And then she saw him across the dunes. He was of dark silver, fiercesome and free, with a keen horn on his forehead and two great wings upon his shoulders; there were little wings upon his fetlocks, and beneath his ears behind the cheeks. He galloped toward them over sandhill and dune, then pitched to a standstill, snorting and stamping the ground. He let go a wild whinny that pealed like a bugle blast. The lyon came smoothly to a stop and roared in answer. The sound thundered like mountains shifting, rolling far and away, off into the distance over the dunes.
Oceanus hung huge and umbrous in the sky. The hiding sun made a bright hallow around it. Avarclon and Pendarlon faced each other across the sand and cried their greetings. The darkened sun stood so directly overhead that neither of them cast any shade. Aeriel slid from the lyon's back and laid her walking stick on the sand, stood beside the great cat beneath the eerie half-light of noon.
"How are you, my old friend?" cried the leosol.
"Well enough, considering," the starhorse replied. "And who is this you have brought with you? It has been many a day-month since last I saw any living creature but yourself."
Aeriel folded her hands and bowed, as she had been accustomed to do before the satrap whenever he had come to the syndic's house to visit his half-sister. And breathing deep, Aeriel caught a keen, clean scent like oil of silvermint. "My name is Aeriel, my lord," she said, "and I come from the castle of the vampyre___"
She got no further, for at the mention of the icarus, the starhorse shied and whinnied as if challenged. Aeriel was too startled to continue.
"Go on," the lyon told her quietly. The starhorse was, it seemed, as fierce and skittish as the leosol was strong and steady.
"Talb the duarough sent me," said Aeriel. "I do not know his real name."
"Ah, the Little Mage of the Caves of Down-wending," the equustel said, tossing his head and snorting. "So he did not go with the queen to Westernesse. Had I known I had such an ally in the plains, I might have called on him at need. Tell me, little one, why have you come?"
"He has sent me," said Aeriel, "to sing you a rime he has found in the Book of the Dead.
He says you will know the meaning thereof."
The starhorse nodded, champing and sidling restlessly. "Sing me the rime," he said.
Aeriel told him:
"On Avaric's white plain
where the icarus now wings To steeps of Terrain
from tour-of-the-fdngs,
And damoiels twice-seven
his brides have all become:
Afar cry from heaven
and a long road from home
—
Then strong-hoof of the starhorse
must hallow him unguessed
If adamant's edge is to plunder his breast.
Then, only, may the Warhorse
and Warrior arise To rally the warhosts, and thunder
the skies."
The equustel nickered softly and grew suddenly gentle. Beside her, Aeriel thought she caught the faint rumbling of the lyon's purr.
"Yes, child, yes," the starhorse exclaimed. "I have heard that song before. It was one of the riddles sung over me at my making. I know its meaning well."
"Your making?" said Aeriel in wonder. "Are you not mortal? Were you not born?"
The starhorse laughed, whinnied and shook his head for sheer exuberance. "The Old Ones made
me,
child, and the lyon, and the hippogriff of the eastern steeps and the gryphon of Terrain—and the great she-wolf of forested Bern, and the lithe serpent of the Sea-of-Dust." His eyes grew bright and far; he breathed deep. "Made these and the other Wardens-of-the-World. Ravenna, Ravenna! She was a wise woman."
The Pendalon had sat down purring on the sand near Aeriel, began nibbling and licking his paw. The equustel reared and danced where he stood.
"Ravenna?" ventured Aeriel. "Who is Ravenna?"
The Avarclon whinnied fiercely and the sunlion roared.
"Ravenna, Ravenna, the Ancient who made us," the starhorse replied. "When I was but a fledgling foal and the Pendarlon a cub, and all the other Ions but hatchlings or whelps, then she sang over us a song for each—a destiny to strive after. It would come to pass, she said, if our hearts proved true enough and fate ran fair." The Avarclon rose and pawed the air with his hooves; his great grey wings beat like a bird's. "Oh, she was learned, and steadfast, and kind. She foresaw the great changes that were to pass—even the coming of the icari, and how they might be undone."
"Tell me of the Old Ones," Aeriel begged him. Curiosity burned in her to know.
