THEY were crowned with stars.
Stars gleamed from their horses’ harnesses. Their horses’ bodies were the color of the night sky. Their armor was the gleaming silver of moonlight and midnight and the winter air itself.
There were hundreds of them. Thousands. As many as the stars in the sky.
Too many to count.
Too beautiful to look upon, and too terrible.
“Who summons me?” the Lord of the Starry Hunt demanded. His voice was voice of the stars themselves.
The power of the Shrine poured through her, making her whole body tremble. Idalia no longer felt the cold, nor anything she recognized as fear. It was if she had become nothing more than a voice for the Shrine, a tool to focus and channel its need through her own human desire.
“The Land calls you,” Idalia answered steadily. “The People call you. I call you. He Who Is would return to the world, and so we summon you.”
“And will you spill your own blood to save the land?”
In answer, Idalia pulled off her glove. She slashed the palm of her hand deeply with her knife and held it out to him. The blood welled up, and dripped to the ice at her feet.
The Lord of the Starry Hunt laughed. His laughter was the roaring of the wind.
He raised his warhorn, and blew a long wailing call. The sound of it shuddered through her body with a terrible sweetness verging upon pain, taking all her strength away with it.
“We ride!” she heard dimly, as consciousness left her. “We ride!”
WHEN she came to, Idalia was in a different place entirely. The light of earliest dawn streamed through the windows of a small house, and Jermayan was making tea.
The homely reality of such familiar surroundings anchored her to consciousness as nothing else could have. Nothing could have been more different from the last thing she remembered: the night, the frozen plain, the starry spectral riders. Those memories were already fading, as hard to hold on to as a dream. All that remained was the certainty that she had done what she had intended to. But the Power that she had summoned, though of the Light, was as inhuman in its way as the Endarkened were, and thoughts of it were as difficult for mortal minds to retain.
It was not hard to understand, now, why the Elves had let the memory of their Shrine slip away.
Her body was heavy with the weakness of utter exhaustion. Simply casting the spell of Summoning had exacted a high price. She could not imagine any way to have paid Mageprice for such magic, assuming one had been set.
“I was about to wake you. We are in Windalorianan, and I am preparing tea,” Jermayan told her, once he saw her move. “It was the nearest place I could think to bring you, but it is not safe to stay here long.”
“Not that I would wish to, in any event,” Idalia answered.
She sat up. Several hours’ sleep had given her the strength for that, at least.
Though Windalorianan had been abandoned in good order by its inhabitants, it had not been possible for the refugees to bring away every possession, and obviously Jermayan had spent some time scavenging the ghost-city as she slept. The stove of the little house—from the look of it, a guest-house, similar to the one she and Kellen shared in Sentarshadeen, if a little smaller—was stoked to warmth with charcoal disks, and she had slept before it wrapped not only in her own cloak, but in an assortment of furs and blankets.
“I am astonished to discover that they left tea behind,” Idalia said, stretching.
“Not the tea, but the teaservice,” Jermayan said, correcting her. “I always carry tea.”
His words were light, but his dark eyes looked haunted. The Elves were a supremely civilized folk—had been so before Idalia’s own distant ancestors had learned to clothe themselves. The Powers she had summoned up and set loose last night, the Powers Jermayan’s own ancestors had once sworn fealty to, were anything but civilized. No wonder he looked so haggard.
“So my Summoning worked,” she said. “And will do—I think, I hope—what I mean it to, and set a shield between the world and He Who Is, so that he cannot enter. But it would be good to know what you saw, as well.”
“I saw that which I wish never to see again,” Jermayan answered quietly. He poured the boiling water into the teapot, which stood ready. “Idalia, we are no longer a people of magic, nor of the High Gods. Our part in these things we set aside long ago, passing the custodianship of these arts to younger races. To command the Great Magics myself … this I accept, for our need is dire. And Ancaladar’s company gives me great joy. But to look upon the Starry Hunt … to know they once more ride the winds … to know that, were I to call out to them, the Star-Crowned might ride to my side on the field of battle … Idalia, it makes my heart wonder what place may be left for Men, Elves, and Centaurs upon such a battlefield.”
