The Witch's Daughter (26 page)

Not without help.

*   *   *

Brielle watched both Calamus’ suicidal plummet to the ground and the pursuit of the wraith, and knew that the brave Pegasus was counting on her. She waved her hand in a wide arc, and the air around her filled with strands of floating, sticky goo. They clung to the trees and to each other, growing into a symmetrical web.

Calamus pivoted and broke the fall as much as possible, but the sudden motion sent Belexus tumbling from its back. Too concerned with its own landing at that moment, the terrified Pegasus didn’t even notice. Belexus hit first, Calamus right behind, their weight driving Brielle’s web down toward the earth in a rush. But the strength of the Emerald Witch was in the magical strands and they held, as fine a net as the world had ever known.

Brielle wanted to rush to the fallen heroes, but she still had other business to attend. She ran to the edge of her domain where the black horse soon put down, and faced the wraith of Mitchell once again.

“So that one escaped,” Mitchell laughed.

His inference that there had been others present when he had attacked unnerved the witch; her daughter was still traveling with the ranger as far as she knew.

“Not so fortunate was Andovar,” Mitchell roared. “And I will get that one, too. You cannot always be there to protect him, wicked witch; I will find Belexus again. The next time he will not escape.”

Brielle trembled in agonized rage. She was relieved that Mitchell had made no reference to her daughter, but she felt the loss of Andovar, the ranger she had watched grow into manhood, as keenly as if he had been her own child. Her only answer came out in an explosion of unbridled rage, a bolt of mighty white energy that sent Mitchell flying far from his saddle and reduced the evil mount to a mere pile of ashes.

All boasts stolen from the wraith’s tongue, he fled with all speed back to the south, painfully aware of his stupidity in challenging the likes of Brielle, and hoping that his dark master would be forgiving.

Sorrowing over the events of the night, the great River Ne’er Ending rolled relentlessly along its southern course, past the farmlands, past the encampments talon and human, unerringly on its trek to find the southern sea.

And in its waters that night, the great river carried the body of Andovar, the ranger who had died to save his friend.

T
HE FIGHTING ACROSS
the Four Bridges slowed considerably during the Black Warlock’s absence, and even after Thalasi returned to his forces, he held them in check, knowing that they would be much more effective once their new commander arrived to lead them.

Likewise did the stream of refugees making their silent way across the river diminish. The talons recognized that many potential victims were slipping right through their clawed fingers, so they began to patrol on the riverbanks. Few humans remained alive on the western side, and those unfortunate stragglers who did no longer found crossing to safety an easy feat.

And so for Rhiannon the days became longer and more tedious. The refugee encampment beside Rivertown continued to dwindle—the farther from Thalasi’s army the helpless people could get, the safer they would be—and the witch’s daughter spent her hours staring into the emptiness of the horizon. In some ways she was grateful for the free time and the lull in the action. Without the sound of battle ringing in her ears, the possessing power did not well within
her, tearing her apart. And with little healing to be done, she finally had the chance to find the rest she so badly needed.

But free time also gave Rhiannon the opportunity to contemplate the events that had occurred, particularly the destruction she had wreaked on the field against the talon cavalry and against the earth itself.

In truth, the young witch was not yet ready to ponder the implications of such thoughts. Nor could she sort through the unknown feelings that the ranger Andovar had stirred in her. Rhiannon did not yet understand the true depth of her caring for the man, but she had begun to miss him terribly as soon as he and Belexus had ridden out of sight. And whenever the weight of all the world seemed to descend upon her delicate shoulders, she firmed them up and reminded herself that Andovar would soon return to her side. Together, Rhiannon was beginning to believe, she and her ranger could get through anything.

She found some measure of relief, though, in the three new friends, Siana, Jolsen, and Lennard, who had come across with firsthand knowledge of the young half-elven hero. The three were near to Rhiannon’s age and could match every tale the witch’s daughter could tell them of wondrous Avalon with a story of their own adventures in Corning and in the Baerendel Mountains. Rhiannon listened eagerly as each new—and no doubt exaggerated—story rolled by, but was especially attentive to those adventures concerning Bryan, the lad that had caught the attention and the hearts of all the Calvan people. More than a dozen groups of refugees had given Bryan of Corning full credit for their escape from the talon-occupied lands. As with all heroic tales, the feats of Bryan grew larger and larger with each telling, but even those who recognized the embellishments did not doubt that the young warrior had truly earned his reputation. And with the talons now working hard to shut down the escape
routes, the general consensus was that any others finding their way across would only be able to do so because of the efforts of that special young half-elf.

    Rhiannon sat beside the great river to watch the sunset one evening, as she did every evening, listening to the song of the flowing water, quiet and strong, and enjoying the splash of colors hanging low in the western sky. Here each night the witch’s daughter allowed herself to contemplate those disturbing questions, but gradually, as the days drifted by, she began to find her longing to see Andovar overcoming her fears of magical powers.

How long had the ranger been gone? she wondered. She had lost count of the days; early on, when the line of wounded was still long and her work did not begin or end with the cycles of the sun, one or many might have passed.

“Five,” she decided. Andovar had been gone five days. She could be satisfied with that estimate, but the answer to the other, more important question remained elusive. When would Andovar return?

“Rhiannon!” cried Siana, running down toward the lone form sitting beside the river. “Rhiannon!” She rushed up to the young woman and plopped down on the grass, her smile nearly taking in her ears.

“What’s excitin’ ye so?” Rhiannon replied, trying to calm the girl. “Might it be Lennard? Has the lad found his walking legs?”

“No, not Lennard. Not yet,” Siana puffed, fighting to find her breath.

“What then?”

