Come now, say me the riddle again, that I may know that you have it fast in your mind."
Aeriel recited the rime to him then, and indeed it was as clear in her memory as if she had known it since childhood:
"On Avaric's white plain,
where the icarus now wings
To steeps of Terrain
from tour-of-the-kings,
And damoiels twice-seven
his brides have all become:
Afar cry from heaven
and a long road from home—
Then strong-hoof of the starhorse
must hallow him unguessed
If adamant's edge is to plunder his breast.
Then, only, may the Warhorse
and Warrior arise To rally the warhosts, and thunder
the skies."
The little man folded his arms and nodded as he listened.
"Well enough, then. Good, child. Do not forget it." He unfolded his arms. "Now, as I told you, I do not know how long this journey will take you. I shall try to delay the vampyre, and I shall send you a helpmate if I can." He started. "Oh, I almost forgot."
He reached into one of his many hidden pockets and pulled out a little sack of black velvet, drawn together at the top with a drawstring. He handed it to her.
"I have put ample provisions in there for your journey," he said.
Aeriel gazed at the bag in bewilderment. It lay light and limp in her hand. "But it's empty," she said.
The duarough smiled. "Not so. Pull it open and look inside."
Aeriel did so. The interior was black and filled with nothing.
"Now close your eyes and reach inside," the duarough instructed.
Aeriel obeyed. She felt something smooth and round, the size of a fist. She pulled it out.
It was a pale golden fruit.
"Reach in again," the duarough told her.
This time Aeriel pulled out an oyster, still damp and cold in its shell. Bidden again by the duarough, she reached in once more and pulled out a handful of almonds. Again—a steamed crayfish wrapped in rushes. Again—a bunch of white grapes. She looked at the duarough. He smiled modestly, blushing a trace.
"Oh yes, my dear, I am a bit of a magician. One can't help but learn a thing or two in—"
A shout interrupted him, and then a crash far upstream, several chambers away. It sounded as though some heavy door had just been thrown aside. Aeriel gasped. The duarough paled.
"By the Pendarlon," he murmured, "he's found the way out already. I am not half the magician I thought I was. Quick, girl, into the boat."
Aeriel had no time to think, or even to say a word. The duarough was hurrying her into the little craft, which, for all its lightness, hardly dipped when she stepped in and settled herself on the cross-plank behind the mast. She replaced the golden melon and other foodstuffs in the black velvet sack and slipped it onto her sash.
Meanwhile the duarough freed the mooring from the stake and the skiff leapt away from shore like a steed given its head. He scarcely had time to toss in the cord before she was out of reach. Aeriel turned and would have called some farewell, save that the duarough put his finger to his lips and gestured back upstream toward where the vampyre must be, though they heard no more noise.
Aeriel had just raised her hand to wave, when Wind-on-the-Water sped through the archway into the next chamber and the little man behind on shore was lost to her sight.
Aeriel sat motionless, gazing astern. She felt suddenly abandoned and alone. After a moment, she sighed and dropped her hand, then turned and looked ahead to see where the river led.
8. Quest and Flight
The journey was long and at the same time swift. The river veered first right, then left, and seemed to be descending in a strange, irregular spiral through the rock on which the vampyre's castle rested. It ran down, ever down, through an endless series of natural chambers. Some were huge and wide, filled with curtains and columns, and pointed pedestals of crystal lime. Others were long and low, more tunnels than chambers.
In one, there was an opening in the wall through which she could see the stars. In their pale light and the brighter, warmer glow of the river, she saw that this was the haven of the bats. They flew in and out of the opening and through the cave like silver moths, and many of them clung to the walls and ceilings, like a mass of withered leaves. Their twittering, what she could hear of it, was high and wild and airy thin. Aeriel laughed and was surprised to hear how thick and deep her voice sounded next to theirs.
