Maggie Furey - Dhiammara

The shadowy figure in the gloom bowed her head, her shoulders slumping wearily. Though it was hard to tell at such a distance, it seemed to Yazour that she was wiping her face on her sleeve, as though she were weeping. How he wished he could do something to comfort her. ... Suddenly, he felt a shiver run through him. Who could anticipate the mysterious workings of the Gods? It was obvious, now, that he had been brought here for a reason after all. Yazour smiled to himself. Though he was too late to follow her, there was a way in which he could help Aurian, after all. What better way to assist the Mage, in her absence, than by helping and caring for her mother?

Full of his plan, he almost set off across the bridge to inform the Lady—then he remembered her harsh words and the look of cold, hard anger in her eyes when she had left them. Yazour swallowed hard. Perhaps he would wait awhile, until she had had a chance to calm herself after her confrontation with the Phaerie. She needed him, that much was certain—unfortunately, he might have a good deal of trouble convincing her of that.

His companions, when he spoke to them over a belated supper that night, were far from encouraging. To Yazour’s indignation, Vannor made no effort whatsoever to master his laughter. “You want to protect the Lady Eilin?” he chuckled. “Yazour, you’re an incorrigible romantic. What are you going to defend her from that she can’t manage very well on her own? Why don’t you ask the Lord of the Phaerie whether she’s in need of protection?”

“Nonsense.” Dulsina defended Yazour. “You’re a dear man, Vannor, but sometimes you can be such an idiot. The poor Lady—she has just lost her daughter and her home is in ruins. Of course she needs someone to be with her. We’re all grieving over the fate of the Mages, but it must be so much worse for Eilin. She’ll need solitude in which to mourn, it’s true—but not all the time, for goodness’ sake!”

“It’s not a question of power, or strength,” Yazour agreed. “Often our greatest foes are those that can creep upon us unseen: loneliness, anxiety, sorrow, and hopelessness. No one can battle those enemies alone. She needs someone to be with her, to distract her mind and cheer her....”

Clearly, these subtleties were lost on Parric. “Suit yourself.” He shrugged.

“If it’ll put you off racing back to the South all on your own, then I’m all for it. Just remember, though, that these Magewomen are different from your protected, secluded southern girls. Never forget whose mother the Lady Eilin is. If you start even hinting that she’s some kind of helpless female, she’ll have your balls for breakfast. They’re very touchy, are Magefolk—you should know that by now. You’re a braver man than I am, Yazour, to even attempt to defy her when she’s so determined to be left alone.”

Yazour sighed. It looks as though this will be even more difficult than I imagined, he thought, but I don’t care. Aurian’s mother needs me, and I will persuade her to accept me somehow. For Parric, he put on his bravest face. “I don’t care how stubborn she is. When I talk to her tomorrow, she’ll find that I can be stubborn too.”

In the cold, dark dead of night, the mundane world was an inhospitable place.—Hellorin looked out across the bleak stretches of wind-scoured moorland and cursed softly to himself. He had been so long away from the world, he had forgotten how unpleasant its climate could be. Though the Phaerie, with their magic, were unaffected by the cold, they had been accustomed, for many a long age, to more congenial surroundings. Yet to Hellorin, having newly won his liberty, it seemed out of the question to go slinking tamely back to the comfort of his palace in the Elsewhere of his long exile.

“My Lord, this is ridiculous.”

Hellorin looked around to see Lethas, his chamberlain. The Lord of the Phaerie sighed. Lethas did not usually tend to complain—he had run Hellorin’s palace with effortless ease for centuries, and little was beyond the scope of his administrative or, failing that, his magical abilities. Tonight, however, the chamberlain was frowning. He pushed his dark, wind-tousled hair out of his eyes with the exasperated air of one who has repeated the selfsame gesture far too many times. “Lord, our people should be feasting now to celebrate the success of our hunt. What comfort can be gained out here in this forsaken place?”

Hellorin could not help but agree. The Valley had groves of trees that could be formed by magic into temporary walls and roofs, and would have been the perfect place to re-create the great woodland feasts of old within the natural shelter of the crater’s towering walls. Those insolent, invading Mortals should have been expunged from Phaerie lands—except, of course, that those lands did not belong to the Phaerie.

The Forest Lord frowned. The Vale was Eilin’s realm. The Mage had paid for it with the death of her beloved soulmate. She had taken that barren crater and with her own Earth-magic and endless years of toil, had created a verdant haven of peace and beauty in these harsh northern moors—and she had made it abundantly clear to him that she would, if necessary, fight for her home to her very last breath ... or his.

All around him in the gloom, Hellorin could hear the restless rise and fall of muttered complaints. He ground his teeth. He had lost his precious white mare somewhere in the Vale, and worse than that, in the wake of his confrontation with Eilin, his authority among his people had suffered a telling blow.—Something would have to be done, he knew. He was aware that the Mortals were leaving on the morrow—perhaps that wretched, stubborn Magewoman would be more amenable to reason if she had no one to protect. Relieved at the thought of taking some action at last, he turned to his chamberlain. “Tell my people to be patient,” he ordered. “The tempers of the Magefolk can cool as quickly as they ignite. Tomorrow, we will return to the Vale and talk to the Lady Eilin again.”

“Your will, my Lord.” Lethas turned away—and turned back again. “Lord, have you forgotten that the Lady Eilin owes you a debt for the saving of her life?” he blurted. “If this is not the perfect time to make a claim on her, then I’m a Mortal! If you ask me, it’s not talk that female needs. Anyone else who dared show such blatant disrespect to the Lord of the Phaerie would be punished. You ought to—”

“Be silent!” Hellorin roared. “Or I will punish you!” Taking a deep breath, he went on coldly. “When I need your advice, be sure that I will ask you. In the meantime, I advise you to follow your orders—ere I find myself a chamberlain fonder of his duty and less fond of his own opinions.” The Forest Lord strode away, fuming, leaving the unfortunate Lethas to babble his apologies to the empty air. In his heart, however, Hellorin was forced to concede that his chamberlain was probably right. That wretched, mule-headed Magewoman! This ridiculous, impossible situation was all her fault! She was making a laughingstock of him in front of his people. Hellorin imagined her, in the shelter of her Vale, gloating at the memory of his ignominious defeat. When tomorrow came, he promised himself grimly, they would see who gloated then.—While the sun was just waking, the world breathed stillness through every pore. The only sound, the trilling of the birds, only served to accentuate the expectant hush, as though the Valley had put on a cloak of silence stitched with the silvery tapestries of their songs. The low, angled rays of the early sun stretched long fingers into the Vale, making blue, attenuated shadows that lifted the textures of the trees and plants into vivid relief against a backdrop of silken amber light. Each gnarl of bark, each individual blade of grass, stood out distinctly, silhouetted against its own small shadow. The scintillant hues of the fragrant, dew-drenched earth were echoed by the light that sparked from the glittering crystal in Eilin’s cupped hands.