He bowed his head. Several strands of his long black hair had worked their way loose from the warrior’s braid coiled at the back of his neck, and fell across his face. Idalia leaned forward and brushed them back gently.
“It is our fight most of all, Jermayan,” she said softly. “They’ll only fight where we can’t. They certainly won’t do our work for us. The Wild Magic draws its power from us, and I think—no, I know—that strange as they are, the Starry Hunt is still a part of that. If we won’t fight—or aren’t willing to—they won’t, either.”
“Then we must each play our part, no matter how large or small,” Jermayan said, raising his head. “And not scorn to do the task we are set, even though it seems small and inconsequential in comparison to what others may do.”
“Fine talk coming from an Elven Mage,” Idalia said.
Jermayan smiled, and poured tea.
HE was right that they could not afford to stay in Windalorianan long. Although he had sealed the Gatekeeper’s Pass between the rest of the Northern Triad and Lerkalpoldara when he had brought Magarabeleniel and her people out, the Shadow creatures that had filled the Bazrahil Valley had long since found other ways over the mountains, and more had since come in over the borders of the Elven Lands. Even as they finished their tea, Jermayan and Idalia could hear Coldwarg howling in the distance.
“Time to go,” Idalia said, setting down her cup.
They dressed quickly, and walked outside.
The sky was black with the clouds of an oncoming storm, but no snow had fallen as yet. Ancaladar stood crouched in the street, his vast body filling the entire width of it.
Idalia was still exhausted from the Summoning—that and ravenous—but she was neither so hungry nor tired that she wished to remain in a city that was about to play host to a hunting-pack of Coldwarg, and whatever might be with them. Jermayan helped her to mount. She buckled the straps as tight as she could, only then noticing that the cut she had made in her hand the night before was gone. Not even a scar remained.
Jermayan’s magic. Or Theirs. She didn’t really care which at the moment.
As soon as they were both safely mounted, Ancaladar took off down the street at a dead run. The city had been deserted for moonturns; drifts of snow sprayed up around him as he galloped. Within moments they were outside the city, in the fields of Vardirvoshanon. Here the wind was nearly as brutal as it had been on the ice-plain, and Ancaladar took expert advantage of it, spreading and lifting his wings and allowing the blast to spin him up into the sky like a storm-tossed leaf.
Once he was airborne, they made a low sweeping pass over the city. In the gray light of dawn they could see how the snow had drifted up over most of the houses, giving Windalorianan a sad haunted aspect. The snow-dunes were crisscrossed by animal tracks, and in the distance, racing over the snow, their dappled white fur making them shimmer in the pale light, were a pack of Coldwarg over a hundred strong.
“It would be interesting to know what they’re finding to eat,” Idalia commented. Kellen had told her that one of the first things the Coldwarg did when they came into an area was despoil it of game, and they’d certainly been here long enough to eat everything edible.
Ancaladar tilted a wing, and began a low run directly over the Coldwarg.
As he reached them, Jermayan stretched out a hand, and the entire pack burst into flames.
For a moment, the blackening bodies danced in frenzied agony upon the snow before collapsing into ash.
Then Ancaladar turned south again, beating his wings in hard downward strokes to carry them up through the clouds.
IT was only a short while later before they began their descent once more.
“We can’t be at Sentarshadeen already,” Idalia said.
“No,” Jermayan agreed. “But the army is below us. I wish to speak to Redhelwar. There is an … idea I have.”
IT was madness.
Madness equal to the Summoning of the Starry Hunt.
But it would take two moonturns, three, even more, for the army to reach even Ondoladeshiron, and that was too long. Armethalieh would long since have fallen, and They would have won.
They needed the army south of the Mystrals now.
THEY were only half a sennight out of Ysterialpoerin, and such an enormous force could not move quickly. At four hours past dawn, the army had barely begun to move, and its line of march, from the Unicorn Knights at the head to the remount herd at the tail, covered two leagues.
