Heritage Of The Xandim

  Taine gasped. ‘By all Creation! I always wished to see one of the Dragonfolk.’ His eyes grew wider as distinct figures began to take shape within the two other areas of shimmer: the vast, dark, streamlined bulk of a Leviathan, and a stern-faced queen, her hair white except for a black streak on either side of her head. She was cloaked in a pair of dark-brown wings with white flashes, and her fierce, golden eyes had the keen, uncompromising gaze of a warrior.

  The Archwizard was careful to keep his smile hidden. He never thought he’d see the day when something would take Taine by surprise. He pushed back the chair. ‘I’m afraid the rest of our discussion will have to wait. As you can see, I’m late for a meeting with my fellow Magefolk leaders. Thanks to your timely news, we’ll have a great deal more to discuss than we expected. Go downstairs to my apartments. Sharalind won’t be there at this time of day. Refresh yourself, rest. Get a good meal inside you. I’ll have food sent at once.’ He touched a small, glowing crystal that stood on his desk, spoke into it briefly, then turned back to Taine. ‘There you are. Make yourself comfortable, and we’ll continue our conversation later.’ He put his hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘Taine, I am more grateful than I can say for all you are doing. I swear I will find a way to repay you. If you ever need anything I can give you, you need only say the word.’

  ‘Thank you.’ For the first time, Taine’s face relaxed into a genuine smile. ‘Cyran, I can’t tell you how good it is to be back among my mother’s people. I’m happy to be of use to you, if I can.’ Looking over his shoulder so that his eyes could linger on the extraordinary images on the wall, he went out of the room and, with one last, regretful look, closed the door behind him.

  Cyran extended his senses beyond the chamber, just to make sure that Taine had really gone, and was not listening outside. The informant was unique: he had been born in the forest of a Wizardly mother, Cerica, who had been living there in solitude in order to perfect her magic. His father, Astreth, had been lost from the Wild Hunt when his horse bolted and threw its rider, stranding the Phaerie deep in the woods when the flying magic had expired. They had fallen in love and lived together in secret, and Cerica had borne Taine. But when the boy was five, one of the magical monsters that inhabited the side of the forest within the Phaerie realm had broken through Hellorin’s wards and strayed across the border. Cerica, meditating alone in a woodland glade, had never stood a chance. The grieving father had returned with Taine to Eliorand, claiming that the boy’s mother had been a human slave, for the Forest Lord, deeply suspicious of the Wizards, would never have permitted a child with their blood in his city.

  Taine, therefore, grew up keeping secrets, and though his father’s denial of his mother gave rise to a certain coolness between them, he had only pursued the other side of his heritage much later, when Hellorin had discovered his secret and he’d been forced to flee the Phaerie realm. But he had integrated well within the city of the Wizards, and had eventually come to Cyran and offered his services as a spy.

  That night, passing a bottle between them, they had talked right through until dawn, and the Archwizard had learned something of Taine’s lonely past, and begun to understand what had triggered his change of allegiance. Though aware of the risks - it was, after all, possible that Taine could have been acting for Hellorin and feeding disinformation to the Wizards - the Archwizard had been convinced of his integrity. In all the time he had been using the half-breed as a spy, he had never once had cause to regret his decision.

  Taine is loyal - too loyal for his own good, Cyran thought. In all conscience, how much longer can I continue to make use of him? Surely he has earned his place among the Wizards many times over? Each time I send him back to Eliorand, the risks are growing. Am I treating him as expendable, holding out a promise that will never materialise, until he takes one risk too many, and is killed? Yet in the current situation, what choice do I have? I can only hope that one day I will be able to hold true to my word - and that Taine will survive long enough to earn the peace and security to which his contributions to the weal of the Wizards have more than entitled him.

