R. Salvatore: The Witch_s Daughter

Ardaz nodded and looked away. “Witness the dawning of the age of mortals,” he said. “The time of the wizards has slipped away.”

Arien and Benador looked at each other both hopefully and a bit afraid. They could complete the rout of the talons and eventually win back the western fields. And without the Black Warlock to regroup the talons and hold them in line, it seemed doubtful that the chaotic creatures would ever come back to war in such numbers. Certainly all the goodly peoples of the world would be more secure without the specter of Morgan Thalasi hanging over them.

But both the leaders thought then of wondrous Avalon, the forest of springtime; and of Lochsilinilume, the enchanted valley of the elves; and of the White Tower of Istaahl, the pinnacle of Pallendara’s strength. And neither was sure at that moment that the cost had been worth the victory.

“Be strong,” Ardaz pleaded to them, particularly to the Calvan king. “The world is yours now.”

And so began in Ynis Aielle the Age of Man.

THE REMAINDER OF the scattered talon forces on the eastern side of the great river were found and destroyed within the course of the next two days. And as the planning for the construction of the new bridge began, the Eldar of Illuma and the Ranger Lord decided it was time for them to head home.

“You will be sorely missed,” King Benador said to them one rainy morning. “I had feared this parting, yet I held out hope that you would continue to fight by my side when we crossed into the western fields.”

“Would that we could, good King,” replied Arien, the elf who had forgotten how to smile. “But my people have suffered greatly in this war. It is time, I think, that we go back to our valley and mourn our dead.”

Benador could not disagree with the Eldar’s assessment. With their efforts against the undead brigade and the sheer courage of their stand on the breached bridge, Arien and his people had played as vital a role as any in the victory at the river. But the cost had been staggering. The elves had charged down from the northland to the aid of Calva five hundred strong, yet only a handful more than two hundred had survived to make the trek back to Lochsilinilume.

“And we, too, must be going our way,” Belexus added, standing by his father’s side. “Yer fights in the west’ll be won, I’m knowing, but we’ve another battle to attend.”

“Avalon,” the King reasoned. Ardaz had told Benador of the destruction to the wondrous forest and of Brielle’s continuing efforts to restore some measure of its glory.

“Ayuh,” replied Bellerian. “The witch’s needing our aid. Suren we owe her that much.”

“And more,” agreed Benador. “And no one knows that better than I. Go then, my friends. Go back to your homes and be assured that Calva will prevail in the end, and that you have once more shown all my people the inestimable value of your friendship. My thanks.”

And then Benador, the King of Calva, bowed low to them.

The solemn procession rolled out that same dreary morning, and somehow the jingle of the bells on the elven steeds did not seem so merry.

“Me head’s hurtin’,” Rhiannon grumbled. Bryan nearly jumped at the words, the first the young witch had spoken in the two days since the battle. She had lain in the soundest of slumbers-too sound, Bryan feared-and the half-elf wondered if she would ever awaken. He rushed to the side of the makeshift cot and kneeled, brushing her thick hair from her fair face.

“Good that you’re back,” he commented with a wide smile.

“Me head-” Rhiannon started to complain again, but Bryan hushed her by putting a finger over her soft lips.

But then the half-elf’s contentment washed away in a flood of horror as he noted the spot Rhiannon was talking about, a pulsating lump in the middle of her forehead.

“What?” he gasped, and his stark terror frightened the young witch. She put a hand up on the lump, her eyes widening as her skin began to tear apart.

But then the pain was gone, and when Rhiannon felt the cut-edged hardness, she understood and was no longer afraid.

“The wizard mark,” Bryan realized with a sigh. He had heard enough of the tales of the four wizards of Ynis Aielle to recognize the significance of the gemstone that now adorned Rhiannon’s forehead.

“The witchin’ mark,” Rhiannon corrected him. “Have ye a pool or a shinin’ silver bowl?” she asked, a bit self-conscious. “Does it-”

“It is beautiful,” Bryan assured her, and none could doubt the sincerity in his voice. For truly the gemstone of Rhiannon, a diamond glittering with the same inner sparkle that lit the young witch’s eyes, outshone the marks of any of the other wizards: the black sapphire of Thalasi, the white pearl of Istaahl, the silvery moonstone of Ardaz, and even the emerald of her mother.

The blush in her cheeks only made Rhiannon seem even more beautiful to Bryan at that moment, and he hugged the witch’s head close to his chest. “Rest now,” he said to her. “You have saved the world, and now I will protect you in your need.”

Rhiannon pushed Bryan out to arm’s length to take a good measure of him, to better understand the implications of his tender tone.

“On my life,” Bryan vowed, “I’ll not let anything hurt you again.”

Rhiannon did not question the jumble of confusing emotions that now churned within her. She just accepted the renewal of Bryan’s comforting hug, closed her eyes and slipped away into the soft fog of a peaceful sleep.

A fifth wizard mark had found its place in the world, but that fact did nothing to diminish the damage done to that special place wherein the wizards garnered their power. Ynis Aielle’s Age of Magic was quickly on the wane.

He could not know, then, that with the weakening of the wizards he was now the mightiest being in all of Aielle. All he knew was hate and an insatiable hunger for revenge.

The wraith of Hollis Mitchell pulled himself from the river.