Dhiammara

20 Flying Sorcery

The thin air held no sound save the whine of the wind and the reverberant thunder of Sunfeather’s immense red-gold wings. From this height, it seemed possible to see the entire world. . . . And one day, I shall rule it all, Eliseth thought. She reveled in the excitement of soaring so perilously high, with an abyss of empty air beneath her and the jagged rocks below, and luxuriated in the strength of Sunfeather’s strong arms around her, bearing her securely aloft. As a Weather-Mage, it gave her an overwhelming feeling of power to touch the winds, to flirt with the sunshine and penetrate the clouds from which she drew the essence of her magic. How the Magewoman wished her own race had been fortunate enough to possess the gift of flight! I could have achieved so much more, she thought. Still, at least she could borrow Sunfeather’s wings, and he was so besotted with her that he was always happy to oblige.

Today she needed the escape of flight more than ever, to clear her thoughts and help her gain perspective on the new challenges that awaited. The unheralded vision of Aurian had come as a shock indeed, for lately, Eliseth had been too involved in her own schemes to give much thought to her rival.—Indeed, Aurian had taken so long to return to the world that the Weather-Mage had almost ceased to count her as a threat—until now.

I was lucky to be warned in time, Eliseth thought, for I’m sure Aurian had no intention of exposing herself to me that way. It must have been an accident or carelessness on her part. The Magewoman frowned. But where in the name of perdition was she? What was that colorless, misty place? There was something weird and unnatural about her surroundings . . . she didn’t recognize them.—And it wasn’t a clear scrying, either—the vision seemed to be rippling, almost as though she looked up at the scene through water, but how could that be?

“Why so preoccupied today?” Sunfeather murmured in the Magewoman’s ear.—Eliseth was about to make him a short reply, but changed her mind. “It’s nothing to worry you. Will you take me back now, Sunfeather?”

“Surely there’s no hurry?” the Skyman breathed. His hands began to move across her body. “I had thought we might stay out here awhile.. ..”

Eliseth was tempted. It had not taken her long to discover the thrill of midair coupling with the winged man. Having tried it, she hadn’t been at all surprised to find that this was the way the Skyfolk usually mated. Today, unfortunately, there were other matters that must occupy her time. “No!” she told Sunfeather firmly. “That is—not today, my dear one. Take me back to Aerillia, please. I have work to do.”

Having been flown back to the temple of Yinze by an aggrieved and peevish Sunfeather, the Weather-Mage returned to her secret chambers in the catacombs beneath the building. She locked the door behind her and shed her furred cloak. The roams were spacious and equipped with every possible luxury—and it was just as well, the Magewoman thought, for she spent a considerable amount of her time in them, lurking like a spider on the periphery of her web. For though, in truth, Eliseth ruled Aerillia now, few of the Winged Folk were actually aware of her existence. Had they known, they would never have countenanced a Mage as their ruler.

Eliseth poured mulled wine from the pot that stood in a metal rack affixed to the top of the brazier, and sat down, pulling a furred blanket over her lap against the inevitable drafts. The damnable Winged Folk, she thought, never seemed to feel the cold at all, but sadly, she was far less impervious. Her chambers, with their curving walls, were in a hanging turret, one of several that thrust out from the mountainside below the level of the temple. The furnishings were a peculiar but comfortable blend of Aerillian and Nexian styles, for she had complained to Skua and Sunfeather until they had a proper couch made for her, in place of the spindly Skyfolk seats that she found so uncomfortable, and a proper bed in which she could stretch out. The bathing facilities, too, had been altered from the ice-cold cascade that flowed directly from peaktop cisterns. A bathtub had been fashioned and installed, though heating water on the brazier was such a long, agonizingly slow process that baths were a rare treat, and were shallow and tepid even at best.—The quarters were spartan by Eliseth’s standards, but she supposed that she could put up with them for a little while longer. Only a few months ago, this place had seemed a refuge of comfort and luxury after a long and grueling journey from the Xandim plains.

