had meant to bring He Who Is into the world once more was… closed.
But not locked.
Great as their power was, it was not great enough for that.
She was old in power and pride. A lesser Endarkened would have raged against this setback, this unspeakable defeat when victory was so near she could nearly sink her fangs into it.
But Savilla had stood upon the battlefield and watched Uralesse utterly humbled, his power broken by creatures who were less than vermin, the glorious power of the Endarkened at the time of their greatest strength cast down. With the ragged remains of her father’s Court, she had retreated to the World Without Sun, to spend centuries in furious contemplation of their losses. She had not spent them in anguished yearning for what might have been, but in scheming to destroy her father, so that she might take his place and lead her people to a greater glory.
She had patience. She had vision.
She had eaten Uralesse’s flesh and ascended to the Throne of Night.
She would not allow another defeat, no matter how maddening, to turn her mind from the victory that must belong to the Endarkened.
The door she had made, in blood and pain and endless sacrifice, was still there.
She could open it.
But to do so now would take a sacrifice greater than any she had offered up yet. A sacrifice made not in a place of Darkness, but of Light.
With a more powerful offering than even a unicorn’s death.
Or the death of a hundred unicorns.
But when she had accomplished this, she would rip the door between the worlds open so wide that that no power the Light could invoke could seal it again. He Who Is would be free to aid His creation once more, just as it had been in the glorious days of their beginning.
Savilla dispelled the veil of magic that surrounded her, and felt her Court begin to rouse.
There were plans to make.
The time of the final battle was nearly at hand.
And she meant to win it.
Once and for all time.
“YOU should have told us you were already paying Mageprice,” Marocht said reprovingly.
Idalia opened her eyes. The familiar roof of the Healer’s tent lay above her.
“You had cast a great spell recently, had you not?” the Wildmage Healer repeated, her weather-seamed face crinkled in disapproval as she gazed down at Idalia.
“I … yes,” Idalia admitted sheepishly. “But your need was great.”
“That’s as may be,” Marocht answered. “Perhaps not so great that we needed to lose you, Idalia.”
“Which, as it turns out, you have not,” Idalia pointed out reasonably. She struggled to sit up, and was rewarded with a blinding headache.
“Ah, but for a few days yet, you may wish you had been lost,” Marocht said with satisfaction. Marocht always took great satisfaction from seeing the worst possible side of anything. “Now I shall bring you a nice bowl of broth. After fasting so long, you will not be able to keep aught else down.”
“So long?” Idalia said, puzzled. “How long have I slept?”
“Three days. We have had time to reach the Gathering Plain, and make our camp here, carrying you with us like a bundle of hides for market. And shall be here a sennight more, I fear, while we seek out the horses and the rest of the cattle—though no doubt the silly nags will all come drifting back when they’re hungry enough. If they haven’t run all the way to Sentarshadeen by now. At least the unicorns can earn their keep by looking for them.”
Idalia did have to smile at that. Trust Marocht to come up with the notion of the Unicorn Knights earning their keep by becoming horse wranglers.
She lay back against the pillows. Even so short a conversation had exhausted her.
A few minutes later, Marocht came back with a large bowl of broth. To her surprise—though it should not really have come as one—Idalia was too weak to feed herself.
“Told you,” Marocht said with satisfaction.
“Was anyone else injured coming through?” Idalia asked, between spoonfuls of broth.
“Eh,” Marocht said dismissively. “Sprained ankles, cracked skulls, a broken wrist or two. Easily mended. Our spells have not worked so well or so fast since last spring. There must be luck in that door of Jermayan’s.”
“I suppose so,” Idalia said. For a moment she had actually managed to forget the price of being here, but now the grief of her loss rose up in her like weariness.
“You’re tired,” Marocht said firmly. “And the soup is gone. Sleep again. We will talk more later.”
FOR the next several days, Idalia did little more than eat and sleep. News slowly trickled in to her—courtesy of Marocht, who was wise enough to know that her patient would recover more swiftly if her inquisitiveness were kept satisfied.
Redhelwar had sent messengers to Halacira to let Kellen know that the army was now at Ondoladeshiron, and would be moving south as soon as possible. Messengers coming north from Sentarshadeen had brought their news in turn: Andoreniel continued to recover.
Most of the horses and oxen had been recovered, though a few had fallen afoul of predators, or had broken legs or necks in their headlong flights.
The army was ready to march.
One full sennight after Jermayan had cast his spell, the army stood in marching order upon the Gathering Plain, perhaps four moonturns before they would otherwise have reached it. Another fortnight, at most, would see them at Halacira.