“It is Bryan!” Siana shouted. “He is alive!”

“Has he come across?” Rhiannon gasped, unable to hide the eagerness on her face. She, like so many others, badly wanted to meet the half-elven hero.

“No,” replied Siana. “But another family, a woman and her two children, came into the camp just a few minutes ago, looking for me. She brought news of Bryan; ’twas he who saved her and her children.”

Rhiannon, though obviously disappointed, was far from surprised. “Suren that one’s making a name that will live on through the centuries,” she remarked, a twinkle of admiration in her bright eyes.

“He is making a name with the talons, too!” laughed Siana. “They call him the ’ghost fighter’ and greatly fear him.”

“As well they should,” Rhiannon replied. “Me hopes and heart’s out to the lad; so much good he has done. Come now, take me to this woman. I’m wishing to hear another tale of Bryan of Corning. Never will I tire of them!”

    Later that evening, Rhiannon attended to the young boy and his infant sister, mostly cleaning their scrapes and washing the grime of their ordeal from their bodies and their thoughts, while the woman recounted the exploits of her rescuer.

“He saved me and mine,” she kept saying, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I try not to think of what the talons would have done to us if they …” She couldn’t complete the thought, and Rhiannon did not want her to.

“Rest easy,” said the witch’s daughter. “Yer children are fine, and the thoughts of their troubles will soon fall far behind. What ye all be needin’ now is sleep. She left the tent with Siana close behind. Jolsen stayed on awhile, talking to Lennard.

Siana started off to the north, toward the Calvan encampment, but Rhiannon took her by the arm and steered her toward the riverbank instead. Rhiannon did not like going to the army camp, with its grim reminders of the soldiers’ true purpose in being here.

“Let us go and see the river,” she said. “Her song’ll put us far from this place.”

Siana readily agreed and followed Rhiannon down to the water’s edge, slumping down in the grass beside her friend. Rhiannon clutched her knees up close to her chest and let the notes of the flowing water fill her ears.

Siana sat in silence, respecting the privacy of Rhiannon’s thoughts. And soon Siana, too, fell under the calming spell of the rhythmic roll of the wide river, and time slipped by both of them without notice and without care.

But then suddenly Rhiannon sprang up, her eyes wide in surprise as she stared at the river.

“What is it?” Siana pressed, amazed at her friend’s distress. Unlike Rhiannon, so attuned to the voice of the natural world, Siana did not hear the discordant notes of the river’s song.

“Not to me knowing,” Rhiannon answered, equally perplexed. She had heard the river’s lament, clearly and undeniably, just as surely as she had understood the truth of the talon force and their dark leader back when she and the rangers had arrived in Corning. She stepped down to the water and knelt, putting her hands into the flow.

“Is something wrong?” Siana asked, moving down beside her. “What did you see?”

“Hear,” Rhiannon corrected, still examining the water.

“Then what did you hear?” Siana asked.

“Sadness,” Rhiannon answered, unable to explain, for she did not fully understand it herself. The river had called to her, its normally impassive voice suddenly filled with sorrow.

A moment later, when a horn drifted into the young woman’s hands, she came to understand. She jumped to her feet, unblinking, her chest heaving in a fight to find her breath.

“What?” Siana pleaded, trying desperately to help her friend.

Rhiannon gasped and held out the horn. “Andovar’s horn,” she managed to stammer.

“Your ranger friend?” Siana asked. “But how did it get in the river?”

Rhiannon knew. The river had told her, and now the horn, verily vibrating with the drama of Andovar’s final moments of life and with the residual emanations of the unnatural, un-dead thing that had slain him, painted the horrible picture all too clearly.

“Me friend is dead,” Rhiannon replied, hardly believing the words even as she spoke them. “In the river.”

“You cannot know that,” Siana argued, rushing to hold Rhiannon’s trembling form. “Even if this is Andovar’s horn—”

“It is his,” Rhiannon insisted.

“And a hundred answers could tell why it is now in the river,” reasoned Siana. “You cannot assume that he is dead just because—”

Rhiannon stopped her with a look. The young witch put her gaze directly into Siana’s eyes, an expression so sorrow-filled that Siana could not remember the remaining words of her argument.

“He is dead,” Rhiannon said again. “I wish it were not so, but I cannot …” She couldn’t find the strength to finish; all the energy just slipped out of her body, out on the tears that now streamed freely down her cheeks.

    “May I enter?”

The morning light filtering through the tent flap found the young woman sitting on a small stool, still clutching her legs close to her chest, as she had on the grass beside the river the night before.

Rhiannon hesitated at the unexpected intrusion, then nodded slightly. The King was on his way into her tent anyway.

“Your friend told me of your discovery,” Benador explained, and he glanced around the little tent and saw the horn lying on the single table. “Is that it?” he asked.

Again Rhiannon nodded.

Benador went over to inspect the find. “It does appear to be Andovar’s,” he conceded.

“It was,” Rhiannon said, not a hint of doubt in her shaky voice.

“Many years I spent in the company of Andovar, and all the rangers,” the King remarked. “When Ungden held the throne, it was they who sheltered me and prepared me for the day when Pallendara would be restored to the rightful line, the day when I would be king.”

“Andovar told me the tale on the road south,” Rhiannon replied. “In his heart, he was yer friend.”

“He is my friend,” Benador corrected.

“Was,” Rhiannon replied, undaunted, though another line of tears inevitably began making their way down her face.

“Can you be so certain?” Benador asked her.

Rhiannon’s look told him that she, at least, sincerely believed in the truth of her words. “It was Andovar’s horn,” she said, a chill in her voice. “And Andovar was wearing it when he died.”

“My lady—” Benador began, still doubting.