  After several days’ hard riding, Taine appreciated the comfort of the Archwizard’s luxurious quarters. Taking off his travel-soiled boots at the door, he let his feet sink into the thick, soft carpet, with its intricate patterns woven in pure, bright colours. He had been here before, and knew his way around. He went straight into the bathing room, to finally shed the dirt of the trail and get into the one change of clean clothes he had brought with him.

  It did not take him long. When he emerged, the meal was ready and waiting under covered dishes, all set out on the table beneath the window. He made short work of rich fish soup, bread, cheese, cold fowl, assorted fruit and a sweet pastry to round off the meal. As usual, he ignored the pale, fragrant wine that had been provided, and helped himself to taillin instead. His life was one of concealment, of subterfuge and secrets. His sure instincts and quick reflexes had saved his life more than once, and he never dared risk dulling them with wine or spirits.

  How had he come to this? Belonging nowhere, with nothing in his world but loneliness and danger. Sitting beside the sunny window, Taine closed his eyes and let the years roll back to his youth in Eliorand. Everything had seemed to be going in his favour, and the future was full of promise. He had apprenticed to a merchant, and was looking forward to his first trading journeys out of the Phaerie realm. He was in love with Aelwen, at that time the assistant to Hellorin’s Horsemaster, and they were planning a life together. They had been young, and full of hope and energy, and nothing had seemed impossible - until, without warning, the shadow had fallen across his future.

  The Forest Lord had discovered the real identity of his mother. His father Astreth, no real horseman, had once again been unwise enough to take part in the Wild Hunt that his son was denied through his half-blood heritage, and had sustained a bad fall. In a dying delirium, he had somehow blurted the truth to Hellorin, and at last the secret was out.

  Taine remembered that night so very clearly. Because there had been a Hunt, and Aelwen was busy preparing for the return of the riders, he had been sitting alone by the window of his chambers with a glass of wine at his elbow, looking out at the towers, with all their twinkling lamps that held so many hues, on the lower slopes of the city. He had maps of the route through the forest to Tyrineld spread out on the table in front of him, together with a scholarly old tome on the history of the Wizardfolk and the Earth magic they used. He wished he could have found a treatise that was a little more recent. In a few days’ time he would be making his first journey to the city of the Wizards with Ambaron, the merchant to whom he was apprenticed, and he wanted to be prepared.

  All was peaceful, all was quiet. He had been looking forward to seeing Aelwen tomorrow, once her work was done. She always had a busy time when the horses returned from the Hunt. They were weary, hungry, and they and their accoutrements were stained with mud and blood. Inevitably, a number of them were lame, or had other injuries that needed tending . . .

  There was a sound like a thunderclap and his chair was hurled over backwards by an explosive blast of air. Heart hammering, he scrambled to his feet - and saw Aelwen herself, white-faced and gasping for breath, standing on the hearthrug. He was horrified to realise that she had apported straight into his chambers, an act that was illegal within the boundaries of the city, and highly dangerous besides. It required an immense amount of power and, if the apporter was not strong enough, it could use so much energy that there was not sufficient remaining to stay alive. Besides which, if Aelwen had materialised within a wall, or a piece of furniture - or even himself . . . Shudders crawled down his spine at the thought of the dreadful consequences.

  Taine rushed over and took her in his arms. ‘Aelwen! What in Creation do you think you’re doing? You could have been killed—’

  ‘There’s no time for that.’ Aelwen’s hair had straggled loose from its braids, and she shook it impatiently out of her eyes.
‘Taine, you’ve got to get out of here. Your father - I’m sorry, but he was killed during the Hunt. Estrelle has just sent a message by mindspeech to warn me. Before he died, Astreth let slip the truth about your mother to Hellorin, and he was raging at the deception. Taine, you know that he would never allow someone tainted with Wizard blood to survive. You’ve got to be safely away before he returns.’

