Dhiammara

23 Departures

Knotting one hand firmly into Chiamh’s mane, the Mage closed the other around the talisman. Concentrating hard to imprint her will upon the unfamiliar magic, she gathered the field of energy that constituted her own aura, and let it merge with that of the Xandim beneath her, and the swirling silvery strands that were the wind. Chiamh leapt forward with a lurch that almost unseated her, set his hooves upon a pathway of gleaming air, and stretched out his stride in what seemed like an ordinary gallop—except that with every step, he and the Mage were climbing higher and higher into the skies.

The first thing Aurian noticed was the cold, which increased as she mounted higher, and the strengthening wind, which made her eyes water and her ears ache, and blew her hair back from her face. Chiamh’s rhythmic stride felt similar to the way it had always felt, except that the motion was smoother and more fluid, without the jarring impact as his hooves struck the ground. Save for that one detail, Aurian could almost imagine herself riding along on the ground in an ordinary fashion—so long as she didn’t look down. For a time she was very careful not to do that. She clung to Chiamh’s back like a burr, crouching low over his neck with her eyes screwed tight shut, and when she did gain the courage to open them—mostly because it was more worrying not to be able to see what was going on—she kept them fixed firmly in front of her, on the Windeye’s pricked, black-tipped ears.

Finally, Aurian mustered enough courage to look down at the ground. Glowing in the dazzling, crystalline configurations of the Othersight, it swung dizzily beneath her in remote but perfect detail, just as it had done when she had ridden the winds to Aerillia with Chiamh, so long ago. And here we are, riding them together once more, the Mage thought—and her fear vanished all at once, in a glow of warmth and trust for her companion, as did the many worries that had been dogging her for these last hours.

The Mage had been filled with despair ever since Anvar’s spirit had failed to return with her own from the Well of Souls, for if he had gone to be reborn elsewhere he could never be restored, even with the Caldron, to his old body.—Now he seemed truly lost forever, so that she was forced to fight a continuing battle against her sorrow in order to keep striving toward her goal of Eliseth’s defeat. She had also been feeling hurt by Wolf’s hostility, though in truth she could understand why he should feel little love for a mother who had seemingly abandoned him for so many years. Vannor, too—there was still something very much amiss with the man, though for the life of her she couldn’t discover what. . . . But the higher Aurian soared with the Windeye, the lighter her heart began to feel, as though she had truly left her troubles behind her, anchored to the ground below.

Chiamh circled above the cliffs and began to make his descent, losing height all the time as he angled back to where D’arvan stood waiting. He landed perfectly; so lightly that Aurian barely felt the jar at all. She slid down quickly from his back, delighted by what she had seen, but glad, nonetheless, to be back safe on solid ground. As she stepped back Chiamh shimmered, and changed back to his human shape. “Well?” he asked her challengingly. “No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. You were squeezing me so tightly round the ribs that I’ll probably have the bruises for a week.”

Aurian removed the talisman from her neck and dropped it carefully into the pocket of her tunic. “I could probably get used to it,” she admitted cautiously. Then she exchanged glances with the Windeye and they both laughed.—Aurian held out her hands to him. “It was wonderful,” she said, “as well you know....”

She broke off; staring over Chiamh’s shoulder and up into the sky at a small dark speck in the distance. It seemed to be hurtling down toward her at a tremendous rate. The Mage held her breath. Don’t be daft, she told herself, it’s probably just a chough or a gull. . . . But the sight had set a fresh spark to the cooling embers of hope within her heart, and already they had flared up, renewed—to bum brighter yet when the bird came close enough for her to see that it was, indeed, a hawk.

Chiamh shook her arm. “What is it, Aurian? What do you see?” He knew better than to try to look in the direction of her gaze—his vision was far too limited.

“I think . . .” the Mage began—and fell silent. Since the hawk had flown away from the Nightrunner settlement, she had derided herself as a fool for thinking that such a creature might have housed Anvar’s spirit. In her embarrassment and doubt she had remained silent, therefore, and had not mentioned her suspicions to a soul. Now, however, those former suspicions were looking to be increasingly accurate as the hawk e to hover, high above her head.

“Dear Gods, it « . . .” Aurian breathed. She extended an to the hovering bird.