Jermayan circled the army once—to warn Redhelwar of his presence—and landed.
“I’m hungry,” Ancaladar said plaintively.
“Come to that …” Idalia said.
“I believe matters can be arranged,” Jermayan said, with a small smile. “Though I fear—for us—the food will be cold.”
“I’ll settle,” Idalia said.
They unbuckled their flying harnesses and dismounted. Both of them sank into the snow to their thighs before it packed hard enough to give them purchase. Even Jermayan found it difficult to move gracefully through that. They began wading through it toward the army, Idalia following in Jermayan’s tracks.
Redhelwar met them halfway.
“I See you, Jermayan, Idalia.”
“We See you, Redhelwar,” Jermayan replied. “We come with fair news.”
“Then you come in a good hour indeed.”
He turned in his saddle and signaled to Ninolion, who rode up leading two destriers. Jermayan and Idalia mounted quickly, grateful to get out of the snow.
“It would please me were you to inform the army that we will be halting here for a short time,” Redhelwar informed Ninolion. The adjutant raised the horn he carried to his lips and blew a complicated series of notes. In moments the horn call echoed up and down the line, as other horn-bearers took up the signal and relayed it.
Redhelwar turned back to Jermayan expectantly.
“My news is long. And Ancaladar informs me he is exceptionally hungry. As, I fear, are we,” Jermayan said.
“Then Ancaladar’s needs must be met at once,” Redhelwar agreed promptly. “And you will take tea and breakfast as you give your news.”
BY the time Jermayan had returned from leading a pair of oxen out to Ancaladar, a shelter had been erected—one of the simple roof-and-sides on poles used to provide quick shelter at the edge of the battlefield. But with a carpet underfoot, and braziers to warm it, it seemed luxury indeed.
As promised, there was tea, and a selection of filled pastries as well. Idalia was sitting on a folding stool already eating when Jermayan stepped inside, having just returned from leading Ancaladar’s breakfast out to him.
“To begin,” Jermayan said, “in crossing the Mystrals, Kellen destroyed the Shadewalker that laired in the pass. Its presence goes far to explain why there had been no word from Sentarshadeen for so long; no message-riders could pass in either direction while it lived. The caverns at Halacira were indeed the last Enclave of the Shadowed Elves, so that blight upon our lands is ended; they have been cleansed, by Vestakia’s word. Kellen’s force sustained only minor losses, and Kellen himself is well. Even now Artenel and his Artificers prepare the caverns for their new use. Though the plague has struck heavily at Sentarshadeen, and two of the King’s Council, Sorvare and Ainalundore, have gone to the trees, An-doreniel himself recovers, with the help of the same medicines we have used to such good effect at Ysterialpoerin. Kellen has sent three Wildmages to the city, to ensure that there will be no shortage of potent medicine to treat plague-sufferers.”
“Leaf and Star,” Redhelwar breathed, making a quick gesture over his heart.
“Yet it was that we had wondered why it was that we could not Heal those afflicted with the Shadow’s Kiss directly, and why it was that the powers of the Wild Magic seemed to be in eclipse across the land, while Their powers grew stronger,” Jermayan went on, as calmly as if he were not telling of disastrous horror. “Vestakia had the answer for that as well, and Idalia had the solution. She has called up for us a great ally, one who has not walked our world since before Great Queen Vielissar Farcarinon riddled with dragons. Of this I shall say no more, save that our great Enemy shall be much surprised—and, I think, weakened.”
“Then we owe you a debt greater than we shall ever be able to repay, Idalia,” Redhelwar said, after a long pause.
“ ‘WHAT harms one harms all, beneath the canopy of Leaf and Star,’” Idalia quoted simply. She poured tea for Jermayan, and refilled her own mug and Redhelwar’s as well. Several pastries, and a couple of mugs of strong Elven Allheal tea had gone a long way to rebuilding her strength, though a nice long nap wouldn’t hurt.
