by Maggie Furey
Taine sighed. ‘Sometimes we walk on a very sharp knife edge between right and wrong. When that happens, blood is certain to be spilled and the survivors are left to live with the consequences.’ He shook his head. ‘We did what had to be done. I don’t want to talk about it.’
The Dwelven spirit, one of the lithe, active Sidrai, led Taine down several flights of stairs and a maze of narrower, unadorned passageways, until they came to Hellorin’s little-used dungeons, a single corridor lined with barred doors on either side. The air smelled stale and dank, and the place was badly lit, with only the occasional pale, flickering flame, kept alive by magic, in a sconce attached to the wall. The phantom slipped between the bars of the first door on the right, where a figure, his face unseen, lay huddled in a corner. Taine, lacking the abilities of his companion to slip through walls, was forced to use one of the lockpicks he’d accumulated in his years as a spy, for there were no gaolers or guards in sight. ‘Cyran?’ he called softly, as he worked on the mechanism. ‘My Lord Archwizard, is that you?’
A pale face, smudged with grime, emerged from the shadows in the corner. ‘Taine?’ The voice, though hoarse and croaking, belonged to Cyran. ‘Can it really be true?’
‘Unless I have a twin that I don’t know about.’ Taine gave his wrist a sharp twist and the lock finally clicked open. He ran across to Cyran, who was fettered in the corner. ‘Archwizard, are you all right? How in Creation did you end up here?’
At first Cyran’s words were lost in a fit of coughing, but when he got his breath back he replied, ‘I was captured, isn’t it obvious? They killed Nara and Baxian, but one of them recognised me and they brought me back here.’
‘Where did they catch you?’
‘We were following Avithan’s trail.’ There was a catch in Cyran’s voice as he mentioned his son’s name. ‘We ended up in a clearing where the ground was all churned up and there were signs of a funeral pyre . . .’
With the night vision that was part of his Wizard legacy, Taine saw Cyran’s face crease with pain. ‘The pyre you saw was for Esmon,’ he said hastily. ‘Your son did not die in that clearing.’
Like a striking snake, Cyran’s hand shot out and grabbed the front of Taine’s shirt, the sturdy cotton bunching and twisting in his knotted grasp. ‘Then what did happen to Avithan, spy? Why did you fail to protect him, as you were sent to do?’
Staggered by the unfairness of this, Taine was about to point out that it was Cyran who’d sent his son out into danger in the first place, but just in time he remembered that the Archwizard was overcome with grief and guilt, and he held his peace. ‘Avithan has gone from this world but he did not die.’ He kept his voice level and matter-of-fact. ‘He was taken beyond the reality we know to try to heal wounds so terrible that they would certainly have killed him, had he remained.’ Firmly, he prised open Cyran’s fingers and loosed them from his shirt. ‘This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this, Archwizard. We must leave, and quickly.’
Cyran’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘I’m not going anywhere before I know—’
Taine’s fist lashed out so fast that the Archwizard never saw it coming, and he caught Cyran as he crumpled. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered, though his voice was gentle with understanding. Quickly, he freed the fetters from the older man and slung him over his shoulder, grunting as he took the strain then, staggering slightly under the weight, carried him out of the dungeon.
He only hoped that when Cyran came round, he wouldn’t bear any grudges.
Still guided by his Dwelven phantom he carried the limp form out of the palace and finally saw the dim light of the courtyard outside, shining ahead of him through the great doors. He stumbled out into the open and down the steps, taking grateful gulps of fresh air as he went, glad to be out of that dreadful charnel-house stench once more. He slung Cyran across his horse’s back, and led the beast back to Aelwen and Kaldath. Cyran was already starting to stir and moan as he lowered him gently to the ground. Taine laid a hand on his forehead, and gently cast a spell to keep him asleep for just a little while longer. This was not the time to be distracted by explanations.
‘This is the Archwizard Cyran, leader of the Wizardfolk,’ Taine explained, in answer to his companions’ unspoken questions. ‘The stupid idiot came hunting his son and got himself captured. Poor sod.’ He looked up at Aelwen and Kaldath, who were still mounted. ‘How’s it going?’
