Heritage Of The Xandim

  It was no good. She had to see what was happening in the clearing. Once more she tried casting her mind forth for Boreas, or little Melik, lost in the forest, but received no response. She couldn’t find them anywhere. All her animals were gone.

  But there was an alternative.

  Maybe.

  She crept up to the remaining horses, quieting them with her familiar touch. They had excellent night vision. She knew they could see all she needed. Though one part of her was screaming with impatience, she suppressed it somehow, knowing that the animals would pick up on her state of mind. Lightly, she touched the mind of each horse, testing which, if any, would be amenable to her presence and this unusual form of control, which was, in reality, more partnership than domination.

  To her astonishment, it was Esmon’s black warhorse who acknowledged her presence, and let himself be guided. As a stallion, trained to fight, he was the last one she’d have expected to respond. There was no time to wonder, however. Gently she seated her awareness within the warhorse’s mind and sent him to poke his nose out of the bushes and look into the clearing.

  ‘The bastard! I knew it.’ In her dismay, Iriana almost uttered the words aloud. Anger and terror curdled in her blood as she saw another assailant kneeling over Avithan’s still form. Though his back was turned to her, he had an indefinable look of Phaerie about him. The Wizard’s main feeling was one of outrage. She had driven her beloved Dailika mad in dealing with these murdering scum. Now she’d have to do it again, this time using Esmon’s mount as a weapon. At least it was a warhorse; hopefully it wouldn’t be driven past all endurance this time. But if Avithan was already dead, if this second killer had finished him while she was still unconcious, for she had felt no death pang, then what would be the point? In that case, it would be more sensible to take the horse and sneak away. How could she find out? If there was the slightest chance of saving Avithan’s life, she was damned if she was going to leave him.

  No, she couldn’t take that risk. Steeling herself to perpetrate the unthinkable for a second time, Iriana clenched her fists and sent the warhorse charging into the clearing.

  This time there was no conflict. Esmon had trained this animal to attack on command. Like dark lightning, the horse leapt forward, but at the last split second the shadowy figure rolled aside, out of the way of the lethal hooves. At a slow, half-staggering run, he headed straight towards the horrified Wizard. ‘Iriana, please stop him! I’m a friend. From Cyran.’ On the other side of the clearing the warhorse stopped and spun, turned and charged again.

  Trust him?

  Let him die?

  The stranger stumbled and fell. With only the space of a heartbeat in which to make her decision, Iriana went with her gut. With an effort she pulled up the horse, letting it stand close to the man, stamping and snorting. The threat of power and danger were still very evident, but judging from his struggles, he seemed unable to rise in any case.

  ‘Who are you?’ she called.

  With an effort, he pulled himself up to his elbows. ‘Taine. Cyran sent me to warn you—’

  ‘Then you came too late.’ Iriana snapped. ‘Is Avithan still alive?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s badly hurt. I’ve tried to stop the bleeding, but . . . He needs a proper Healer. And I—’ He collapsed face down on the muddy ground.

  ‘Oh, merciful Creation!’ Iriana ran out of the bushes, and brought the fractious warhorse close enough for her to get a good look at the stranger. He stank of bear. His thick hide jerkin had protected him from being disembowelled, but the leather and the shirt below it were in tatters across the front, and soaked with blood from the deep scratches across his stomach. A torn piece of cloth tied roughly over his right shoulder and under his arm was soaked with blood. Iriana swallowed hard, and swore. She could sense no other horses nearby. How far had he come, alone and on foot, and so horribly mauled?

  You came too late. Well, now she knew why, and how she wished she could take back those angry words.

  She wondered who he was, for she had never seen him in Tyrineld, or heard his name. Her friendship with Avithan had given her a fairly close association with the Archwizard and his family, and she tended to recognise members of Cyran’s trusted inner circle. With a shrug, she put the puzzle aside for the present. She had far more pressing matters to deal with.

  At first glance his wounds didn’t look life-threatening, so she left him where he was and ran across to Avithan, Esmon’s stallion trotting obediently behind her. She sank down beside her companion, almost afraid to look. He was still breathing, though there was a dreadful gurgling sound when he did so, and his lips were covered with a bloody foam. That bastard had got him in the chest, then. Quickly she assessed his other hurts. A long gash in his thigh was bleeding badly, but the slice into the muscle of his left arm and the cut across his belly didn’t look too deep, and the wound on his face was, compared to everything else, only a scratch.

  How thankful she was that one of her best friends was such a talented Healer. Melisanda had taught her a lot over the years. The first thing was to stop the bleeding. Now, of course, she understood why the stranger had failed in his attempt. With such serious injuries of his own, he would never have the strength to heal another. Also, he probably didn’t have the knowledge she had picked up from her friend. Iriana put her hand over the thigh wound and summoned what healing magic she knew. She had no need of normal eyesight for this. Where her palm rested, she could ‘see’ inside the leg, the images coming directly into her mind. She knew spells to seal off the bleeding, to repair damaged tissue and muscle, to close the wound and imbue it with the magic to kill infection. She worked quickly, keeping the horse’s eyes on the injuries, rather than Avithan’s face. That way she could somehow hold herself together; keep at bay the urge to curse and weep; hold back her own weariness for long enough to complete her work.