The mountains had come close to putting an end not only to the Magewoman’s plans, but to her life. Eliseth had never been taught how to survive in the wild. She had been unprepared for the bitter cold, the hard, bleak surroundings, and the exhaustion that increased following day upon day of hard climbing and the strain and concentration of picking out a safe path. Had it not been for the knowledge she lifted from the minds of her Xandim captives and her ability to control the weather, she would have perished for sure.—When the Weather-Mage finally reached the vicinity of Aerillia, she had killed the two Xandim for good and all this time, enjoying the first hot meal—of horseflesh—that she’d eaten in many a long day. Then, wrapping a concealing mist around herself, she had watched the city and its surrounds in the grail, awaiting her chance. Repeating the successful ploy she’d used to gain control of the Xandim, Eliseth had struck again, finding another solitary victim in a lonely place. This time, it had been a young winged girl, out gathering berries alone on the mountainside. It had been pathetically easy to kill her—she’d scarcely put up any struggle at all. Eliseth had used her victim to take a message to Skua and Sunfeather, then wiped the incident from the girl’s memory. She was living her normal life now in the city: uninvolved, undisturbed—and waiting there as a pawn that could be brought into play at any time, should the Magewoman need her.

At first, Eliseth had toyed with the notion of using the grail to control the Queen herself. On reflection, however, that scheme had involved too many problems. Firstly, all members of the Royal Household would be guarded far too tightly for the Magewoman to gain access and use the grail. Secondly, Raven and Aguila ruled so closely and harmoniously together that if one should begin to act in an unusual manner, the suspicions of the other would be roused at once. She would be forced, therefore, to deal with both at the same time—which brought her back to the first problem. No, it would be far easier for Eliseth to do her work through enemies of the throne—and it would also mean far less risk to herself.

It had been child’s play to recruit the two disgruntled winged men. Skua bore a long-standing grievance against the Queen. According to the High Priest, Raven had undermined his authority right from the start. Though he was aware that much of her hostility toward the Temple stemmed from the heinous acts of Blacktalon, his predecessor, Skua also knew that, if it came to a question of who held the greatest power over the common folk, the contention between Crown and Temple must one day come to a head. Sunfeather’s grudge against Queen Raven had far less to do with the subtleties of politics. He had never forgiven her for that day, so long ago now, when she had humiliated him in front of the High Council. Also, he was consumed by jealousy and bitterly resentful of the lowborn Aguila, who had been raised to the exalted position of Consort to the Queen.

It had not taken the three conspirators long to hatch their plot. An ordinary, everyday harp was obtained and disguised by Eliseth with a small spell of glamourie. Then Skua announced to the congregation in the Temple that the great god Yinze had, in his wisdom, seen fit to return the Harp of Winds into the hands of his children, the Winged Folk. Eliseth, watching from hiding, had used her own powers to produce the carefully staged “miracles” that the harp had wrought.

The Skyfolk were beside themselves: delirious with joy and hope. If one of their race could recover his magical powers, why not all of them? Only the Queen and her consort were unimpressed by Skua’s claims and voiced their doubts aloud, for Raven knew very well what the true Harp looked like, and was also aware that it had been claimed by Anvar in a joining that no Mortal could sunder, be he High Priest or no. Such reasoning, however, was the last thing her subjects wanted to hear.

Almost overnight, the ruler of the Skyfolk discovered that she had lost the support of her subjects. Folk started recirculating the old tale of her association with the groundlings, and Blacktalon’s cohort Harihn. Once again, Raven’s judgment was brought into question. Skua spoke out against her openly, with the public backing of the Syntagma and the Temple guard. Wisely, the Queen and her family had fled Aerillia—just in time to save their own lives.—Well, Eliseth reflected, sipping at her cooling wine, she was not above taking a leaf out of Raven’s book. Timely action, she knew, was the secret to most success—and thanks to the warning of the grail, she knew it was high time she was embarking on the next step of her own plans. “At least it’ll get me out of this dungeon of a room, and this mausoleum of a city,” the Magewoman mused aloud. “I’m looking forward to living in a place where I can actually be warm again.”

Now that Eliseth held power here, her work was done, for she had never actually meant to make herself Queen of this wretched, freezing pile of rock at the tail end of nowhere—nor would the Skyfolk accept as ruler someone who was not one of their own kind. And who wanted to rule a city where they were not even able to go out in public? No, Aerillia had only been a means to an end, and it would serve her purpose quite well if Skua ruled—under her instruction. Eliseth was ready to leave now, and make her way toward the place she’d planned to be the true heart and center of her empire. Dhiammara.—The Magewoman rose and walked to the window, spilling the blanket from her lap to the floor. There was one thing remaining to be done before she left Aerillia. She had no doubt that Aurian would soon discover that she was no longer in the North—if the Mage did not know already. Soon the eyes and thoughts of her enemy would be fixing themselves across the ocean—and before Aurian made a move, it was vital that Eliseth set her spies in place.—Eliseth took up the grail and half-filled it with water, setting the cup down on the table. Then, seating herself comfortably, she gazed into the blackened depths and bent all her thoughts upon Anvar.