‘As far as the Dwelven can tell, almost all the Phaerie have been found,’ Kaldath replied. ‘The last few survivors are being hunted down as we speak, and as for—’
He was interrupted by a triumphant cry in mindspeech from Iriana. ‘We’ve done it! We’re leaving with the Xandim now.’
‘Don’t wait for us,’ Taine urged her. ‘Get them over the border and back to Tyrineld as fast as you can.’
‘We will. Taine, we lost Tiolani. She’s heading your way through the tunnel, I think. Keep your eyes open.’
‘Thanks, little sister. I will.’ Taine suddenly found a smile on his face, and wondered how it had come to be there. ‘Take care of yourself – we’ll catch you as soon as we can.’
‘You take care of yourself too. Corisand says don’t delay. She doesn’t know how long she can keep your flying spells going as the distance widens between us.’ He heard the worry in her voice. ‘Hurry, Taine. Do what you have to do, and get out of there.’
‘I will. Stay safe, little sister.’
Taine turned back to the others. ‘That was Iriana. She said—’
‘We heard what she said.’ Aelwen was looking at him with a frown and, belatedly, he realised that the foolish grin was still on his face. He scowled at her. She had no right to criticise anyone. He was about to tell her so, when he remembered the sickening carnage within the palace, and his own reaction to it. Aelwen had foreseen what must happen, and now, whether he condoned it or not, he could understand her hesitation – and besides, the battle had been won despite her lapse. There was no point in bearing any grudges. ‘I’ve sent some Dwelven into the tunnel to look for Tiolani.’ Kaldath cut through the tension.
Taine was grateful for the distraction. He and Aelwen could discuss their differences at a more appropriate time.
For a little while they waited in the corpse-strewn courtyard, trying not to listen to the curses and wails of the terrified Phaerie survivors, herded and penned tightly into their corner by the snarling Dwelven spirits. Aelwen, unable to bear the sight of what she and her companions had wrought, turned her back on them all – friends, phantoms and captives alike – and looked up into a sky that had grown dark with stormclouds. She had heard the storm; seen the bolts of lightning and grey curtains of pelting hail, but they had been localised over the stable area beyond the city during the fight to free the Xandim. She could still feel the residue of the magic battle that had taken place scraping her skin raw like a jagged blade.
Far away across the forest, she could see the streak of luminosity that was the escaping Xandim horses; her love, her joy, her life. What would she do now, without them? Was her beautiful Taryn among them? He must be, for he had been left behind with the other mounts when she had been forced to apport out of the city. What would he be like in a body similar to her own? Would he ever be able to forgive her? Would any of them?
Suddenly a terrified Asharal came bolting riderless across the courtyard, and a sudden commotion broke out beside the tunnel: the sound of shrieks and curses in a familiar voice, distorted by a savage mix of anger and fear.
‘No, no, let me go. I command you!’
Aelwen darted out to catch Asharal, and returned with him to Taine, her mind in a turmoil of anguish and doubt. ‘They’ve found her.’
He nodded. ‘Finally. Maybe now we can finish this – if we can persuade her to cooperate.’
‘Don’t let them hurt her.’ There. She had said it. The words were out that drew a line between herself and Taine.
Taine took a deep breath. ‘She’s no good to us dead, Aelwen. Bu
t the Dwelven must be freed; you know that, and having come this far, I don’t think they’ll be too scrupulous in achieving their goal. If you don’t want Tiolani hurt, then you’d better persuade her to be sensible – and you’d better do it quickly.’
A number of the swift-moving Sidrai Dwelven herded the girl towards the centre of the courtyard where Taine and Aelwen stood with Kaldath. Cyran lay beside them, only half-conscious, his head pillowed on a discarded Phaerie cloak. The heir to the Phaerie realm was looking distinctly the worse for wear. Somewhere in her flight from the phantoms she had fallen, probably in the tunnel, for her face and clothes were smeared with dirt, her right cheek was scraped, her riding clothes were ripped on the right elbow with blood oozing through from an abrasion beneath, and her knees were lacerated.
