Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

Suddenly, Aurian grinned to herself. “She does not know the Valley. Lead her around by circuitous routes, and delay her as long as you can—but as soon as she becomes impatient, let her through to the lake, and I will deal with her. Many of you were my childhood companions. I played among you and you sheltered me with your branches. I would lose no more of you today.”

From the trees came a rustling murmur of assent, like a soft breeze in the branches. The Mage heard her companions gasp as a broad avenue opened up before them. As Aurian rode into it at the head of her little column, the trees of the Valley bowed down their branches, in homage and in thanks. “Follow!” Aurian cried. “To the lake!” Schiannath neighed shrilly and reared, then broke into a bounding gallop as they raced toward the center of the Vale.

The rebel camp was in chaos and utter turmoil as its inhabitants raced about, packing up their slender goods and preparing to flee the burning Valley. Dulsina seemed to be needed everywhere at once: to calm, to help, to organize and advise. Fional and Hargorn were assisting her in the evacuation—or at least the young archer was doing his best, but he seemed to be best at getting under her feet, she thought impatiently. Hargorn’s battle-trained bellow, however, was proving extremely useful, and she was glad that the veteran had left the Nightrunners as soon as his wound had healed, leading back the group of Nexian fugitives who had elected to join the rebels. He had been a tower of strength to her since word had reached the camp of Vannor’s murder at the hands of the Magefolk.

Once again, pain stopped her dead in her tracks, like a fist clenched around her heart. Try as she might, Dulsina still could not come to terms with the news of Vannor’s death. It had taken all her courage to get through the days knowing that little Zanna was missing, but she had forced herself to carry on and be strong for the sake of the rebels under her care—until the stranger Bern’s ghastly tidings had almost brought the stalwart woman to her knees. For all his faults—and over the years his patient housekeeper had become well acquainted with every last one of them—Dulsina’s fondness for the blunt, outspoken merchant had matured into a steady, abiding love that had been neither challenged nor changed by her close friendship with his first wife. The practical housekeeper had too much sense to be romantic. Even though his marriage to Sara had put paid to any notion that he might one day return her feelings, Dulsina had always known that she was indispensable to Vannor, and with that she had been content—until his untimely death had even robbed her of that comfort.

“Damn you, you stubborn old fool—why did you have to go and get yourself killed?” Dulsina muttered. “If I’m not around to take care of you, you can’t do anything right!” Then, chiding herself for standing around moping when she was needed, she shook herself, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and went to take care of her rebels. Despite her best efforts to shut him out, however, Vannor went with her in her thoughts.

Vannor heard the shouted orders in the distance as he hurried through the trees at the head of his Xandim warriors. “Why, I know that voice,” he exclaimed. “It’s—”

“It’s Hargorn!” Parric yelled delightedly, attempting to spur his mount to greater speed before remembering, belatedly, that he was riding one of the Xandim. “Sorry,” he apologized hastily. The horse whinnied and shook its head in irritation, but obligingly picked up its pace.

When they reached the edge of the trees, they found that the clearing of the rebel encampment was filled with a mass of panic-stricken folk who were running, lifting, shoving, tripping, and generally trying to do everything at once. It seemed impossible that he could pick one figure out of the seething mass—but Vannor’s eyes went unerringly to the tall, dark-haired figure of Dulsina.

“Dulsina!” he bellowed, his face breaking into a grin. “I’m back!”

The result was not what he had expected. Utter silence descended on the clearing as everyone turned to stare at him, openmouthed. And Dulsina—his brave, levelheaded, sensible housekeeper—whirled to look at him, her face stark white and blank with shock. “Vannor!” she whispered—and crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

“Don’t just stand there!” Vannor roared. “Somebody help her!” Leaping down from his horse, he ran to her side, with Parric close behind him. When he reached her, she was already opening her eyes, with Hargorn helping her struggle into a sitting position. But the veteran was looking not at Dulsina, but at Vannor, and his eyes were suspiciously bright. “They told us you were dead,” he gasped. “Bern said that the Magefolk had killed you.”

“You thoughtless, boneheaded idiot,” Dulsina interrupted furiously, her eyes sparkling with her anger. “Did you ever find Zanna? Where in all perdition have you been these last few months? Didn’t you care about the anguish you were putting us through?”

Abruptly, Vannor decided to forgo the tongue-lashing after all. Throwing his arms around Dulsina, he hugged her tightly until she squeaked in protest. “Yes, I found the lass,” he told her, “or she found me, at any rate. She’s safe with your sister now.”

Letting go of her reluctantly, he turned to the waiting rebels. “Come on,” he told them. “Explanations will have to wait—we’ve got to get to the lake as quickly as possible. Just take all the weapons you can come by and leave the rest of this stuff where it is. Fetch the horses—those who don’t have mounts will ride double with the rest of us. Don’t stand there gaping—move!”

As they scurried to obey him, something that Hargorn had said nudged its way into Vannor’s memory. He grabbed the veteran by the arm, detaining him. “Hargorn—who the blazes is this Bern who told you I was dead?”

Hargorn shrugged. “Just some fugitive from Nexis who came to us a while ago. He said you’d sent him with a message—but before he could escape, they had killed you…” His brows knitted in a scowl as he realized how badly the rebels had been duped.

“Come to think of it,” Dulsina added, her voice sharp with anger, “I haven’t seen him since the fire started.”

“It’s not surprising,” Vannor replied—but he had an uneasy feeling that whoever this Bern might be, they hadn’t seen the last of him.

Beside the bridge the unicorn waited. For those with eyes to see her, she shone more brightly than the evenstar itself, in the shadowed murk of the beleaguered Vale. But no one could see her beauty save D’arvan, and she sensed that he was far away, though returning to her swiftly. But still more swiftly came another—the One with whose fate she was so closely entwined. The unicorn pricked up her ears and turned her lovely head toward the east with a toss of her silver mane. In the distance, far around the lakeside, she could see a group of riders emerging from the trees. Two figures rode together at their head, both blazing bright with power. Maya would have recognized them, but the unicorn saw them only as invaders, trespassing on forbidden ground that she must defend. But—and she pawed at the ground in puzzlement, scattering sunbursts from her gleaming hooves—there shouldn’t be two powers. Which of them was the One who, in claiming the Sword, could set her free at last—or send her to her death? Until she could find out, she would have to fight them both.

Aurian’s heart twisted within her as she emerged from the forest onto the open turf of the lakeside and saw that the island was bare now of the tower where she had spent her early years with her mother and Forral. She turned to Anvar, who was riding by her side. “The tower!” she cried. “It’s gone! Why didn’t Chiamh warn me when he performed his seeing?” She knew she was being irrational, but felt as though someone had wrenched her childhood away from her. Though she had rarely visited the tower in recent years, she had always felt secure in the knowledge that it was there.