  The chest wound was more difficult. When Iriana saw how close the killer’s sword had come to Avithan’s heart, she felt sick. Still, there was a great deal she could do. Close off the wounds in the lung and chest, stop bleeding, prevent infection. Lastly, though she was shaking with exhaustion now, she performed the spells that eased the shock to the body and stilled the pain. The rest would be down to time, and Avithan himself.

  Blessing her talent for Fire Magic, she lit a fire to keep both men warm. If the Hunt passed that night - well, she would just have to take the risk. It was a question of survival now, she thought, as she wrapped Avithan in a blanket. Iriana was weary beyond measure. Magic did not come without a price. The more complex, or expansive, or powerful the spell, the greater the toll on the Wizard. Iriana knew - it had been driven home by her tutors again and again during her training - that if she expended too much of her own energy in the use of her power, she would fall into a state of oblivion from which she might never awaken. After healing Avithan, she needed desperately to eat and rest, and recoup her energy - but there was the stranger to care for yet. Sighing, she moved across to the other recumbent form and sat down by his side to check the damage. As she did so, there was an ear-splitting crash of thunder and the first splutters of rain hit the fire.

  One thing after another.

  Iriana, too weary even to curse, dropped her head onto her knees and tried to think. The rain was falling harder now, and the wind tore at the branches of the trees. Then a whiplash of lightning seared across the skies, followed by thunder loud enough to make her ears ring. She would have to do something, fast. Though she weighed nothing like as much as these two tall men, somehow she must get them into the tents - supposing that the tents would stay up in this storm. With their wounds, they couldn’t lie out in the rain, and she couldn’t shield them magically or apport them into shelter: she had already exhausted too much of her power in healing Avithan. In addition, supposing she did manage to get them inside, how could she even see them without Melik or Seyka?

  The thought of her animals - one dead, one insane, one lost in the perilous night-time forest -
was almost enough to break her. But even as she felt a sob rising in her throat, Iriana gritted her teeth and swallowed it back down. You wanted adventure, she told herself. Well, now you’ve got one, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and get moving. There are things that must be done, and no one to do them but you.

  The lightning flashed again. ‘Well said, Lady.’ The voice was so unexpected that Iriana, who had just started to get to her feet, sat down abruptly. The eyes of the wounded stranger - in the midst of all these crises she had forgotten his name - were open. Iriana felt her face heating with an embarrassed blush. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud?

  ‘Just about. You are very close to me, and you’ve forgotten to shield.’ As she frowned, he added, ‘I’m truly sorry, but you were thinking very loudly.’

  ‘Just don’t do it again.’ She hadn’t the energy to snap at him for such a transgression. ‘Since you’re awake, let me help you inside—’

  ‘Let me help you. I only have one working arm at present, so I can’t lift your friend into the tent, but if you pull him, I can help with an apport spell to support his weight.’

  ‘If you can apport, why not transport Avithan inside the tent yourself?’ Iriana demanded, aware of sounding ungrateful even as she said it. ‘He’s too badly wounded for me to be hauling him about,’ she added apologetically.

  The newcomer shrugged, the gesture sending a grimace of pain across his face. ‘If only I could. But like yours, my power is down to the dregs now. I’ve been drawing on it to keep myself going, ever since the bear attacked.’

  Stranger or no, Iriana’s heart went out to him. If what he’d said was true, then the Archwizard had sent him to warn them of danger, and though he had come too late, it was not his fault. Though he had been injured, alone and on foot, he had not given up, but had found them in the end. ‘Then let’s get Avithan under cover between us,’ she said. ‘Afterwards I’ll take a look at your wounds.’

  The rain and wind were by this time tearing savagely at the tents. Her companion looked at them doubtfully. ‘Maybe we should try to seek some other shelter. I doubt these will stay up much longer.’

  ‘Yes they will,’ Iriana said decisively. ‘Avithan bespelled them to stand firm whatever the weather. He’s very good at practical magic like that.’

  ‘Come on, then. By the Light, Cyran would never forgive me if I failed to save his son.’ Again, the grimace passed over his face.

  As they moved Avithan, he stirred and moaned. Once she had him inside the tent, however, Iriana spent a little more of her power putting him into a deep, healing sleep. Working by touch, since she had no way of seeing once she was inside the shelter, she made sure he was comfortable, tucked his blankets warmly around him and dropped a gentle kiss on his brow. With a sigh, for she hated to leave him, she crawled out again into the cold rain, relieved to be back where she could use the eyes of Esmon’s patient horse, to see what she could do to help . . . ‘Your pardon, sir, but with everything that’s happened, your name has flown right out of my head.’ She felt a bit of a fool, but she couldn’t go on without knowing.

  He was bending over the now dead fire, which was clearly beyond all saving in this downpour. When she spoke he turned to face her, and his quick smile was like the sun coming out from the clouds. ‘With all that has happened, Lady, I’ve almost forgotten it myself. I am called Taine, by your grace.’