“Anvar?” she called softly. “Anvar?” D’arvan exclaimed. He looked at her with deep concern. “Aurian, you’d better come inside,” he said gently. He reached out to take her hand, but Chiamh restrained . “D’arvan, look . . .” The hawk abandoned its static position in the sky and sideslipped down toward Aurian.—It landed on her forearm, settling its wings across its back as though it meant to stay there, and fixed the Mage’s face in its fierce gaze.—The warm coloration drained from Chiamh’s eyes, chang-them to reflective argent as he switched to his Othersight. The silver eyes widened. “Light of the goddess,” he breathed, Aurian knew what he must be seeing. Though the physical of the hawk was a drastic alteration, the spirit light that shone from it in a scintillating aureole of many hues, was unaltered and familiar.—The goddess only knew how it had happened, but somehow, Anvar was occupying the body of the hawk.

Chiamh swung back to face the Mage. “You knew, didn’t you?” he accused the Mage.

Aurian nodded, never taking her eyes from the bird. “I suspected—I had hoped

... I’ll tell you about it later, Chiamh.”

“Me too, I hope.” D’arvan put in. “This is one explanation I wouldn’t like to miss.”

From his vantage point high in the air, Anvar looked down on the tall figure of the woman. This was right—this was where he wanted to be! Already, he had forgotten who he was or why he had been searching, but this human had clearly been his goal. There was something in her that called to him.... Trusting her as he would have trusted no other, the hawk folded his wings and swooped down to settle on her proffered arm.

As Anvar looked into the human’s green eyes he was overwhelmed by a profound wave of joy: a feeling of belonging that swept through him like some inexorable tide. Though he did not understand why, he knew that his place was right here at the human woman’s side.

“Has the courier been dispatched to the Queen of the Khazalim?” Eliseth asked.

“Indeed, Lady. Everything is just as you have ordered,” Sunfeather told her.

“The message was worded exactly as you said, asking the Khisihn Sara if she would be willing to become your ally and supply you troops to help defend Dhiammara, in exchange for your assistance in her own land once the Dragon City has been secured. As for our planned attack on Finch and Petrel and their colony, your warriors are assembled above, and ready to move—we simply await your word.”

The Weather-Mage turned to Skua. “And you, High Priest? Are you ready to take on this great charge?”

Skua nodded, and though his usual saturnine expression did not alter, Eliseth could see the gleam of suppressed excitement in his eyes. “I have been preparing all my life for this moment, Great Lady. You need have no fear—in my safe hands, the city will thrive and prosper during your absence.”

Eliseth smiled at him, “I have every confidence in you, my Lord Skua.” If only you knew how little I have to fear from you, she thought. Your black heart may be full of treachery—but your mind is under my control.

Eliseth poured wine for her two winged cohorts, and picked up the third cup from the table. “What do the Skyfolk think of our glorious mission to subdue the colony of Eyrie?”

The High Priest grimaced thinly—the nearest he ever came to a smile. “I have preached against the evil, godless renegades in the Temple,” he said. “The populace of Aerillia are convinced that Sunfeather and his warriors will smite the Eyrians in Yinze’s name, and there is a great deal of support for the notion. After a handful of dissenters had the error of their ways explained to them by the stones and cudgels of the righteous, even those who have friends and kin in the colony are rapidly learning the value of silence.”

“That’s most satisfactory,” Eliseth laughed. “By all means, let us cleanse our land of these ungodly Eyrians—not to mention the fact that the colony stands in the way of my plans for Dhiammara.” She lifted her cup. “To our success, my friends—great deeds await us.”

