to survive. The Kialli did not roar again, and Meralonne did not speak; the clashing glow of colored light grew faster, the brightness more intense, and then, in the space of a breath and a heartbeat, both were gone, and the roots that had gathered in such number stiffened, stilled.
Sheathing the weapons that had been Meralonne APhaniel’s gift, Kallandras whispered his thanks to the wind and released it; he stepped upon upturned earth, between the dying roots. As if it had been struck by bladed lightning, smoke rose from the tree’s trunk; bark hung in tatters, like flayed skin. Where blades had cut wood, gashes remained, but no sap flowed from the wounds.
Meralonne APhaniel’s sword was no longer in his hand. He turned to the armed Kialli. “This is not your task,” he said, his voice clear and resonant.
“No more is it yours, Illaraphaniel, and yet you are here.” The smile he offered was slight and sharp; it was framed by small scratches, which surprised Kallandras. So, too, his cape, although his armor was clean and untouched. He sheathed sword in the way the mage did; it faded from view, the red, red light dimming. He surrendered shield in the same way.
“Were it not for your presence,” the mage replied, “there would have been no fight.”
At this, the demon laughed. It was the first laughter that Kallandras had heard in almost a week. “And are you now so old and so enfeebled that you decry the necessity of combat? You?”
Meralonne gestured; his sword returned to his hand.
The demon, however, remained unarmed. “You will need your sword in the time to come.” Mirth ebbed from his voice as he spoke, light from APhaniel’s hand as the blade once again vanished.
“Why did you come, Anduvin?”
The Kialli was silent for a long moment, studying Meralonne; at last, he shrugged. “I wished to see for myself the damage done. A road existed here, where no roads travel that were not made by mortals; it was fashioned by the roots of the Winter trees. I do not know what treachery allowed those seedlings to leave their master—but they are gone now.”
“You were not aware of the plans of the Shining Court.” It was not a question.
“I? No, Illaraphaniel. I am not a member of the Lord’s Fist, and I spend little time in their councils, except as called.” He watched as Meralonne once again sheathed sword. “She will not leave her Court, now.”
“She cannot, as you know, or you would not be here.” The silence that followed these words was thick and heavy, and it was the mage who broke it. “In your travels did you find one tree that might be saved?”
“Not one, and I assume from your question that you were likewise unsuccessful.”
Meralonne nodded; his hands clenched into brief fists, open and shut, the externalization of heartbeat or word.
“You can go where I cannot,” Anduvin said.
Silence.
Kallandras, aware of the mood of the two, hesitated. “APhaniel, you speak of the Winter Queen?”
“We speak,” the mage replied, his voice shuttered, “of the Summer Queen. The Wild Hunt rode.”
“I know. I witnessed some part of its passing.”
“The Winter King died.”
“This, I did not see.”
“No. No one of us did, who are not part of her host. But the horns were sounded, the Hunt called; the Winter Queen rode.”
“And the Summer Queen?”
“She is also Ariane. It has been Winter in the Hidden Court for many, many mortal lifetimes. There were those who felt that the old seasons would never turn again—but the Hunt was called. She rode. The horns were heard across the length and breadth of the hidden ways; they were heard above the howl of the Winter winds.”
Anduvin lowered his head and turned away from them both.
“There is no end to Winter while the Winter King lives,” the mage continued, his eyes shining silver as he lifted his face. “And the Winter King could not be found for centuries. But he was, Kallandras, and bards whose voices you will never hear if you are very, very fortunate will sing of that long wait, that long hunt, when you are dust and none remember your name.
“But when the King is dead, the seedlings must be planted.”
Kallandras’ eyes widened.
“Yes,” Meralonne said. “These trees were rooted in the flesh of mortals, sacrificed for that purpose. But the Summer trees? They are planted in some part of the Winter King’s body. And it has not happened, not yet.”
Kallandras did not ask him how he knew with such certainty. He