  And just like that, within the space of two breaths, his life had been shattered into shards. There was no time even to think of his father’s death, or how he felt about it. Aelwen’s panic leapt to Taine like a lightning bolt, and he found himself stuffing food into a bag, pulling on his boots and throwing his cloak around his shoulders, while Aelwen snatched blankets from the bed and rolled them into a bundle as she told him what she knew about his father’s accident. He was only half-listening. Why should he care about the man who had just wrecked his life? He thrust his sword into its sheath, snatched his bow and quiver, then Aelwen grabbed his hand and there was a sickening, swirling sensation followed by a violent lurch as she apported them back to the stables. A horse was already saddled, waiting for him. How had she managed everything so quickly?

  She must have been reading his mind. ‘Kelon took care of it for me, while I was fetching you.’

  I’ll wager he did, Taine thought. He had noticed the wistful, hungering look in the other groom’s eyes when Aelwen was about. He would be overjoyed to get rid of the competition. But why only one horse? The hollow clutch of panic twisted his stomach. ‘Aelwen? You’re coming too?’

  ‘I can’t.’ Her eyes flooded. ‘Oh, Taine, I’m sorry.’ With an effort she got control of her voice. ‘Estrelle is my half-sister. You know how close we are, and so does Hellorin. If I go, he’ll know at once that she was the one who warned me. I can’t make that kind of trouble for her.’ With tears streaming freely down her face, she clasped him in one last, desperate embrace, and he crushed her in his arms, unable to bear the thought of leaving her. Firmly, she pushed him away. ‘Go quickly! I’ll always love you.’

  ‘And I’ll love you. To the end of my days.’ Somehow he found himself in the saddle, and then Aelwen was dwindling into distance and darkness, as the forest reached out to swallow him.

  Though his mix of Wizard and Phaerie blood allowed him to see the track in the blackness beneath the midnight trees, the way was slick and muddy from heavy rain the previous day. Nevertheless, Taine had little attention to spare for hazards. His heart and mind were consumed with grief for Aelwen; for the life together they had been denied; for the hopes that lay in ruin. Somehow he could not bring himself to deal with the practicalities of flight. Though he was forced to flee, every fibre of his being was calling him back to the one he loved.

  Taine blinked, and returned to the present, half-surprised to see the walls of Cyran’s apartments instead of the dark, reaching trees of that first, dreadful night when he had made his way into the forest, fleeing for his life. In order to reach the safety of Tyrineld he’d known cold and hunger, been forced to evade not only the Wild Hunt itself, but also the airborne patrols that Hellorin had sent in search of him. During that arduous journey he had taught himself perforce to find food and shelter in the wild, and the rudiments of stealth and concealment as he dodged the Forest Lord’s hunters. Because of this the journey had taken far longer than usual, and when, filthy, exhausted and ravenous, he had finally crossed the border into the realms of the Magefolk, he had sworn never to set foot in the kingdom of the Forest Lord again - a vow he had broken over and over since that day for Cyran’s sake and for another, even more pressing reason: Aelwen, the beloved he had lost on that terrible night of discovery and flight.

  He had spent time in Eliorand ever since, disguising himself with glamourie, always just a step ahead of the Chahiri while collecting information for the Archmage. He had often watched Aelwen from hiding, his heart aching with the need to reveal himself, to speak to her, to hold her in his arms again. But she had always looked settled and content in her role as Horsemistress. Though she had never chosen a mate, would she thank him for disrupting her life once more? And if he should get her to come away with him, would she settle with the Wizards? How well would they accept one who carried none of their blood? One thing was certain: if he brought her back to Tyrineld, his days of taking such appalling risks for Cyran would have to be over. And if he could no longer spy for the Archwizard, would he still find a welcome here? Though Cyran had always assured him that this was the case, there was a constant shadow of doubt that had kept Taine braving the numerous perils of yet another return to Eliorand.