As the Dwelven herded her, step by reluctant step, across the courtyard, her eyes suddenly left her tormentors and rose to meet a face that had been familiar to her since the day she was born. ‘Aelwen!’ She spat out the name, fury exploding within her at the treachery of one who had always been so close to her, although some part of her heart yearned towards the Horsemistress, the only living family that she had left – unless Hellorin should return.
Aelwen opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to be frozen inside her. The tall half-blood beside her – Taine, Tiolani remembered from the meeting in Athina’s tower – glanced at Aelwen with a flicker of concern, then he turned back to Tiolani, his eyes hard and flat. ‘Aelwen didn’t betray you when we left you behind,’ he said. ‘Not deliberately. When we were ambushed by Cordain she couldn’t apport three. She knew they wouldn’t kill you, but she and I: our lives were forfeit. We had to be the ones to go.’
‘And you return as enemies.’ Hellorin’s daughter hadn’t known that she had so much hatred within her. ‘Treacherous filth! What have you done to my city, my people? How dare you bring these – these things to attack the Phaerie?’ She glared at Aelwen. ‘You’re no kin of mine. You’re nothing but a stinking traitor, and I should never have believed you.’
Aelwen’s eyes flashed: she found her voice at last. Deliberately she reached out and took the hand of the old, old man, a stranger to Tiolani, who stood beside her. ‘These things, as you call them, are the Dwelven. They were also a race; happy, peaceful and hardworking. Your father enslaved them, just as he enslaved the Xandim, centuries before you were born, and set them to work his gem mines in the mountains. When they finally rebelled he slaughtered them all; males, females, infants, the old and the young. You’ve heard all the stories of the Haunted Isle? Well, that was where Taine and I apported to the day we left you, and there we met the spirits of the Dwelven race and Kaldath here, who was their steward in the mines, and for taking their side was condemned by your father to a half-life, a shadow existence among the ghosts for all eternity. I agree that the revenge of the Dwelven has been a terrible thing, and I have hated and mourned the destruction I have seen tonight – but can you not see that vengeance is the only thing that Hellorin left them?’
She paused and looked straight at Tiolani. ‘Are you your father’s daughter?’ Her voice rang out in challenge. ‘Can you truly support his actions?’
‘Is it any worse than the vile abomination you’ve wrought tonight?’ Tiolani snapped back at her. ‘The streets of this city – your city – are awash with Phaerie blood. Can you say you’re any better than my father? Renegades.’ She spat out the last word with contempt.
‘Call it what you will, we’re here to correct Hellorin’s atrocities.’ Taine stepped forward. ‘When he slaughtered the Dwelven he cursed them, preventing their spirits from ever resting and keeping them imprisoned in this world for all eternity. You are the Forest Lord’s last surviving heir. Only you have the power to free these poor souls, trapped between life and death as ghosts over so many cruel years. Let them go, Tiolani. Put right your father’s ancient wrong. Then the city will be yours again. You can rebuild, and make a new start. You have a chance to take the Phaerie in a new direction, one of peace, fairness and cooperation, instead of enslavement, fear and secrets. You hold the key to a golden future, heir to the Phaerie realm, if you will only free your race from the shadows of the past.’
‘Fine talk!’ Tiolani scoffed. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? What golden future can the Phaerie expect now that you’ve taken the Xandim from us? Without them and with our dreadful losses tonight we’ll be weakened; easy prey for your friends the Wizards of the south.’
Suddenly Cyran, who had been lying by Taine’s side, sat up and staggered to his feet. ‘You would be right to fear us,’ he snarled. ‘You sent an assassin to kill my son, an emissary coming to you in good faith with overtures of peace. If I had my way, I would wipe every one of your accursed race from the face of the earth.’
‘Cyran!’ Taine turned on the Archwizard with a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘I grieve for your pain, my Lord, but this isn’t helping. You and the Lady Tiolani have both suffered dreadful losses. There is no excuse for what she did – save that she did it when she was out of her mind with grief for her lost father and murdered brother, and under the influence of the poison that a conniving traitor poured into her ears. Surely, even amid all this death and destruction, a way can be found to set things right? For you yourself have foreseen the appalling visions of what will happen if war breaks out. Indeed, is that not why you sent Avithan and Iriana to the Phaerie in the first place? Only think what devastation might come to pass if you take the wrong step now. Only if the two of you are willing to let go of the past can there be any future for Phaerie and Magefolk alike.’