Another chamber, hours later, farther down into the heart of the mountain, was latticed with silver combs dripping honey like liquid amber. The great stingless bees that tended the combs were greyish-gold with bands of rose, and covered with velvet fur. She watched them crawling about their waxworks, building the six-sided chambers, filling them with sweet, thick honey, feeding their pale, formless young. On the far side of the room, on the greatest comb of all, Aeriel beheld the queen—larger than the rest, surrounding by her nurses and clumsy drones.
Then, much farther on, after Aeriel had drifted into sleep, she awoke to find herself in the greatest chamber she had yet seen. It was huge and dark. She could not see the limit before or behind. What she could see was the ceiling above dotted with glowworms, whose pale yellow light burned like phosphor. The air itself was filled with fireflies that hovered in the dark like candle flames. The stream ran nearly flat here, and Aeriel realized it must have emerged from the mountain now and be running under the plains.
The cave of the glowworms ran on and on. She fell asleep again and dreamed she was riding through deep heaven, surrounded by the stars.
When next she awoke, the first thing she thought was that she was still in the cave of the glowworms, but then she noticed that the lights overhead were smaller, silver, and Oceanus shone hoary blue in the middle heavens off to the right. There was a narrow beach on either side of her, then low, steep banks. The second thing she noticed was that her little craft was no longer moving. Its sail was full and it still bounced and bobbed in the bright water of the stream, but it had run aground on a little sandy shoal.
She got out of the boat to try to free it, but before she could do so much as lay a hand on it, it bounded away from her, merry as a greyhound. Then Aeriel remembered that she must abandon the little boat anyway, now that she had reached the plain; it was as well it had abandoned her. She checked to see that the small velvet bag was still firmly tied to her belt, then walked across the beach and scrambled up the bank.
At the top of the bank, she looked back at the stream, for a last view of JVind-on-the-Wdter, but she saw no sign of her—only a great heron winging low over the river running. The bird shone very white, whiter than pure snow in the earth-shine. It beat its wings twice, veered right and rose out of the gorge into the nightdark sky. Aeriel watched it sail away over the plain toward Oce-anus.
The wind blew over Avaric, bowing the grass and lifting Aeriel's hair. She laughed. She had not realized how much the vampyre's castle had oppressed her until now that she was free of it. Looking back, she saw it only as a tiny point on the far horizon. She said the rime then once more, softly to herself:
"On Avaric's white plain,
where the icarus now wings
To steeps of Terrain
from tour-of-the-kings,
And damoels twice-seven
his brides have all become:
Afar cry from heaven
and a long road from home—
Then strong-hoof of the starhorse
must hallow him unguessed
If adamant's edge is to plunder his breast.
Then, only, may the Warhorse
and Warrior arise To rally the warhosts, and thunder
the skies."
Then she turned her face toward Oceanus, and set off across the plain.
The trip proved more arduous than she had imagined. She walked long hours through the high, grey-green grass, then sank down to rest, her legs trembling. Sh
e ate of the foods in the little pouch, and slept on the bare ground—which was light and springy. The wind on the plain was warm, and she did not feel the want of a fire.
Sometimes, far away to the right or left, she saw small birds or wild asses with bands of golden-green streaking their flanks. Also she saw antelope, grasshens, and once two wild hunting dogs of mottled grey and tan. They watched her from a distance and yipped softly, but no more. Gradually, as the fortnight wore on, and all the walks and stops and sleeps blended into one, the stars shifted, and Oceanus, waxing to full and then waning again, rose a little higher in the sky.
As she moved on across the plain, the soil grew looser and drier; the grass stood shorter and sparser. Eventually, the grass gave way to low scrub, and when at last the sun rose over the western mountains, Aeriel found herself at the edge of the scrubland, and the beginning of the dunes.
She set off at once across the sand, which was white with a pale, orange cast to it.
Though utterly dry, it had a faint cohesion—a sort of crust had formed on the surface of the sand. Though this was neither thick nor strong, Aeriel found that if she stepped lightly and carefully, it would not break beneath her weight—but if she stepped hard, or paused a moment in her pace, the surface crumbled, and her feet sank ankle-deep in soft, coarse sand.