For a considerable time, nothing happened. The Magewoman sat there without moving, her head aching with the effort of concentration—and still no vision formed within the cup. What in perdition was wrong? This should not be happening! Eliseth began to feel the stirrings of impatience—and a shadow of doubt. Still she persisted, until the noon sun came blazing through her windows. Its glare almost burned her eyes from her head as the rays struck the surface of the water, and Eliseth sprang back with a livid curse, her carefully constructed shell of concentration in splinters.

The Magewoman couldn’t understand what was happening—she had no way of knowing that the spirit she had hoped to master had not returned to his body after all, and that another had taken Anvar’s place, over whom she had no control.—She only knew that one of her most precious schemes had failed..Snarling another curse, she hurled the grail as hard as she could in temper. It flew across the room, spilling water in a glittering arc. There was a searing flash as it hit the wall and a starburst of cracks snaked out around the impact point. Eliseth gasped in horror as a picture—all too clear—flashed across her mind, of the turret breaking loose from its moorings and crashing in ruin down the mountainside. “Pox rot it—be more careful!” she warned herself. “It’s not a bloody plaything!”

She picked the grail up carefully, checking it for damage and dusting it on the hem of her robe. It pulsed sulkily once or twice, and then became quiet in her hands. Cradling the precious Artifact, Eliseth began to pace the room.—What could she do? She must have a means of discovering her enemy’s movements!—After a time, the answer came to her. She didn’t really hold out much hope, but she could always try Vannor again.

The Magewoman sighed as she refilled the chalice. She had abandoned Vannor long ago. After the blundering imbecile had made such a botch of the attack on the Phaerie, then let himself get captured by Hellorin’s accursed folk, he had no longer been of use to her—not to mention himself or anyone else, she thought spitefully. But it had been a long time since she had even bothered to contact him—maybe something had changed. ... It had better, she thought bitterly. A slender chance indeed, it was her last and only hope. Narrowing her eyes, Eliseth bent over the grail once more and focused her will upon the former High Lord of Nexis.

Maya stood on the lush green lawn in front of Hellorin’s palace and watched the early sun touch the soft grass with emerald fire. How she wished she had a sword in her hand! It might help her assume a bravery she did not feel—now, when she needed her courage as never before. This morning, her whole world seemed composed of things she did not want—she didn’t want D’arvan to go, she didn’t want to be left behind. And for sure, she didn’t want to be carrying a child at this time—and not one conceived with the help of the arcane Phaerie magic, instead of naturally and spontaneously, as it should have been. Gods—how can I possibly cope with a child? she thought desperately. I’m a bloody warrior—I’m not the motherly sort at all. The idea terrifies me—I don’t even know where to start.

She had no choice in the matter, however. The child was already within her.—After she and D’arvan had lain together, the Phaerie women had come, and cocooned her in a spell of sleep. By the time she had awakened, they had quickened D’arvan’s seed within her. There would be no backing out of the bargain now. It was my own idea, she reminded herself. The entire plan was mine. I have only myself to blame—me and my big mouth! Around her throat Maya could feel Hellorin’s chain to remind her of her new status—a glittering circle of cold that never seemed to warm to the temperature of her skin. Was this all that the future held for her? Chains?

D’arvan’s arm went round her shoulders, and she knew, with a sinking heart, that the very tension of her body had betrayed her fear and doubts. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Don’t worry—I’ll be back before you know it.”

Maya glanced up at him, storing details in her memory for when he had gone: the way his fine pale hair was blowing in the breeze, the way the early light cast dark shadowed hollows beneath the sharp bones of his face. She tried to avoid the eye of Parric, who was standing nearby with a pair of Phaerie guards and the unresponsive Vannor, who had been given leave to depart at the last minute, as Hellorin finally conceded that D’arvan could not help him. Though the dreadful chain had been removed from his neck, the Cavalrymaster was still scowling. He had been against this whole scheme from the start—he had already made it more than clear that he thought she was insane. As she was drawing breath to reply to D’arvan, there was a silvery fanfare of trumpets, and the Forest Lord emerged from the palace nodding grandly to the crowd of brightly garbed Phaerie, courtiers all, who fringed the stretch of grass. “Bring forth the steeds!”