“Now, in the time of Their weakness and confusion, would be the time to strike,” Redhelwar said, his voice even. “Perhaps even, as Kellen wishes, to deny Them Armethalieh. But it cannot be. Kellen’s force is too few to stand against what legions They might bring into the field. And mine is here. It will be spring by the time I have brought the army to Halacira, and our losses crossing the Mys-trals may be … not what I would choose.”
“Perhaps that need not be,” Jermayan said.
Idalia set down her mug and looked at him.
“You know that in ancient days, the Elven Mages could do many things that seem not like simple magic as we know it, but beyond the dreams of the possible,” Jermayan said. “I have been speaking to Ancaladar. He tells me that what I imagine can be done. It is not without cost,” he added quietly. “But the cost will be ours alone to bear. If it works, you need but take your army through a … door … we shall make, of four rods’ width. You will ride out the other side upon the Gathering Plain, having traveled but a few yards in seeming. You need not cross the Mystrals at all.”
“This must be a very great spell indeed,” Redhelwar said.
“It will take all the magic we have to cast it,” Jermayan said. “You must go as quickly as you can, for to hold the door open will take great effort.”
All the magic? Idalia thought, with a sudden sharp pang of suspicion. But Ancaladar was a creature of magic. If Jermayan poured all of Ancaladar’s magic into this one spell, Ancaladar would die. And if Ancaladar died, Jermayan would die as well. They were Bonded, linked by the strongest of ties.
Suddenly she realized what Jermayan intended, and what it would cost.
“Then we shall do so,” Redhelwar said. He was no Mage, but he knew as well as Idalia did what Jermayan intended. “I shall go now and give orders to the army. We must re-form, to take best advantage of your spell.” He paused. “You understand, Jermayan, that I can leave no one behind.”
“I understand,” Jermayan said. “I shall hold the door for as long as you need.”
Redhelwar left the shelter. A few moments later Idalia heard the horns begin to sound again, mixed with the babble of voices, as new orders were given.
“Jermayan!” she said.
“You must go with them, of course, Idalia,” he said calmly. They will need Healers. And you will not wish to be alone here, when the spell is run.”
She nodded.
Somehow she’d always thought th
ey’d have more time, even if not much more. That she’d be the first to die. Something.
She took his hand, imagining the feel of flesh against flesh through the heavy gauntlets they both wore against the cold.
“I would not do this, were it not vital,” he said, answering words she could not bring herself to speak. “The army is useless here. Through luck and chance, They have accomplished what They have always wished to do—divided our forces while They work Their evils elsewhere. I can undo this foul mischance, and I will. Kellen would do as much, had he the power. So would you, or Cilarnen, or any of us.”
“I know,” she answered steadily.
She had already given up as much. That she had not yet been called to pay her Mageprice was luck, nothing more.
They sat together, quietly, drinking tea, until Redhelwar came to tell them that the army was in position.
INSTEAD of a narrow column of march, the army was now assembled into a broad—and much shorter—series of ranks. The Unicorn Knights were at the fore, as always, while behind them was the remount herd and the loose livestock with their handlers. Behind them stood the Centaurs.
But behind the Centaurs were the supply wagons.
Redhelwar was right. Without his supply train—the Healers and their medicines, the tents, the fodder for the animals, the food for the Men, Elves, and Centaurs, the equipment to repair tack and armor, the army was all-but-crippled. There were some things here that could not be replaced at all, and others that could not be replaced quickly. Redhelwar must have them all in order to fight.
But the supply train was the slowest-moving part of the army. For Jermayan to hold the door long enough for it to pass through might be a magic beyond his strength.
Behind the supply train stood the ranks of Elven Knights. Once the huge, slow-moving, ox-drawn sledges were through, the Knights would move fast enough. And if, by some terrible mischance, they were cut off, and marooned upon this side of the Mystrals, they, of all the elements of Redhelwar’s army, were best equipped to make their own way across the mountains alone and rejoin it.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 206