By the time dusk fell the next day, Aurian had begun to feel that she was really getting somewhere with the magic that permitted the Xandim to fly. The weather had been grey but dry with a brisk wind, and she’d spent the day outside with D’arvan, Chiamh, Schiannath, and Iscalda, practicing the wielding of Old Magic to include more than a single Xandim. It had not proved so difficult as she had expected, though it did require a good deal of concentration to link the energies of so many auras with the power of the winds. Linnet had joined them for part of the day, exercising her newly healed wing. Because of the missing feathers, her flight was still uneven and ungainly, but at least she was getting off the ground again. The hawk was also present, flying around them in flutter-ing circles, sometimes peeling off to hunt over the cliffs, but never straying too far, and always returning to Aurian. The bird remained an enigma to the Mage. Since it had returned to her the previous day, she had become more convinced than ever that it truly held the spirit of Anvar—yet when she reached out with her mind to attempt communication with the creature, it seemed to have no sense of identity, and she would make little sense of the confused jumble of simple avian Rages in its brain. Certainly, it was still very wild—there was no way she could persuade it to accompany her into the confinement of the Nightrunner quarters. Whenever she stepped outside, however, it was there waiting for her, and clung to her with a fierce loyalty.—For some reason, it also seemed to favor the Windeye, but any notion that it might have been drawn to magic was negated by the fact that the hawk treated D’arvan with utter indifference.

Shia too had been uncertain. “I hope for all our sakes that you’re right, Aurian,” she had said doubtfully, “but are you sure your hopes aren’t leading you astray? It just looks like a bird to me.”

The one person with whom Aurian had not discussed the hawk was Forral. Not only had she made no mention to him of her suspicions, but she had sworn D’arvan and Chiamh to secrecy too. D’arvan had asked her why. “Look,” she told him, “if I’m right about this, it will only upset and disturb Forral—with very good reason—to think that Anvar is still present in some way, watching our every move and waiting to take back his own body. If I’m wrong, then Forral will be equally as disturbed, but for no reason at all.” It had all sounded very plausible at the time.

All in all, it had been good to get away from the Nightrunner caverns and the uneasy mix of personalities that had been thrown together these last few days.—The issue of the Death-Wraith’s hunger was becoming increasingly urgent, and there seemed no way to avoid a human death. The Mage could not help but think that maybe Forral had been right after all—perhaps it had been a grave mistake to bring the Wraith out of time. Wolf remained, if not overtly hostile, indifferent to his mother, and was spending a great deal of time with Zanna’s sons. Iscalda said he missed Currain, who had been like a younger brother to him. Much to the swordsman’s distress, he had flatly refused to believe that Forral was his father. “You can’t be my father—he’s dead,” Wolf insisted.—Nonetheless, there had also been better news. Vannor, thank the Gods, seemed to be recovering his spirits thanks to the determined ministrations of Dulsina and Zanna, who were well on their way to persuading him that, rather than castigating himself over his past mistakes, he would be better off atoning for them with constructive deeds. That morning, Forral had come out with Parric to find out what the Mage was up to, and had gone very white when he had seen her hurtling through the skies on Chiamh’s back, with Schiannath and Iscalda flanking her on either side. At Aurian’s urging, however, the swordsman had finally been persuaded to mount Schiannath for a trial flight, with Aurian flying alongside on Chiamh, her magic keeping both Xandim aloft. Forral had returned with his face glowing with delight as he enveloped the Mage in a great bear hug. “By Chathak, lass—what an incredible experience! I never thought I’d live to see the day....”

“You didn’t,” Parric put in dryly, and clapped the swordsman on the back to take the sting from his words. The Cavalry-master was in irrepressible spirits. Unlike Forral, he had taken no persuading whatsoever to try flying on Iscalda’s back, and was now firmly convinced that he had seen the crowning moment of his life.

That night, the Mage and her companions ate in Emmie’s quarters with Zanna and her family, and Emmie and Yanis, to celebrate the return of the Nightrunner leader whose ship had docked that afternoon (and who had been bemused, to say the least, at finding a horse flying in circles around his mast when he neared the land).

