She swung her legs over the side of the bed, shivering in the damp morning chill—everything always seemed to be damp, now—and hurried into the common room of her little house to build up the fire, pulling a heavy shawl around her shoulders.
The grey cat hurried ahead of her, springing up to huddle against the warm stove and complain, plaintively, about the weather. Idalia smiled.
“It will be warm soon, Greymalkin. And you would have liked it less if the rains had not come, I promise you.”
The cat sneezed, disagreeing emphatically.
The stove began to radiate heat, warming the room. Idalia filled the kettle and set it on the fire, then wandered over to the window and looked out.
The river at the bottom of the canyon was full once more. If she opened the window, she would be able to hear its strong purling music, and soon fish would return to its waters. Across the canyon, she could see the forest. The moonturn of rain had stripped the last of the autumn leaves from the trees, but even bare-limbed, the forest looked healthier than it had before, and the evergreens had begun to regain their dark healthy green. The canyon wall itself was silvery with water, gleaming in the diffuse morning light like polished glass. Tiny rills and freshets of water jumped along its face as they trickled down, spraying out into the air in tiny outbursts engineered by the canyon wall’s long-ago designers. It all looked entirely natural, yet Idalia knew that everything she saw was the work of subtle Elven artifice.
The kettle was hot now, and Idalia made tea.
She dressed in her fringed leathers. A thick cloak of oiled wool and her Mountain Trader hat would keep off the worst of the rain, and Idalia hated being encumbered.
She filled a bottle with the rest of the tea, and wrapped a couple of breakfast pastries to eat later, tucking them into her shoulder bag. She added a pouch of charged keystones, a tiny flask of wine, and a leaf of dried fern, enough for the spell. If she held her cloak out over Songmairie, she should be able to still the water enough to use it for her scrying. In an emergency, a Wildmage could scry in a simple bowl of water, but the most power—and the best results—came from using natural pools, and today Idalia wanted all the help she could get.
Greymalkin accompanied her as far as the door, scolding her in a plaintive voice for her abandonment before retreating to the warmth of the stove. Once outside, Idalia took a deep breath. The air smelled strong and alive, and she could hear the purl and plash of fountains, the ting of rain-chimes, and the deep peal of rain-drums. The city made its own music.
Idalia made her way slowly through Sentarshadeen, briefly greeting the Elves she passed. The small gardens that were a feature of many Elven homes had suffered least from the drought, but even these were brighter and more alive thanks to the natural rain. She did not take the fastest or most direct route to the spring, but paused frequently to admire fountains and pools, shut down and emptied during the drought, and now brought to life once more. It was as if the city had been reborn in water.
At last her slow progress brought her to the unicorn meadow. Here the rain had worked the greatest change of all, banishing the silver from the grass and turning the whole meadow a rich deep dark green the color of emeralds. The unicorn herd was scattered across it, grazing greedily, their coats glossy with rain. The scent of the fresh grass was almost overpowering, as if its greenness were a palpable thing.
The path of smooth stone leading up to Songmairie was gone, though the decoration around the lip of the spring itself remained. In the distance, Idalia could see an Elven work party moving among the trees of the Flower Forest, gently filling in the irrigation canals. Soon the trees would come into leaf again; the fragrant alyon and the flowering vilya would bloom, even in the depths of the coming winter. Even now, if she concentrated, Idalia could smell the scent of the forest, wood and rising sap and new growth mixed with the cinnamon scent of the wet unicorns.
This was peace, all the more precious because it was about to be swept away by war. Idalia stood there, watching the herd, feeling the moment heal the bruised places in her soul.
Suddenly the herd’s quiet was shattered. They scattered in all directions as a young Elven scout, mounted on a red unicorn stallion, plunged through them, heading for Idalia. Both scout and rider were soaked to the skin. The unicorn stopped a good distance away from Idalia, prancing skittishly, nostrils flaring.
No virgins here, Idalia thought, amused in spite of herself.
It lowered its head and shook itself like a dog, spraying water everywhere and nearly unseating its rider before raising its head and regarding her with bright turquoise eyes.
“Wildmage!” the young stallion said excitedly. “People coming from the north! One of them’s Shalkan!”
Shalkan? One of them? Great Powers, does that mean—“Is—It would be interesting to know if you might have seen anything else,” Idalia said, pleased to find her voice was steady and that she could still summon the proper forms of Elven good manners.
“Shalkan. His rider. And Jermayan with Valdien as well, Wildmage,” the young scout said, her voice high with excitement. “Queen Ashaniel bid us come and tell you at once.”
“I will go now and thank the Queen for her courtesy,” Idalia said gravely. She bowed to the unicorn and his rider. The stallion, taking this as permission to leave her uncomfortable presence, immediately dashed off, forcing his rider to emit an undignified yelp and clutch at his neck for support. Idalia turned her back quickly and pretended not to see, hiding a smile.
Kellen was alive! Kellen was coming home!
And Jermayan …
She would see him again! And this time she would not be a fool. Whatever time they could have together—hours, minutes—she would take as the great gift it was and make every moment count.
Shrugging her bag higher onto her shoulder beneath her cloak, Idalia squelched off through the wet grass toward the House of Leaf and Star.
Oh, Jermayan, come soon!
UNDERMAGE Anigrel made his residence in one of the buildings on the grounds of the Mage College that had been established for those few Mages who, for one reason or another, could not or did not choose to live in the opulent demi-places of the Mage Quarter.
