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wakeful, filled the great bowl from brim to brim, providing shelter, protection, and sustenance for the enemies of the
Archmage. D'arvan and the Lady Eilin's wolves patrolled the Valley, protecting those who dwelt within from invasion
and danger. Maya guarded the lakeside, and the wooden bridge led to the island and its
hidden secret the legendary Sword of Flame, forged in ancient times by the Dragonfolk to be the greatest of the
Artifacts of Power.
D'arvan sighed. Were it not for the accursed Sword . . . But wishes were useless. The Weapon of the High Magic did
exist, and until the One for whom it had been forged came to claim it, as had been foretold long ago, he and Maya must
fulfill their lonely Guardianship. The Mage wondered, as he often did, who the wielder would be. It's all very well, he
thought, for us to assume that this person will be on our side. It could be anyone! What if it turns out to be the
Archmage? His guts twisted in terror at the thought.
Maya or rather, the unicorn nudged him sharply in the stomach with her nose, making him totter backward to keep
his balance. "All right," D'arvan told her. "I know. I'm wasting time with my foolish notions, while you want to take a
last look at your friend Hargorn before he leaves."
Darkness was falling, and all was still, save for the rhythmic chirp of frogs in the rushes. Ghostly tendrils of silver mist
were swirling over the dark, smooth surface of the water. D'arvan held up the Lady's staff, and the trees parted before
him, bowing their leafy heads in homage over the path they had created. Together they left the lakeside, Mage and
unicorn, vanishing into the shadowed forest like the last, fading memories of a dream.
It was not far from the lakeside to the camp of Vannor's rebels. Though D'arvan and the unicorn were invisible to the
Mortals, they remained in the thicket that edged the clearing. D'arvan had tried, once or twice, to enter the camp, but
had been unnerved by the blank expressions of Vannor's fugitives, as their eyes looked right through him. It was
lonely enough being invisible, the Mage had decided, without being reminded of the fact.
Invisible or not, D'arvan had done the rebels proud by way of a camp. His father had told him to shelter Miathan's
foes, and he had done his best by way of preparation, even before Vannor's folk had arrived. With the protection of
the trees uppermost in his mind, D'arvan had taken every precaution to eliminate the need for the fugitives to cut living
wood. The rounded shelters that ringed the clearing were made from saplings and shrubs that the Earth-Mage had
persuaded to embrace and intertwine, leaving hollows within their hearts where men might live. D'arvan made sure that
a pile of deadwood appeared each day, transported by an apport spell taught him in his brief apprenticeship by the
Lady Eilin from the farthest reaches of the forest. Paths appeared wherever Vannor's people wished to go. The filbert
and fruit trees, which throve by the lakeside, had been cajoled into producing early harvests, and though the island,
with Eilin's garden, was forbidden to the outlaws, D'arvan had rounded up most of her scattered goats and poultry,
and had left them where they had soon been found.
The young Mage smiled, remembering how unnerved the rebels had been at first and how quickly they had settled
in. Vannor's redoubtable housekeeper, Dulsina, had, of course, been the first to point out that they were clearly being
helped and protected, so they ought to make the most of it as indeed they had. D'arvan's haven, apparently, was a
vast' improvement over their hideaway in the sewers of Nexis!
It was with great reluctance that Vannor had eventually pointed out that this idyll in the forest was accomplishing
nothing. Accepting the need for tidings of their enemies, and also wishing to increase his forces and bring more
people from the city to this place of safety, he had decided that someone must return to Nexis. Hargorn, to Maya's
palpable dismay, had been selected for the mission.
"Are you sure you have everything?" Dulsina asked Hargorn.
Vannor, who sat watching on a nearby log, grinned to himself at the disgusted expression on the veteran's face.
"For goodness' sake, woman," Hargorn protested, "I've been packing for campaigns since you were a little lass at your
mother's skirts! Of course I have everything!"
"Are you absolutely certain?"
Vannor, alerted by a familiar, wicked twinkle in Dul-sina's eyes, leaned forward expectantly.
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