flower — I think that even this year they will flower. The rivers roar with melt and all the springs are full. But in summer the wind shifts away from the passes. The grass turns from green to gold. The rivers wane to streams and no rain comes in any year. And when that time comes, whoever is still alive will take a torch and a string of fast horses and ride into the wind, and set the Plains alight so that the fires kindle like a chain of pearls. If he cannot ride he will run; if he cannot run, he will walk; if he cannot walk he will set the Plains alight where he stands. But we will burn it all this time — every leaf, every seed, every blade of grass, the Flower Forest itself, so that They gain no foothold here, nor anything They can use."
It was as if Jermayan had opened a door and stepped back a thousand years, to the time of the Great War. Such desperate bargains, such terrible battles, had been commonplace then, and the land still bore their scars.
There must, there must be another way!
"I hear your words, Lady, and will bear them to Andoreniel with all you have said. I thank you for your courtesy to Ancaladar; he tells me he does not feel the cold, but there are times when it makes my heart ache with cold to look upon him."
"The forest is warm," Magarabeleniel said, and indeed, it was warm enough that Jermayan had removed his heavy fur-lined mittens and thrown back the hood of his heavy fur cloak. "And he need not fear to fly over our walls in the storm, for the winds will drop soon, the better for him to see his way. Nor will we fire upon him, for we have had time to learn our Enemy by now."
Though Jermayan doubted that even the heavy shafts of the Elven hunting bow could penetrate Ancaladar's scales, the barbed quarrels could certainly tear the membrane of his great wings, and Jermayan was not yet certain of his power to repair such damage. Though he had Ancaladar's inexhaustible power to draw upon, he was the one who must do the drawing, and that part of him which was an Elven Mage had been taxed to the uttermost by the spell of Kindolhinadetil's Mirror. Like Kellen and the other Wildmages — and the High Mage Cilarnen — who had played their parts in that spell, the longer he could go without doing magic, the better it would be for him.
"And so I shall tell him," Jermayan said. "In truth, he is quite timid, and will welcome the reassurance."
Magarabeleniel made a faint noise that might, months ago, have been something as undignified as a laugh. "Perhaps you think I will believe any nursery-tale you care to sing, Jermayan, but I have been to Sentarshadeen, and am no child at her first Spring Foaling. If you can fight as well as you can dance, your dragon cannot be timid. But refresh yourself here in our forest, if you will, and perhaps you will rejoin me and my advisors for the evening meal."
"It will be my pleasure," Jermayan assured her, bowing as Magarabeleniel turned and walked away.
The shadows lengthened as he walked deeper into the forest, and over the sound of the wind he heard a wild deep-chested howling.
Coldwarg.
Tainted, creatures of the Shadow, created specifically to hunt and kill unicorns, but willing, even eager, to kill anything; they lusted for the pain and fear of their victims even more than for their deaths.
And they were only one of the monsters that plagued the High Plains, if what Magarabeleniel said was true.
Coldwarg could be slain. Deathwings could be slain. Even shadewalkers could be slain. But it had taken Ancaladar to kill the last ice-drake they had seen, and the ice-drake had very nearly killed him . If there were indeed an ice-drake here, lairing until the winter had deepened further, when it finally emerged and began to hunt, the Lerkalpoldarans would have no defense against it.
What was he to do? Jermayan knew he must not stay longer than needed to complete his mission — or acknowledge failure. He must press on to the other Eight Cities. And then he must return
It was as if Jermayan had opened a door and stepped back a thousand years, to the time of the Great War. Such desperate bargains, such terrible battles, had been commonplace then, and the land still bore their scars.
There must, there must be another way!
"I hear your words, Lady, and will bear them to Andoreniel with all you have said. I thank you for your courtesy to Ancaladar; he tells me he does not feel the cold, but there are times when it makes my heart ache with cold to look upon him."
"The forest is warm," Magarabeleniel said, and indeed, it was warm enough that Jermayan had removed his heavy fur-lined mittens and thrown back the hood of his heavy fur cloak. "And he need not fear to fly over our walls in the storm, for the winds will drop soon, the better for him to see his way. Nor will we fire upon him, for we have had time to learn our Enemy by now."
Though Jermayan doubted that even the heavy shafts of the Elven hunting bow could penetrate Ancaladar's scales, the barbed quarrels could certainly tear the membrane of his great wings, and Jermayan was not yet certain of his power to repair such damage. Though he had Ancaladar's inexhaustible power to draw upon, he was the one who must do the drawing, and that part of him which was an Elven Mage had been taxed to the uttermost by the spell of Kindolhinadetil's Mirror. Like Kellen and the other Wildmages — and the High Mage Cilarnen — who had played their parts in that spell, the longer he could go without doing magic, the better it would be for him.
"And so I shall tell him," Jermayan said. "In truth, he is quite timid, and will welcome the reassurance."
Magarabeleniel made a faint noise that might, months ago, have been something as undignified as a laugh. "Perhaps you think I will believe any nursery-tale you care to sing, Jermayan, but I have been to Sentarshadeen, and am no child at her first Spring Foaling. If you can fight as well as you can dance, your dragon cannot be timid. But refresh yourself here in our forest, if you will, and perhaps you will rejoin me and my advisors for the evening meal."
"It will be my pleasure," Jermayan assured her, bowing as Magarabeleniel turned and walked away.
The shadows lengthened as he walked deeper into the forest, and over the sound of the wind he heard a wild deep-chested howling.
Coldwarg.
Tainted, creatures of the Shadow, created specifically to hunt and kill unicorns, but willing, even eager, to kill anything; they lusted for the pain and fear of their victims even more than for their deaths.
And they were only one of the monsters that plagued the High Plains, if what Magarabeleniel said was true.
Coldwarg could be slain. Deathwings could be slain. Even shadewalkers could be slain. But it had taken Ancaladar to kill the last ice-drake they had seen, and the ice-drake had very nearly killed him . If there were indeed an ice-drake here, lairing until the winter had deepened further, when it finally emerged and began to hunt, the Lerkalpoldarans would have no defense against it.
What was he to do? Jermayan knew he must not stay longer than needed to complete his mission — or acknowledge failure. He must press on to the other Eight Cities. And then he must return
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