Maya clenched her fists. Why the bloody blazes didn’t Hellorin just get on with it? He could have had the Xandim waiting here, as everyone else had been, but no ... Did all kings have this ridiculous need for spectacle?

In the brief pause before the Xandim arrived, Hellorin turned to herself and D’arvan, extending his arms as if to embrace them both. If he tries it, Maya thought grimly, Phaerie or no Phaerie, I swear he’ll be wearing his balls up around his ears.

Luckily, the Forest Lord restrained himself. “Is it well with you, my children?” he cried.

D’arvan, in the same grand manner, flashed him a dazzling smile. “It is well, my Lord.”

Maya gritted her teeth. If my child ever tries to behave like this, she thought, he won’t be sitting down for a week.

Before the warrior could think of a reply of her own, the two Xandim arrived: a magnificent huge warhorse, darkly dappled in cloudy black and grey, and a somewhat smaller beast with a shining bay coat and a shaggy, crow-black mane and tail. To Maya’s eyes, it was hard to imagine them as men. What did they look like in human form? What must their lives be like, living their whole lives as two different beings? She wished she could have a chance to know them, to speak to them. She only had a fleeting, clouded memory of the one time she had seen them as humans. Then, she herself had been the one to wear the form of a beast, for Hellorin had put her into the shape of a unicorn. The warrior smiled sourly to herself at the thought. Maybe we’re not so different after all, she thought. I, too, have lived as two different creatures—at the Forest Lord’s whim.

Maya could feel D’arvan straining forward, anxious to be away, lest his capricious father should change his mind. This was no place for farewells—it was too public, everything was too hurried—and besides, he and Maya had said goodbye already. D’arvan exchanged a few soft words with his father, too low for Maya to hear, then he was embracing her for the last time in a long time—maybe forever. . . . The warrior tightened her arms around him. “You’d better be careful,” she hissed at him, “or you’ll have two of us to reckon with.”

D’arvan smiled. “Trust me,” he said. “Everything will be all right. Take care of our child, my love—no one could do it better.” Then he was gone. With a wrenching effort, Maya stopped herself from holding her empty arms out toward him. Keeping them firmly down at her sides, she clenched her fists. Then the Phaerie guards were helping the Cavalrymaster hoist Vannor up in front of him on the big grey horse that she knew must be Schiannath, and D’arvan was mounting Chiamh, the bay, who was clearly far from happy with the situation.—He plunged and wheeled, throwing up clods of turf from under his churning hooves—until the Mage bent forward and whispered something in his ear.—Whatever D’arvan had said, it seemed to work like magic. As one, the Xandim leapt into the air, heading back to freedom. A piece of Maya’s heart went with them—in one flashing instant, she knew joy, and sorrow, and bitter, bitter envy. Then the sky was empty.

Hellorin put an arm around her shoulders. “Come, my little she-wolf. All you can do now is care for your child, and wait for D’arvan to return.”

One of the beech trees in the grove had grown too tall, and had fallen to a bolt of lightning during the last of the summer storms, Yazour was chopping the earthbound giant into logs for the winter woodpile, hurrying to get as much of the task completed as possible, for the summer was sliding gently into autumn now, and it would not be too long before the sun went down. Already there was a lamp burning in the ground floor of the tower across the lake, and he could see a faint glimmer of Magelight moving like a firefly in the garden, where Eilin wandered between the rows of vegetables, picking out the ingredients for supper. The evening was still and tranquil; the only sounds were sleepy birdsong mixed with the gentle rippling murmur of wavelets by the lakeside, and the rasping sound of Iscalda tearing up the grass as she grazed companionably nearby.

He never knew what made him look up just then. Some instinct, perhaps left over from his far-off days as a warrior, drew his eyes toward the north....

“Reaper of Souls!” Yazour dropped the axe. The next minute, he was astride Iscalda’s back and galloping across the bridge, yelling frantically for Eilin.—The day they had long been dreading had come at last. The Phaerie were returning to the Vale.

“Get inside, Iscalda—you’ll be safer there.” Without ceremony, Yazour opened the tower door and pulled the horse into the kitchen. He met Eilin in the doorway, on her way out. The Mage, carrying his sword and her own staff, looked at the white mare and moved aside to let Iscalda pass. “That’s everyone safe under cover then,” she said. “Don’t worry, Iscalda,” she added, with a glint of anger in her eye. “We’ll soon send that blasted Hellorin on his way.”