  His accent was strange to her, Iriana realised, but pleasant, and she was charmed by his courteous manner. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Leave the fire. It’s hopeless. We’ll get out of this infernal rain and—’

  At that moment another lurid flare of light came streaking across the sky - but this time it was no lightning. Taine’s face blanched to the colour of bone. ‘The Hunt! The Phaerie are upon us!

  28

  NOTHING BY CHANCE

  When she left Eliorand with the Hunt, Corisand kept a lookout behind her for Aelwen and Kelon. From the corner of her eye, she finally saw them rise above the rooftops of the palace, and breathed a sigh of relief. By Creation, they seemed to be making heavy weather of such a simple business! Soon they were safely aloft, however, and she noted the direction in which they were heading. Sorely as she was tempted, there would be no point in trying to follow them right now. She would lead their enemies directly to them. No, she would have to wait patiently for a little while longer, and let them put some distance between themselves and the Hunt. Besides, the further she was from Eliorand, the more chance she had of bringing off her own escape.

  Tiolani urged her to stay a few paces in front of the other riders, and Corisand galloped along, meek and gentle, the absolute picture of a well-trained, obedient horse. After a time, she felt her rider beginning to relax on her back, lulled by the rhythm of that smooth, swinging stride. And the more the girl’s vigilance slackened, the more delighted the mare became. Tiolani’s golden-haired lover, whom Corisand detested, closed the gap between them. As he rode up close, the mare’s skin twitched as though she could feel the prickling feet of a swarm of filthy flies. Why were these Phaerie so dense? Had they no deeper instincts? Why couldn’t Tiolani see the evil aura of treachery, greed and deceit that clung around Ferimon?

  He was riding Vikal, an ill-tempered white stallion with pale-blue eyes, who had recently crossed Corisand’s path when she’d refused to mate with him. As a matter of fact, Aelwen had tried every stallion in the place except Vikal, as she didn’t particularly want to pass on the blue-eyed trait, but he had broken out of his paddock one night and tried his luck anyway. Kelon had found him in the stable yard the following morning, a sadder but wiser beast. The horse was well known as an attacker of other males, and had inflicted some terrible injuries in the past, so Kelon thought that he must have been fighting with another stallion, and was still wondering which of them it had been, for he had never found any evidence of injuries on the others. One thing was certain - this time it had been Vikal’s turn to come off worst in the encounter. Corisand looked at the torn ear and the partly healed scars on his white hide and flicked her tail in derision, before turning her attention to the conversation between their two riders.

  ‘How are you finding your new horse?’ Ferimon called out.

  Tiolani made a little sound of disgust. ‘I cannot think what Aelwen has been doing to her,’ she said. ‘I would have more fun riding a nursery rocking horse than this dull, spiritless beast.’

  You wait, Corisand thought darkly. Just you wait. With her panoramic vision, she saw Aelwen and Kelon peeling off in a south-westerly direction, and sinking furtively down towards the treetops. Now would be the time to act, before she lost them completely, but before she could tense herself, or take another breath, she heard the Huntsman Darillan cry out.

  ‘Look - over there!’

  Corisand cursed to herself. Then without warning she exploded into violent motion: rearing, plunging, bucking, twisting in the air and lashing out with her feet; trying every trick she knew to unseat her rider.

  Tiolani was completely unprepared. On the first buck, Corisand felt her lose a stirrup; the mare plunged and bucked again, and the other stirrup went. The third buck was so violent that it hurled Tiolani out of the saddle, and with a fading scream, the girl plummeted towards the treetops far below.

  Corisand didn’t stop to watch. As she had hoped, every rider in the Hunt went hurtling down towards Tiolani, hoping that one of them might catch her before she crashed to her death. They had forgotten about the fugitives now. In the meantime, the riderless mare doubled back sharply and sped as fast as she could in Aelwen’s direction. She planned to put some distance between herself and the Hunt during the panic over Tiolani, then plunge down and lose herself among the trees before they noticed where she had gone.

  It was the best plan she could come up with - but Darillan had turned his horse, leaving his hounds to scatter, and was coming after her. She spun in the air and charged on a collision course with the astonished Huntsman. Ramming into the shoulder of his horse as hard a
s she could, she grabbed Darillan’s arm in her teeth and wrenched him bodily from the saddle. She didn’t wait to see him hit the ground, but wheeled around once again and raced away at top speed. She couldn’t let them catch her now. Even if Tiolani lived through the fall, as she probably would - someone was sure to catch Hellorin’s precious heir - Darillan was unlikely to survive. Corisand was marked for death. She had killed, and she doubted very much that being the Forest Lord’s horse would save her if they caught her again.

  Which was not unlikely. Corisand was just thinking about turning down into the shelter of the trees when she saw movement behind her. A group of riders, led by Ferimon, his face contorted with rage, was streaking unbelievably fast across the sky. His wicked-looking horse Vikal quickly outdistanced the others, his white coat shining in the gloom, the red glow of murder in his eyes mirroring the twisted expression of rage on Ferimon’s face. There would be no fighting this pair; no taking them by surprise. If Corisand could not find a way to escape them, she could measure her life in minutes.