Then the Avarclon nodded and Aeriel sat down on the sand near the leosol to listen, while the starhorse spoke to her of ancient days, of the coming of the Ancients into the world, plunging across the heavens from Oceanus in chariots of fire, how they brought air and water and life to the land, bred plants and made creatures to populate it, then fashioned all the peoples of the world. Aeriel was stolen away with wonder at his tale, and the starhorse seemed to grow more beautiful and spirited as the eclipse reached its fullest.
But then he spoke of great wars and plagues on Oceanus, of the departure for their homeland of all but a few of the Heaven-born. Then the chariots ceased coming, and gradually the land began to change; most of the water ran off into the ground and the atmosphere began to thin. Species of plants and animals died out. One by one, the Ancients sealed themselves off in their domed cities and refused to have more to do with the slowly dying planet. Left to themselves, the people fell into tribalism.
Ravenna had been the last to go, to disappear into her domed city, sealed away from further commerce with the world. But before she had gone—and she would not say why she was going—she had fashioned the wardens, more than a dozen of them, to watch over the various quarters, protecting the people and keeping the peace until such time, lost far into the indefinite future, that she had promised to return.
And the wardens had kept their ranges well for almost a thousand years—until the coming of the icari. No creature seemed able to stand against them. Six Ions already had fallen to the six that had come so far, and now this last, the seventh, was in Avaric. And when he joined their ranks as a true vampyre and made their number complete, it was said, then they meant to fly in force against the other kingdoms, and take all the world in their teeth.
And to Aeriel, swept away by the starhorse's words, it seemed for a moment that her heart was no longer her own. She sensed the equustel's cold hatred for the vampyre and his brethren, the sun-lion's more heated ire. She felt the same outrage well up in her own breast against the icari—be they ever so fair—as at last she comprehended the full malevolence of their intent. She stared at the starhorse in dismay. "But why have you abandoned Avaric to the darkangel?" she cried.
The Avarclon gave a low horse-laugh that sounded bitterly amused. "Daughter, you speak as though you believe I gladly left. Child, I am exiled unwilling. Do you not think I would return to vanquish the vampyre if I could?" The greathorse shook his head. "He has proven too strong for me, and my fate is left unfulfilled." He gazed off across the rolling dunes toward Avaric. "Though neither could he destroy me, nor would I let him catch me to enslave me—so he has driven me out with his terrible might."
The words had greatly saddened him. He paused for breath. Above them, the eclipse was nearing its close. In a moment, Solstar would peer from behind the Planet.
"But now," said Aeriel, "the time is ripe. Soon he will take his fourteenth bride and be master absolute of the plain. You must come back with me. Is it not written that by the hoof of the starhorse the vampyre shall fall? Come back with me."
The Avarclon shook his head slowly. He looked visibly weaker than he had only a few minutes before. His head drooped. His coat no longer shone. He seemed to grow gaunt before her eyes.
"If only I could, child," he whispered, his voice growing thin and hoarse. "If only..."
The rim of the sun slid from behind Oceanus. Light spilled over the dunes. The Avarclon gave a low moan of despair. His eyes were dull and glazed. His flesh shrank and melted away beneadi the skin. Aeriel saw his bones.
"What is it?" she cried sofdy. "What is happening?"
"Hush, child," said the lyon. "He cannot hear you now."
The starhorse moaned again and shuddered. "Avaric!" he cried. "Avaric, Avaric!"
His legs grew stick-thin and buckled. He pitched forward onto the sand. Aeriel gasped and pressed closer to the lyon.
"Tell me what is happening," she begged him. "I'm afraid."
The grey horse struggled to rise. His wings thrashed desperately. His legs folded under him like a newborn colt's. His second attempt was weaker. His third weaker still. His wings ceased beating. He gave a deep sigh; his head bowed slowly, slowly till his nose just touched the ground. His rib cage heaved and his breath stirred the sand.
"Each of us," the lyon said, "each of the wardens is bound to the lands we ward. None of us can spend many day-months from our domains without.. .**
Aeriel hardly heard the rest. Solstar was halfway out from behind the Planet. The starhorse aged before her eyes. He no longer struggled to rise, or even to keep his head up, but just to keep himself upright. He swayed, righted himself, swayed again. At last he lost the battle and rolled slowly over on his side. His long, graceless legs kicked, writhed; his head moved feebly in the sand. His jet eye stared at the sky above. Aeriel could see white Solstar reflected in it.