Some were not of Mage-birth, and thus did not have family homes in the Quarter. Some lacked the wherewithal or the inclination to maintain such an expensive establishment. Some had been asked by their families to situate themselves elsewhere, either temporarily or permanently. Thus, the buildings of the Mage Courts were the residence of the young, the less-than-prosperous, the eccentric … by the narrow standards of Armethaliehan society, of course. All were Mages, from Journeyman to High Mage, and it went without saying, vastly superior to any of those who had not the talent and the Gift.
The moon was dark again tonight. Anigrel hurried home from his duties, intent upon his evening’s task.
His chambers consisted of two small rooms on the top floor of the building, a study and a sleeping chamber. The bathing room was down the hall, and Anigrel took his meals elsewhere. No servant ever came to trouble the quiet of these rooms, though there was little to find, should anyone think of doing so: only the books and apparatus that any working Mage might own, and a small curious iron bowl, easily overlooked. Lycaelon’s private secretary spent little time here.
He entered the room—the door panel dissolved at his touch and reformed behind him—and crossed to a chair. There he sat, and waited.
Slowly the sounds of activity in the building around him—they would be inaudible save for the intercession of the spells he had laid down years before and renewed each moonturn—died away. When all was silent, Anigrel got to his feet and went to a small casket. It was not kept locked. Locks implied valuables, and long ago Anigrel had learned that the best way to keep something hidden and safe was in plain sight. Misdirection was the greatest protector.
On the table in the center of the room, he set out the small iron bowl and a sharp steel knife. It was his penknife; it would not do to al
low an object such as a knife to gain too much sense of purpose. That in itself could betray him. Thus, the knife he used for his darkest magic was also the knife he used for the humblest of his everyday tasks.
His preparations made, Anigrel crossed to the window and opened it. He picked up his wand from the top of the bookcase and drew a careful sigil in the air; an ordinary sigil of the High Magick. It glowed brightly in half-a-dozen colors, then slowly faded.
A moment later two plump sleepy pigeons fluttered down onto the windowsill. With lightning swiftness, Anigrel reached out and grabbed them. Closing the window with a gesture, he carried the pigeons over to the table and beheaded them over the bowl, one after the other, with the sharp steel knife. His gestures were quick and neat. He had been doing this for a very long time.
Anigrel had first seen the Dark Lady as a child of eight, in a mirror in his father’s study. He had been her devoted servant from that moment. With her aid he had come quickly into his inheritance, for siphoning another’s life force without their knowledge was the first of the things she had taught him. No one had thought Torbet Anigrel’s early death was in the least unusual, and from that moment, young Anigrel’s sense of power and purpose grew.
Once the bowl was full, he set the birds aside. Another spell would dispose of them once his work here was done.
He bent over the fresh blood, eager for his communion.
A blast of furious rage struck him, its force enough to fill his head with agony. Tears of pain streamed down his cheeks and he clutched at the table, his manicured nails digging into the wood, marring the finish. Disjointed images poured into his mind, frightening, hideous beyond bearing, until he screamed for them to stop, begged for them to stop.
Suddenly the connection was gone. Anigrel fell to the floor and huddled there, weeping. She was angry with him. His Dark Lady was angry with all the world.
Because of The Outlaw. Because of Kellen.
Somehow Kellen had hurt her, hurt Anigrel’s Dark Lady. He could not imagine how such a thing was possible—that Kellen, Lycaelon’s Tainted whelp, could summon the power to strike out at such power, such perfection, such beauty … but he knew she could not lie, not to him.
His purpose was clear. As the worst of the agony receded, Anigrel realized that as always, he had gained much wisdom from the mere touch of her mind. What he had learned would become clearer to him in the days to come, but for now, he knew one thing absolutely.
Kellen Tavadon must die.
It would be difficult to persuade Lycaelon to renew the Hunt for his rebellious son, now that The Outlaw had taken refuge in the Elven lands, but not impossible. Lycaelon wanted to bring the Council to heel, to regain his lost prestige, to unseat Lord Volpiril from his present position of smug superiority before Volpiril managed to topple Lycaelon from power completely.
What if proof came to light that Volpiril had conspired with The Outlaw? How else could the border lands have gotten word of the Scouring Hunt in time to prepare a defense?
Proof would be difficult to arrange, but not impossible. Anigrel must move carefully. But for his Dark Lady’s sake, it would be done.
“There are no failures, only opportunities.”
And now Kellen Tavadon would have the opportunity to die.
Chired Anigrel would make sure of it.
About the Authors
MERCEDES LACKEY is the author of the Heralds of Valdemar and Elemental Masters series from DAW books, the Bardic Voices (in collaboration), the SER-RAted Edge, and Bedlam Bards series from Baen Books, and the Halfblood Chronicles from Tor Books, along with many other solo and collaborative works. Her hobbies include needlework, jewelry design, beadwork, and dollmaking. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, coauthor and artist Larry Dixon, and far too many parrots for a peaceful household.
JAMES MALLORY is a professional ghostwriter with several books to his credit. Under his own name, he wrote the three-part novelization of the Hallmark Merlin miniseries: The Old Magic, The King’s Wizard, and The End of Magic. Born in San Francisco, Mallory attended schools in California and the Midwest before moving to New York to pursue a career in writing. From an early age Mallory has been fascinated both with the Arthurian legends and their historical evolution, an avocation that triggered a lifelong interest in fantasy literature. Mallory’s interests include hiking, comparative religion, and cinema.
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