A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [92]
“While you were gone, Alshandra was seen again,” Evandar said to Dallandra. “With some of those from farther in.”
“Farther in? I wish you’d explain—”
“There are two hosts, my love, the bright court that I keep, and then the dark who live farther in. And that’s all I’ll say about it now, for look! our horses!”
A young boy hurried forward, leading two golden horses with silvery manes and tails. As Dallandra mounted, she saw that the foot soldiers had turned into cavalry as suddenly as changes always came about in this country. In the clatter and jingle of metal-studded tack they followed Evandar as he led the way out with a whoop and a wave of his arm. Dallandra rode up next to him as the road beneath flattened out and broke free into sunlight. Yet always the mist remained, a gray and shifting wall, seeming solid at times, thin and teased to silver at others to reveal glimpses of shining cities or forested mountains. Dallandra noticed that it always hung just at their left hand, as if they were traveling deosil in a vast circle round a grassy plain.
“The riding of the border,” Evandar called out.
Behind him the Host roared their approval, and silver horns blew.
On horses that never seemed to tire they rode for hours, till the day faded into a greenish twilight, and a moon hung pink and bloated just above the horizon, never rising, never setting. In that ghastly light they traveled past ruins of cities fallen to some great catastrophe and the black and twisted stumps of dead forests, blanketed with ancient ash stretching as far as Dallandra could see. The horses never stumbled, never paused, ambled on and on and on through death and night, till just as she was ready to scream from the terror of it day broke, blue and clear, to drench them all in golden light. The mist writhed one last time, then blew away on a fresh and rising wind. Just ahead in the flowered meadow stood the pavilion of cloth-of-gold. Dallandra caught her breath in a sob of relief.
“The border lies secure!” Evandar cried out. “Go then to your music and the feast, but come again when I call.”
Behind him the host of soldiers blew away, like dead leaves swirling in an autumn wind. He swung down from his horse, helped Dallandra dismount, then turned the reins of their horses over to the same boy, who appeared as silently as before. Dallandra watched him lead them away round the pavilion and wondered aloud if there they would disappear.
“No, they’ll return to their pastures, from whence we stole them.” He was grinning. “Are you weary, my love? Shall we join the feast?”
“I’d rather you explained a few things to me.”
“If a riddle has an answer, it’s a riddle no more.”
Simply because she was indeed very tired, she dropped the subject and let him lead her into the pavilion. Their seats, couches on which they could semirecline, stood at the head of the hall. She sank gratefully onto the soft cushions and accepted a golden goblet of mead from a page. As always, the mead and the bread seemed real to her fingers and her taste, solid and so delicious that she realized how hungry she was after the long ride. While they ate, various members of the Host would come to Evandar and talk in low voices, reporting things they’d seen, apparently. Harpers played nearby in long, sad harmonies, while young voices sang, until at last, she slept.
2.
The Prince of Swords
The Westlands,
Autumn, 1112
Out on the high plains the elven leader with the most authority—and the largest warband for that matter—was Calonderiel, Banadar of the Eastern Border, and yet, as Deverry men reckoned such things, his claim to power rested on an oddly weak foundation. He was descended from nobody in particular and related to no one much—just the son of a horse herder