She had not been traveling long after sunrise, nor had she gotten very far into the desert, when she heard a shout, far in the distance behind her. She paused, startled. It had been almost a fortnight since she had heard a human voice. She half-turned, puzzled, expectant, almost elated at the thought of meeting someone, anyone—and then the soft crust crumbled beneath her feet. She saw him: the darkangel, coursing toward her out of the north like a greathawk on his wings of utter black.
She had no thought of hiding (for where was there she could hide?) nor of facing him. If she were to save the wraiths, she realized, she must not let him take her. And the whole of the duar-ough's as-yet-untold plan now rested on her as well. She ran.
Light across the surface of the sand she ran— it held just long enough for her foot to leave its face before caving in, to leave a jagged row of footmarks in the dunes. Over one rise and then the next, she fled, felt her hair streaming out behind her. She did not look behind.
The dunes sped past, for a long time, it seemed—many heartbeats. Her breath was running short, her pulse was racing; her legs were growing tired. Then she gasped as she felt the wind of the darkangel's wings on her back and knew he was in the air above her and just behind. "Turn around," he cried; his words were a deafening snarl. "Turn around and face me!" She did not listen; she did not answer—she ran on.
He swooped. She fell to the sand and rolled. His wing tips brushed her cheek; then he was gone, rising into the air for another pass. Aeriel got to her feet and fled. The sand had broken when she had dived. There was sand in her hair now, in her eyes, in her ears. She batted it from her lips, sucked in her breath, and ran on.
The vampyre swooped again, not deep enough. She ducked and dodged and continued running. The icarus gave a scream of rage and pulled up for another try. His scream was answered—from across the dunes sounded a roar: rolling, thundering. Aeriel spun around. Behind her on the crest of a dune stood a great beast, a lyon with a mane of gold.
His body was white-golden; he shone like the sun.
The icarus screamed again in his rage and the lyon challenged him with a roar that shook the air. For a moment she thought diey would battle: the darkangel hovered in the black sky just above him; the bright lyon crouched ready to spring. Then suddenly the icarus turned and rushed headlong through the air toward Aeriel. The great lyon sprang in pursuit. Aeriel started like a deer, and fled.
They were both behind her, and very close. She could hear the lyon's paws touching the sand, the vampyre's wings beating the still air. They were closing on her rapidly.
Presently she caught sound of their breathing—the darkangel's harsh and hoarse, the lyon's smooth and deep. She realized they would reach her at almost the same instant and had just decided she would surely be torn apart between them, when the vampyre caught her.
First by the hair, then by the arm he hoisted her aloft. His hand was so cold it burned. She looked into his eyes and they were colorless as egg-white, ferocious, full of madness. He bit her throat near the shoulder and Aeriel screamed. The lyon sprang. His collision with the darkangel jolted her, staggered the vampyre in midair. The icarus shrieked and let go of her as the great cat raked his face.
Pressed between the two of them, she could not fall. Her right side froze and trembled against the darkangel's bloodless flesh, while her left side burned and writhed in the heat of the lyon's body. With his other paw, the great cat dragged four long gashes down the vampyre's shoulder. The icarus twisted away. The lyon dropped to earth. Aeriel fell and lay stunned on the sand, looking above her at the deep, bloodless wounds in the darkangel's face and shoulder.
Before the vampyre could recover himself, the lyon had sprung between him and Aeriel.
The pale golden cat's huge head bent over her. She shut her eyes and prepared to die. His mouth closed gently, firmly over her arm. Pulling her up, he half-shrugged, half-slung her over his shoulder, then bounded off in great strides across the dunes.
Aeriel lay dazed. Her throat where the icarus had bitten her was an agony of fire and ice.