A heavy wet snow was falling, and visibility was poor, but if they waited for good weather, they would wait here until spring. The Wildmages were still recovering from the spells they had cast to ease the passage of the oxen through the doorway, and would not wish to shift the weather in any event, lest they make it worse elsewhere. They would all simply have to endure. They should be able to ride out of the worst of the storm in a day or so, once they passed off of the Plains of Ondoladeshiron and into the forests of the lowlands surrounding Sentarshadeen. That terrain would have its own hardships—most of all the thick forests, which would make the passage of the ox-drawn sledges difficult—but at least they would be different ones.
Idalia sat in Cella’s saddle, in her place beside the Healers’ wagons. The loss of Jermayan was a dull ache in her chest. No one had spoken of it to her, and for that much she was grateful. Everyone here had suffered losses in the moonturns past; hers was no different for having come quietly, in a moment freely chosen, rather than in the wild melee of a battlefield, at the edge of an enemy’s blade.
The column had just started to move when there was a clamor of horns. After so long, she could decode the signals without effort. Enemy sighted. In the sky.
The column halted again. The skirmishing units deployed. She couldn’t see them from where she sat, but she could imagine their movements, nearly as clearly as if she possessed Kellen’s battle-sight: the groups of twelve under their sub-commanders fanning out from the column on each side, forging through the heavy snow and turning to face the enemy coming from above.
She wondered what it was. She knew that the Deathwings hated to fly in snowstorms, and they hadn’t been sighted south of the Mystrals, but the chance to strike at a prize as tempting as the full Elven Army would surely lure them out of hiding… .
Suddenly the horns sounded again.
A friend! A friend!
Idalia stood in her stirrups, scanning the sky.
A great black winged shape was sweeping toward the Elven Army, flying just below the clouds.
She knew that form.
Ancaladar.
Jermayan was alive.
She forced Cella through the press of riders around her, working her way to the edge of the column. The dragon was circling now, coming in for a landing.
It was not one of Ancaladar’s better landings.
The dragon did what could only be described as a belly-flop into the snow. Instead of back-pedaling with his wings, as he usually did, he simply folded them in and allowed himself to slide, until the snow heaped up enough in front of him to bring him to a stop.
Idalia urged Cella onward through the snow. Ahead of her trotted two of the skirmishing units, Redhelwar, Adaerion, and their adjutants.
They reached Jermayan and Ancaladar.
Even though she could see little of Jermayan beneath his furs and armor, it was not hard to see that both he and Ancaladar looked exhausted. Dazed. Even the dragon’s scales had lost their iridescence, and were the dull black of soot.
But they were here.
“I See you, Jermayan,” Redhelwar said calmly, looking up at Jermayan. “It is a thing I confess I had not expected to do again. But you come in a good hour. We were about to embark for Halacira, to rejoin the rest of the army. We were delayed here longer than we expected. The passage through your door was not without its moments of interest, and it has taken us n
early a sennight to gather up the herds and put the army into marching order again. While your door is a useful tool, I do not think it is one I shall employ again.”
“I See you, Redhelwar. And I say to you that it is welcome news that you do not wish me to open that door once more, for that is something I shall never be able to do again. But that is a tale that can be told another time. I would not wish to delay the army’s march. Ancaladar and I will scout ahead for you, as always, but do not, I pray you, look to us for more than warning of any danger, for we can give you no more than that.”
“That is all we will need,” Redhelwar answered firmly.
“It would gladden my heart were you to ride with us, Idalia,” Jermayan said, looking to her at last.
“Ancaladar?” Idalia asked. The dragon didn’t look as if he could take off at all, let alone with two passengers.
The black dragon swiveled his head to look at her. The golden eyes glowed with faint mirth.
“Idalia, you weigh nothing at all. You will not tire me, I promise you.”
She scrambled from her saddle to the dragon’s back, and quickly cinched the flying straps tight.
ANCALADAR was as good as his word. Though his landing had been a cause for concern, the dragon’s leap into the sky had something of his usual verve, though his takeoff run was far longer than any Idalia could ever remember. But at last he spread his great wings with their familiar snap, and rose swiftly into the air.
In moments they were above the clouds, into the brilliant—and much colder—upper air.
“You’re still alive,” she said unnecessarily. She leaned her head against Jermayan’s fur-covered back, reassuring herself that it was true.
“Alive,” he agreed.
There was a long pause.
“Idalia. I do not know how to explain what I do not understand. To make and hold such a portal as Ancaladar and I made to send the army through to Ondoladeshiron … it is the Great Spell that was given, long ago, to any who are Bonded to a dragon to cast. Not to open a door, perhaps, but one single spell of such power for each such Mage to cast once in his life, and it should have consumed us utterly. But as the door closed … the Starry Hunt… came for us,” Jermayan said.
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