His words fell on deaf ears. Cyran and Tiolani continued to glare at each other; obdurate and united in their mutual hatred. As the silence stretched out, Taine and Aelwen exchanged concerned glances. How could they possibly break such a stalemate?
Then Kaldath let go of Aelwen’s hand and stepped forward. The usual kindliness had vanished from his face, and the gentleness from his wise old eyes. Now he looked implacable, his expression cold and hard as stone. ‘Enough of this,’ he grated. ‘Daughter of Hellorin, remove the curse from these Dwelven spirits – for if you do not, I will instruct them to kill all of your subjects, one by one, right here in front of you. You will be left to wander, alone and friendless, the last of your kind in an empty city, with only these phantoms to cluster round you day and night, a constant reminder of how you failed your people.’
Tiolani turned sickly white as all the blood drained from her face. She began to tremble so hard that she could barely stand. ‘You can’t,’ she gasped.
‘I can,’ Kaldath replied remorselessly. ‘I will.’
Tiolani broke. She covered her face with her hands, twisting away from his gaze. ‘All right,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ll do it. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.’
Almost unconsciously, Aelwen stepped forward with distress on her face, ready to comfort the girl, but Taine took her arm in a grip of iron and held her back. ‘I’m sorry, Aelwen,’ he said softly in mind-speech, ‘but this has to be.’
Kaldath pulled Tiolani’s hands from her face and took hold of her chin, turning her face until she met his eyes. ‘Say what I tell you to say.’ Then he began to speak.
In a shaky voice, Tiolani repeated, ‘I, Hellorin’s heir, heart of his heart, blood of his blood, bone of his bone, do release you spirits of the slaughtered Dwelven from the curse my father laid upon you long ago. No more are you shackled to this world. You are free to depart, to seek rest, and find peace at last.’
Following her words, there was utter silence across the city. It was as if the very world stood still. Then with a great sigh of joy, relief, release, the spirits of the Dwelven race, captive no more, shimmered brightly then dissolved, like silver vapour blowing away on the cool night wind – and as they vanished, Kaldath crumpled to the ground.
Taine and Aelwen knelt quickly, Aelwen cradling the old man’s head on her lap. Kaldath’s face broke into a beatific smile as he looked at them, and
he raised his hand to gently touch the tears on Aelwen’s face. ‘Farewell, dearest friends, and blessings be upon you for what you have done this night.’ He let out a long happy sigh. ‘Now I can rest at last.’ Then his hand fell limply away and he was gone, his body crumbling before their eyes to ancient dust that whirled away, like the shades of the Dwelven, on the wings of the night.
‘Rest well, my friend,’ Taine whispered. ‘You have done great deeds tonight.’ Then he wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled Aelwen to her feet. ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘Any minute now those Phaerie will realise they’re free. We’ve got to get out of here before they do.’
In the Elsewhere, Hellorin was raging as he watched and listened to the defeat of his people in the mirror-like patch of ice on the floor of Aerillia’s great hall. The gigantic Moldan watched with him, repeatedly glancing down into the ice as events unfolded in the mundane world, then up at the Phaerie Lord, watching his wrath with the faintest of smiles on her face. Hellorin did not notice her scrutiny. She might as well have been invisible to him as he repeatedly smashed his fist into the floor, shouting and cursing in impotent fury as he watched the carnage the Dwelven were wreaking among his people, and the escape of the Xandim, enslaved with such trouble so long ago, whose abilities to use the flying spell had increased his power a hundredfold.
Then as Cyran was brought out of the palace by that filthy, half-blood traitor Taine, he leapt to his feet and savagely turned on her. ‘Liar,’ he snarled at the Moldan. ‘You said I would have a chance to get home. You told me there would come a moment—’
‘Yes, I did,’ Aerillia said coolly, showing no concern whatsoever in the face of his wrath. ‘And it will. When the Dwelven spirits are released, such a mass migration between the worlds and through the Well of Souls will weaken the boundaries for an instant, and—’