Yazour and Eilin, side by side, took up station at the island end of the bridge. The Phaerie steeds were very close now. “But there are only two of them,” Eilin said in puzzled tones. “This doesn’t look like an invasion. What in the name of perdition does Hellorin think he’s playing at?”

Yazour was feeling a little ashamed of his earlier panic. When he saw the first outriders, he hadn’t waited to count heads—he had simply assumed that an attack was under way. “Could it be some kind of trick?” he suggested.—And then, on the wind, came the sound of voices calling their names.—D’arvan dismounted a little stiffly, almost sorry that this amazing ride through the skies was over. For a brief time, he had come to fully understand why his father was so desperate to keep his Xandim steeds. Then all such thoughts were lost as Eilin ran across the bridge to embrace him. “D’arvan,” she cried. “Thank all the Gods—you’re safe.” She clutched at his tunic, her fingers knotting in the fabric. “Did Aurian come back with you?” she asked him eagerly. “Why isn’t she with you? Is she all right?”

“As far as I know,” D’arvan told her. “She did come back with me, but I had to leave her in Nexis.” Feeling Eilin’s shoulders droop with disappointment, he added quickly, “She had the two cats with her, though. Shia is a formidable creature, and she would never let Aurian come to any harm.”

Beyond the two Magefolk, Yazour was greeting Parric with delight. Suddenly there was a wild neighing, and the door of Eilin’s tower burst open. There was a thunder of hooves across tile wooden bridge as Iscalda came hurtling across to rub necks with Schiannath, her brother.

“Well, there’s a happy reunion,” said D’arvan. He couldn’t suppress a grin of secret delight. “I think I can improve matters, however....” He fingered the talisman that hung on a silver chain around his neck. The gleaming, polished stone at its center felt warm to his touch, and shone with a misty grey light, like the sun glinting through a fall of silvery rain. His father had given it to him just before his departure, and it was imbued with Old Magic, the essence and core of Hellorin’s power. Clutching at the Forest Lord’s gift, D’arvan felt the magic running through him, so strange yet so familiar, as though it had awakened a force in his blood that had long lain dormant and untapped. Taking a deep breath, the Mage unbound the spell that trapped the Xandim in their equine shape.

The change was unexpected. Chiamh, so accustomed now to four legs, suddenly found himself on two. He swayed, staggered—and fell flat on his face. For a long moment he stayed there, his eyes closed, his senses whirling; stunned by a joy too great to be contained. He ran his fingers through the rough grass, feeling the individual texture of each narrow blade with extraordinarily sensitive fingers. He had never expected to be human again. Cautiously, he opened his eyes—and the world sprang at him, rich in color and depth of perception. The balance was simply different, Chiamh thought—better hearing and sense of smell were exchanged for a great improvement in eyesight and touch.

“Chiamh—are you all right?” Yazour and Parric were bending over him, and the Windeye had no idea which one of them had spoken. They both looked equally concerned.

“I couldn’t be better,” he assured them with a grin, as they helped him to his feet. Parric, whose life Chiamh had saved more than once, wrung his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, so hard that Chiamh almost lost his balance again. “By Chathak, but it’s good to have you back, old friend,” he told the Windeye. “Life’s been dull without you.”

“Ah, you just miss being Herdlord,” Chiamh teased him. Nearby, Schiannath and Iscalda were laughing and weeping in each other’s arms. The Windeye turned to D’arvan. “I’ve never met you in my human shape,” he said gravely, “and I know little about you, save that you are a friend of Aurian. But I owe you such gratitude for what you’ve done for myself and these other Xandim....”

Just then, the Windeye was interrupted by the light, quick sound of further footsteps on the bridge. He turned and, to his utter astonishment, saw a little dark-haired boy about five years old, and a large grey wolf. Even though he had changed a great deal, Chiamh still recognized Aurian’s son.

“Why, it’s Wolf,” he shouted in delight. He looked at Yazour in puzzlement.

“But who is the child?”

The child came up and tugged at Yazour’s sleeve. “Dad?” he said.

“What?” Chiamh blurted in utter amazement. “He’s yours?”

Yazour had turned very red. “I. ..”

He looked at the Lady Eilin. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “He’s your friend, you explain. I’m going to have enough difficulty breaking the news to Aurian that she has a brother.”