Then his eye darkened, and even the reflected light in it went out. He lay still. His flesh moldered and crumbled. His moth-eaten skin hung in rags from the bone. The tatters sagged in the slight wind, tiny pennants. Then they, too, were gone and only the hard things were left—teeth, bones, hooves, and horn, and a few strands of his mane and tail, and the feathers of his wings. The desert wind sighed softly; some of the feathers drifted away across the dunes.
"He is dead!" cried Aeriel, unable even now quite to believe it. "Why did you do nothing?
What killed him?"
"Exile killed him. He tried many times to return to the plains. Each time the vampyre drove him back at the border. He has not set hoof in Avaric for twelve years."
"He has been here twelve years?" said Aeriel. "But I thought..."
The lyon nodded. "It is just as I said. He has been dead twelve years."
"But," Aeriel began, "I saw him living----"
The Pendarlon shook his head. "Daughter, have you never heard that phantoms walk at noon?"
Aeriel looked at the heap of bleached bone on the dune before her. The slight desert wind breathed soft against her skin, lifted her hair. She gazed at her feet. She felt empty of a sudden, and utterly alone. Her quest had failed; the starhorse was dead. She heaved a little sigh, felt starved for air. Her heart hurt; her throat hurt.
"Then it is hopeless," she whispered, "and it was hopeless from the first. Why did you not tell me at once that he was dead?"
"Because it makes no matter," said the Pen-darlon.
"No matter?" cried Aeriel. "The starhorse is fallen. He cannot come back with me. Now the darkangel can never be vanquished, and I cannot save his wives. All is lost, and I have failed."
"Nothing is lost," the lyon said, "nor have you failed. Sing me the rime again."
Aeriel did so, repeating it dully:
"On Avaric's white plain
where the icarus now wings To steeps of Terrain
from tour-of-the-kings,
And damoiels twice-seven
his brides have all becomes
Afar cry from heaven
and a long road from home
—
Then strong-hoof of the starhorse must hallow him
..."
She was midway through the third coupling when the Pendarlon stopped her. "There.
That line. Say it over."
Aeriel drew breath and started to repeat it. " 'Then strong-hoof of the starhorse must...' "
"Ah, child," the lyon cried, "do you not see? The hoof, the hoof is your prize—not the equustel himself."
Aeriel stared at the warden before her and wondered if of a sudden he could have gone mad. She shook her head to clear it, tried to find her tongue again. "Pendarlon, what do you mean?"
A laugh purred deep in the lyon's throat. "You have but to take his hoof, daughter, and your quest is done."
Surely his manner was not mad, she reflected, uncertainly, though his words made no sense to her. She glanced at the skeleton of the Avarclon. Abruptly, she remembered the duarough's words: "Seek after the starhorse—he of the strong hoof, undying. Bring back what you may of him, for it is by the hoof of the starhorse that the icarus will fall."
Bring
back what you may of him.
At the time she had thought he must mean news.
She stood a moment, indecisive. Could the little mage have meant the horse's hoof?
Aeriel snorted; and yet she had already seen and heard of stranger things. If only he had had time to explain! The Pendarlon sat watching her as she eyed the hooves of the skeleton. Well, there could be no harm, at least, in taking one. Still she felt uneasy.
"I cannot rob the dead," she told him.
"The dead are dead," the leosol replied. "They have given up their bodies. He will not mind that you borrow his hoof for a little. Truly, you may do more good than you know by it."
He started across the dune toward the starhorse. Aeriel hesitated.
"Come, daughter," he said, glancing to northwestward. "We must away before much longer, or I shall not get you back to the border by nightfall."
Aeriel stood a moment, wondered on the direction of his glance. Their way home lay south. She followed him to the scattered bones. Kneeling in the sand, she murmured,
"Which hoof?"
"The forehoof on the near side," said the leosol.
Aeriel grasped it gently and it came off in her hand. The other hooves were dull grey, almost leaden in hue. The one in her hand, however, was bright and gleamed like some precious metal. Aeriel held it cupped in her hand a long moment, gazing at it. "But how?"