And Ancaladar didn’t have to get involved, not really. He could go give the Wildmage whatever he—she—it wanted, and then go back to sleep. So long as what it wanted was something small and insignificant.
He’d be careful.
With a grunt, he levered himself to his feet, careful not to dislodge his furry guest.
“Show me,” he rumbled softly.
—«♦»—
THE pain pulled her toward consciousness and pushed her away from it at the same time, until Idalia floated in a dazed state, only half-aware of her surroundings, knowing that Death was only days—perhaps hours—away. Her pain-fevered body was wracked by shivers—it was cold here in the cave—and the cold and shivering stole what little strength she had left.
Sometimes she forgot entirely where she was. Sometimes she thought she was back in Ondoladeshiron, where she had first met Jermayan, walking with him beneath cloudless skies. Sometimes she was still a Silver Eagle, soaring through those same skies.
Sometimes—those fantasies were the worst—she was a girl in Armethalieh again, living in her father’s house, her horizons no wider than the walls of Tavadon House and the short walk to the Ladies’ Academy where the daughters of the Mageborn received their lessons in dancing and painting and other ornamental arts suitable to ornamental females. Prison and torment all in one, knowing she was scorned and shunned by the other girls as a half-breed, knowing there was so much more in the world than she, a mere girl, was allowed to see and be, and knowing that nothing, bar a miracle, was going to give her access to that wider world.
Suddenly she was conscious. The nightmare vision of the Ladies’ Academy dissolved, and the tinkling laughter of the other girls—how she’d always hated it!—became a scraping sound, as of something—something heavy—being dragged over the rock. Her heart beat wildly, and she strained her eyes in the darkness, turning her head cautiously as she tried to locate the source of the sound.
Two glowing lights hung somewhere in the darkness, their size and distance impossible to judge. Eyes? Lanterns? Idalia didn’t know: she only knew that the sudden strength she felt came from the presence of another’s magic, not her own strength. It was a brief gift, she could tell that much, and she dared not waste it. “Wildmage. You called for me,” a deep soft voice said. “Help me,” Idalia whispered. “The Endarkened rise against the Elves.” To speak aloud had taken all the strength the stranger’s magic had lent her, and Idalia fell into a deep and final unconsciousness.
—«♦»—
ANCALADAR regarded the Wildmage. He wondered what her name was, not that it mattered to him.
The Endarkened, now, that was another matter. He’d known they were active again—they’d been hunting dragons lately, which was one of the reasons he’d taken such pains to hide himself so carefully. But if they were going to war against the Elves…
Then the Wildmages would want the dragons to fight for them.
Again.
He reached out one taloned claw toward the woman, and drew back. He could not help her himself. He was a creature of magic, but he could not use his magic himself—only his Bondmate could. And Ancaladar had no Bondmate.
Oh, yes, he’d been so clever, Ancaladar thought in disgust. He’d watched his brothers and friends die in the Great War—not only in battle, but from linking their immortal span of years to the brief mortal span of their Bondmate’s lives, for a Bonded dragon died when his Bondmate did.
He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of that, and so he’d hidden, making himself safe from meeting the one Mage—whoever he or she might be—who could be his Bondmate. What could one dragon do to tip the balance, anyway?
But there were worse horrors, he discovered, than dying in service to the Light. Dragons had fallen to the Dark when their Bondmates had been corrupted by the Endarkened with the promise of immortality.
Now he was safe. One of the last of the dragons. He ought to congratulate himself on his prudence at surviving this long, but more and more these days, it felt as if he’d cheated, or been cheated, or both at the same time. It certainly felt as if he hadn’t been clever at all, that he’d shirked his duty. He was a creature of the Light, wasn’t he? He was bound to help the cause of the Light. Except that he hadn’t. He’d been a coward, done as little as he could, and run away as soon as possible.
Maybe what he felt like was a failure.
Maybe this was a chance to make things right. He regarded the Wildmage with faint suspicion. At least he felt no hint of a possible Bond with her.
Ancaladar made up his mind. He’d help the Wildmage. And perhaps the Elves would be willing to provide him with something in the way of steady meals in return. In the Old Days, his kind had been able to bargain for nice, tasty domestic cattle or sheep, and having to hunt for himself—and hide while he did it—just was getting to be too hard. Was this what getting old felt like? Or was it only that he was becoming less?
He raised his head and looked around, extending his senses as far as they would go. He didn’t sense any of the mock-Elves anywhere around. It was daytime, anyway—even far underground Ancaladar could sense the position of the sun—they’d all be securely asleep for some time yet. She’d be safe enough while he went to look for her friends.
He didn’t really want to expose himself in daylight, but if he actually intended to help, he had no choice.
Humans were fragile things, and this one looked badly broken. If she was going to be fixed, it would have to be soon.
Chapter Ten
The Return of the Dragons
KELLEN HAD MANAGED to convince Jermayan not to go charging in after Idalia during the night—though it took every bit of diplomacy that he had—but when dawn came, and Idalia still hadn’t come back—he was starting to run out of ideas.
He knew she wasn’t dead. But what if she was a prisoner? Or trapped somewhere? Or hurt? Or just lost somewhere down in the cave system? Jermayan had suggested all those possibilities and more in the past hours.
Any of those things might be true. The one thing Kellen knew for sure was that there was only one tarnkappa, and that if anybody was going down into the caves after Idalia, it had better be him.
The question was, how to convince Jermayan of that. There’s no way. There’s absolutely no way.
“Look. I agree. You’re right,” Kellen said, about two hours past dawn, two hours of intermittent, polite, Elven “arguing.”
“We’ve got to go after her.”
“Finally—!” Jermayan said, making a grab for the tarnkappa. “But we have to do this right,” Kellen said, holding on to the bundle of fabric firmly. “We need to find a more secure place to leave the horses than right in front of the cave, and I’d kind of like to know if there’s anything out there looking for us before we go in. If Idalia… if she’s hurt, we’re going to have to spend the night right here, and it’s going to have to be a place we can defend if we have to. Also, maybe you can find another way in. They might be watching this one.” Please, please, let him decide he’s the best one to do this because his woods skills are better than mine…
Jermayan studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
“Very well. You can break camp. Be ready to ride out the moment I get back. I won’t be long.”
Just be long enough, Kellen thought.
He watched as Jermayan saddled Valdien and rode away over the snow.
He hated running out on Jermayan this way—not that the Elven Knight would hesitate to do the same if their positions were reversed—but one man alone had a better chance than two down there in the caverns. Between the tarnkappa, and the fact that Kellen was going to risk a Finding Spell, Kellen was pretty sure he could get to Idalia wherever she was.
He shook out the tarnkappa and looked at Shalkan.
“I hope you can—” Kellen began.
Shalkan cleared his throat. The unicorn was looking over Kellen’s shoulder with a very odd expression on his long equine face.
Kellen whirled, dropping the tarnkappa to the snow, his hand going to his sword.
And stared.