  How would Aelwen manage without her beloved horses, to which she had devoted so much of her life? Would she harbour resentment, deep within her, if he took her away from them? Would it sour the love that they once shared? Always, his courage had failed him. As things stood, their love was a pure and perfect thing, preserved in his memory with absolute clarity. How could he risk finding out that Aelwen no longer felt as he did? No. Better, surely, to leave things as they stood. It was no good trying to demand the impossible. Not now, at any rate. This was not the time. But in the future? That might be a different story, and he was determined not to give up hope.

  In the meantime, Taine told himself, he would grab a couple of hours’ rest and then head off in pursuit of the ill-starred emissaries. He frowned. If the Archwizard was sending out his only son on such a hazardous venture, the situation must be a great deal more serious, not to mention perilous, than Cyran was prepared to admit. But though the unpleasant thought that he was being used had begun to cross his mind more and more often these days, Taine was prepared to continue for as long as he was needed. If he wanted to bring Aelwen back some day, it wouldn’t do any harm to have the Archwizard deep in his debt.

  14

  THE ART OF COMPROMISE

  Now that Taine had departed, Cyran had other matters to deal with, and for the present, he put the spy out of his mind. ‘My apologies,’ he said to his fellow leaders. ‘I will detain you but a moment longer.’ He set wards of guard and silence, so that no one could approach undetected, or use magic to listen in on the meeting. Once all was secure, he sat down at the table, facing the others. Concentrating on their images, he reached out to them in thought: the gleaming golden form of Aizaiel, Matriarch of the Dragonfolk; the sleek, dark immensity of Kahuna, Speaker of the Leviathan, and the white-haired, brown-winged form of Pandion, Queen of the Skyfolk.

  ‘Greetings to you all,’ he began. ‘Please forgive me for keeping you waiting. A messenger came with news of great importance.’

  ‘Greetings, Archwizard.’ As usual, Aizaiel of the Dragonfolk took the lead, using both her own language of light and music, and mindspeech, which was a language of thought common to all the races of magic-users.

  ‘Greetings, Matriarch.’ Cyran kept his physical voice low and even, and his mindspeech rigidly controlled, anxious not to betray to the others the puzzlement and concern he was feeling. Previously, it had always been he who called these meetings. What had changed? Had his fellow leaders finally decided that his fears were groundless, and these discussions a waste of time?

  As usual, however, he could not deceive the Matriarch, who wasted no time in enlightening him. ‘Cyran, we owe you an apology. It seems that you were right. Two days ago, Speaker Kahuna experienced visions similar to those you have described.’

  ‘Save that most of them dealt with the destruction of the Leviathan race,’ the Speaker added. He sounded very shaken.

  ‘Yesterday I also perceived corresponding images,’ Aizaiel said. ‘The end of our beloved realm of Dhiammara, and the extinction of the Dragonfolk.’

  ‘And I,’ added Pandion, ‘but mine came to me last night in a dream.’ Her face was very pale. ‘So much death, so much desperation. Nothing ever the same again.’ She shook her head. ‘Archwizard, I must confess that I have doubted you again and again these last two years. But no longer.’

  Cyran’s throat clogged with emotion. His m
ind whirled in a conflict between relief that he wasn’t losing his sanity, thankfulness that he’d been vindicated at last, and horror at the thought of what the future might bring. There was also a good deal of puzzlement. Why now? And why had all the others received their visions at more or less the same time? A ball of ice began to form within his belly. Did this mean that the catastrophe - whatever form it would take - was about to begin? Or had the chain of events that would lead to disaster already begun to unfold?

  Kahuna broke into his thoughts. ‘Thanks to Cyran’s timely warning, we are already aware of the situation. Now we must ask ourselves: what more can we do to prepare for the worst? Cyran, having experienced the foretellings first, you have been far more committed in your preparations. The fault lies with us, but now we must make up for lost time. Have we omitted anything that might make a difference? The nature of the visions tells me that we must have. Clearly, whatever we have achieved so far, it is not enough to avert disaster. Is there anything else we can do to save ourselves? Can anyone here think of something that we have previously overlooked?’