She felt so winded she could hardly breathe. She felt her arm held hard in the lyon's mouth—his great, pointed teeth pressed into her flesh, but they did not so much as break the skin. She felt the rush of wind along her body and the movement of the lyon's lithe, hard muscles beneath the skin as he ran. His coat was soft and warm as sunlight, and she sensed that beneath, his flesh was hotter still. He smelt like heated oil and sandalwood.
She saw the icarus in the sky behind them. He made no attempt to follow, but hovered in the air watching them, screaming in his fury. The rhythm of his churning, raven wings seemed altered somehow—rougher, oddly strained. She could not fathom it. He grew farther away with each bound of the lyon. At last she saw him turn and start a slow, limping flight back southward toward the castle.
Then Aeriel realized she was bleeding from the throat. Blood streamed from the wound the vam-pyre had made. She felt cold; she shivered. The wind was cooling and drying the blood on her kirtle, made the pale, soaked garment cling to her side. She stared at it, appalled. Presently, she grew very light-headed, and in a little time more, felt herself slipping into a swoon.
When she awoke, she was lying on the sand. The sun was hot on her face. Her throat ached. There was an intermittent sound of splashing over to her left. She listened to it, not wanting yet to open her eyes. She was just beginning to drift into a dream when a few drops of water sprinkled her cheek. She heard the plash of water again, and in a moment, more drops fell. She blinked and opened her eyes. The lyon sat on the sand beside her, shaking water from one great paw onto her face.
"Ah, you are awake, child," he said. His voice was very quiet and deep. "How do you feel? Can you rise?"
"I don't know," she said. "I feel weak."
The lyon nodded. "That is to be expected. The bite of an icarus is no mean thing. Come, you must try to sit up. Your wound must be attended to."
Aeriel pulled herself upright into a sitting position. For a moment, the sky tilted crazily and threatened to fall. She rested her head on her knees. Only now did she begin to wonder that she was not dead, that the lyon had rescued her from the vampyre, and that he spoke with a human manner and voice.
She rested her head on her knees. She knew that there was water nearby. She reached out her hand and felt wet sand, then liquid. She dipped her hand into the water, brought her cupped palm to her lips and drank a little, but swallowing was painful, difficult. She bathed her neck; the wound burned at the touch of water, but she felt the pain ease.
She drank again. The water was warm and faint blue-green in color. Its taste reminded her vaguely of cress, and it smelled of lif
e. She raised her head from her knees a bit, and saw that she was sitting beside a tiny pool hardly more than a puddle in the sand. A sprinkling of miniature water plants dotted the surface, and among them a handful of tiny frogs, chirping. She saw four snails with spiral shells on the bottom and two at the water's edge.
"There," said the lyon. "Does that help the hurt?"
Aeriel started. He sat so unobtrusively, she almost had forgotten him. "Yes," she said weakly. "Much."
"Strain some of the floating plants out of the water with your hand and plaster them to the wound," he instructed. "They will help it more than just the water."
Aeriel did so. The little flecks of green were surprisingly pungent and when she pressed them to her neck, their oily coating seeped into the wound with a soothing warmth.
Gradually the cold, numbing ache began to abate. Still she felt giddy, at times almost faint, but no more in pain. After a time, she realized she was hungry, and reached without thinking into her pouch for food. She remembered the lyon suddenly and glanced at him.
"Are you hungry?" she inquired timidly. "Would you like something to eat?" Despite his reserved and gentle manner, she still felt a lingering fear of being leapt upon and devoured.
The lyon bowed his head with consummate grace and replied, "I should be honored."
She fumbled in the little bag, rejecting first the rosepear and then the stalk of sweet cane that came to hand. At last she found something suitable, a boiled crayfish. She held it out to him timorously, half-afraid that he would snap it up in his great jaws, and her hand along with it. Instead, he bent his head and took it carefully. Then, re-clining, he placed the crustacean between his paws and proceeded to peel it with a delicacy and dignity she could scarce believe. She felt foolish and ill-mannered nibbling on the small globe of cheese she had taken for herself.
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