Maggie Furey: Dhiammara

In the center of the Vale’s great bowl, on the shores of the lake, the Earth-Mage Eilin shuddered to hear the death-screams of the slaughtered Mortals. The Phaerie Lord’s treachery was a minor matter when compared with the loss of her daughter, but the betrayal hurt nonetheless. Eilin, almost crushed beneath the weight of her grief, stood numb and irresolute. Only her stubborn pride kept her on her feet. For the second time in her life, she beheld die destruction of all that she held dear—her daughter, her home, her hopes. The first time, when Geraint had died and her life had fallen apart in ruin, she had risen above grief and disaster to build a productive and purposeful life from the rubble of her dreams—but she was older now: crushed, bewildered, and alone. How could she ever find the strength and courage to pick up the pieces a second time?

Beside her, Vannor and Parric, the erstwhile companions of her daughter, stood at the forefront of the band of rebels had been sheltered in her Valley during her absence in the otherworldly Phaerie Realm. Through her constant vigil at Hellorin’s magic window that had looked out on her own world, she had come to know all these folk over the last months—with the exception of one, a stranger; by his color and facial structure a foreigner from across the seas, where the magic of the Forest Lord’s window did not reach.

None of these Mortals meant anything to Eilin—save that she couldn’t wait for them to leave. The Mage wanted her Valley to herself again—she wanted time to repair the devastation that had been visited upon her by the Weather-Mage Eliseth, and solitude in which to assimilate the horror of losing a daughter and the pain of her betrayal by the Phaerie Lord. There was no help for it, however. These people had been Aurian’s friends and companions. They were as stunned as Eilin by the horrors of the day, and she knew they would need to rest and collect themselves before she could be rid of them at last. They would find no surcease from her, though—she had nothing left to give. Let the Mortals shift for themselves!

Of all the folk who had survived the dreadful events of that day, Dulsina, who had scarcely known the Lady Aurian, seemed best equipped to cope. As she looked around at her devastated companions, the woman realized that if they were to spend the night in a comparative degree of comfort, everything would be up to her. Parric had wandered away from the others and was standing with his back to them, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped in grief and defeat.—Even at this distance Dulsina could hear the bloodcurdling sound of his ceaseless cursing. Sangra was struggling valiantly, with little success, to stifle her tears. She was grasping the hilt of her sword so tightly that her hands were a knot of bones, as if by force of arms she could defeat the sense of dread and desolation that had overtaken her.

Fional, though utterly distraught at the loss of his friend D’arvan, was with the stranger—the exotic man with a tanned face, long dark hair, and the lithe, muscled body of a dancer. The archer was trying his best to calm the stranger as he cried out loudly in rage and anguish, in some foreign tongue, while Vannor—dear, good-hearted Vannor, who, up to a moment ago seemed so calm and collected—had sat down on the ground so abruptly that it looked as though his knees had turned to water, his hand across his eyes. Worst of all, the Lady Eilin stood unmoving, a little apart from the others, her eyes blazing with a bleak and terrible light in a face that had been turned to stone.

Someone would have to take care of them all—that much was plain. Perhaps, Dulsina thought, it might be better if they could leave this unhappy place with its tragic associations and return to what remained of the rebel camp—if, as she hoped, their sanctuary had been spared from the blaze. Her companions, however, seemed unable to rouse themselves from their shocked and grieving lassitude—and when she tried to persuade the Lady Eilin, she was repulsed by an impenetrable wall of ice, and behind it, a blaze of suppressed rage that Seared like flames.

There was little in life that daunted Dulsina, but the way the Mage’s eyes looked straight through her chilled her to the heart. For her very life, she dared not push Eilin any further—for she was certain that the next time the Lady’s dreadful gaze turned upon her, it would not be chill with indifference but burning with wrath. Dulsina, no fool, changed her plans with alacrity. We can move what’s left of the encampment here, she decided briskly. The Gods only know, we’ll need some comforts about us, after the terrible things we’ve seen and suffered today. The sun will be setting before much longer, and we must have food and shelter organized before it gets dark.

Already the sun was sinking into the wrack of smoke that hung over the Vale like a grim, grey pall. Dulsina sighed. Surely there must be someone here who could help her? Someone sensible, and capable, who was still in possession of his wits? It was with a sense of profound thankfulness that she noticed Hargorn, standing a short distance away on the shore of the lake. The veteran was looking out across the water at the island, leaning heavily on his sword, which he had planted, point down, in the muddy bank of the lake. As she approached him, Dulsina’s relief vanished abruptly. For the first time since she had met him, Hargorn looked like an old man. But as he heard her footsteps he straightened, and there were telltale glints of moisture on his seamed face as he turned toward her, he was dry-eyed and seemed in full possession of his wits—save for the dread, bitter emptiness that lurked behind his gaze.

“Maya’s gone,” he said softly, before Dulsina could speak.

“The poor lass was here in the Vale all the time and I never knew it—and now she’s gone again.” His voice sank to a whisper-“I was always so proud of her—what she made of herself, didn’t know it, but she was like the daughter I never had” Then he shook himself, and his eyes became alert once again. “But there’s no sense in mourning her as if she’s dead we don’t know for sure,” he added decisively. “Maya I’d have a thing or two to say about that—she’s got more balls than most men put together—sorry, lovey,” he apologized to Dulsina, remembering, belatedly, that he was not talking to one of his men. “What can I do for you, anyway?”

Dulsina had to swallow back her own sadness before she could reply. His words had reminded her of the Solstice Eve when she had lost Vannor’s daughter in the crowded Grand Arcade. Maya and the Lady Aurian had rescued Zanna from the throng and brought her back safely to the carriage. The two young women, warrior and Mage but the fastest of friends, so full of the courage and promise of youth, had been through so much hardship and suffering since then—and now both of them were gone.

“Come on, now,” Hargorn gently interrupted her thoughts. “It doesn’t do to dwell on it—I shouldn’t have set you off. The Gods help anyone who dares to tangle with Maya and Aurian—and standing around here like a bunch of wet hens won’t get us anywhere, either. Thank goodness the two of us are here—somebody’s got to have their wits about them.”

Dulsina smiled, comforted by the warm sense of comradeship that existed between them. She and the ageing warrior had shared a soft spot for each other ever since he had smuggled her to the Valley with the rest of the rebels after Vannor had forbidden her to come.

Taking a grip on herself, the woman explained her predicament to Hargorn: “The Lady Eilin won’t shift from this spot, poor thing, and the rest of them are more like headless chickens than wet hens. We need to get a camp together before nightfall...”

“Don’t worry,” the veteran reassured her. “I’ll round up our folk and get them busy. I’ll set some of them to building shelters, if you can come back to the camp with the rest of us y and choose what you want us to bring. We can be back here with food and blankets in no time.”