Grince’s eyes were on Aurian, who was seated across the table from him. Emmie had rummaged through her store-looms to find some finery for them all, and the Mage looked like a living flame in a wine-colored velvet gown. Her hair, which was growing long again, lay loose on her shoulders in a tumbling silken cascade. The thief could barely look away from her for long enough to eat his food. Though he had been spending most of his time in the Nightrunner haven with Emmie, or learning about ships with his new friend Jeskin the shipswright, Aurian had never been far from his thoughts. She was brave and competent and compassionate, and one of the few people who had ever treated him as though he really mattered. Furthermore, she had brought some magic into a life that en singularly short of enchantment. He had never forgotten their meeting beneath the Nexian Academy, and the rough but unreserved kindness she had shown him, both then and during their escape across the moors. Though he’d been unaware of it at the time, Grince had his heart to the Mage that first day, but he had only to realize just how very much she meant to him when had seen her lying, cold, pale, and still, up by the standing tone, and had been sure that she was dead. At that moment, had felt that something rare and precious had been taken from him; as though some vital part of himself had been ripped away. In a fit of fervor that had shocked him greatly when he came to look back on it afterward, he had run to her, clutched at her, and begged her not to leave him—and as if by some miracle, she had not. Over the last day or two, however, he had been watching her covertly as she practiced flying with the Xandim and talked to Emmie and Zanna about ships and supplies. He knew that she was planning to leave again and the thought filled him with dread and dismay. He couldn’t let her go without him.

It had been a difficult decision. All too well, the thief recalled the agonies of riding on horseback, and his fear of the vast, wild, open spaces, without a house or a paved road in sight. He reminded himself of the endless misery of never feeling warm, the rough, scanty meals, the utter blackness of night, and the dreadful tension of lying awake in the dark, waiting for some vile and vicious creature to pounce. And worst of all, there was the insecurity, the constant lurking terror of being left alone in the wilderness—for if anything should befall his companions, he could measure his own life within a day or two at most.

Grince had thought about all of these difficulties constantly over the last two days, until his head was spinning—and he didn’t care. He had almost lost her at the standing stone, and Aurian wasn’t going to get the chance to leave him again. This time, at least, he could follow her wherever she was going, and he intended to do exactly that. The problem, however, would be convincing her to take him.

When the meal was over, Grince waylaid the Mage as she was about to follow Forral to their rooms. “Lady, can I speak with you for a moment?” he asked her.

“Why of course.” Though Aurian looked tired, she had a smile for him, as always. Turning aside from her planned route, she led him to the great cavern where the ships were docked. They walked along the beach, crunching fragments of the white shell shingle underfoot. The Mage looked at Grince, one eyebrow raised. “Well?” she said. “What can I do for you?”

All of Grince’s carefully prepared arguments flew right out of his head.

“I—I’m going with you,” he blurted. “When you leave. I’m coming too.” He looked at her defiantly.

The Mage’s eyebrow rose another fraction. “I don’t think so,” she said pleasantly.

The thief’s heart sank. “Lady, you’ve got to take me with you. That Chiamh was only saying yesterday that you’ll need all the help you can get, and ...”

“Look, Grince,” Aurian said firmly. “I don’t want to offend you, but I think Chiamh was talking about help, he meant the assistance of folk who could ride a horse and use a sword, or wield magic.”

“You’re saying I’m no good,” Grince muttered sullenly, kicking sprays of sand out in front of him.

“I’m not saying anything of the kind. It’s just that you’re not cut out for the kind of journey we’ll be making. Why, that little ride from Nexis to here nearly killed you—and don’t tell me you enjoyed it, because I bloody well know you didn’t. You had a miserable time from first to last.” She sighed. “It’s not a question of being no good—it’s a question of different skills and experiences. Had we been heading for a city like Nexis, you would have come into your own. Had I needed a thief...”

“Who’s to say you won’t?” Grince put in quickly.

“Then I’ll just have to manage.” Aurian’s tone brooked no further argument, but she softened her words with a smile for him. “Grince, if I take you with me, I truly believe I’ll get you killed. And I’m not going to do that. I’ve seen too many friends die—I like you far too much to let that happen to you.”

With a whirl of her wine-red skirts she was gone.

Grince looked after her, not sure whether to be upset or gladdened by her words. One thing was for sure—she had achieved exactly the opposite of what she had intended. If the Mage liked him so much, there was no way he would let her leave him behind. “It’s not over yet,” he muttered. “I’m coming with you—just you wait and see.”

When the Mage returned to her chambers, Forral had stoked up the fire in the stove and poured two glasses of wine. “What was all that about?” he asked her, seeing her frown.

Aurian shook her head and sighed. “Poor Grince seems to have taken leave of his senses. He wants to come with me when I go south. Can you imagine? It took the poor little sod his time to get here from Nexis, he has no woodcraft whatever, he can’t even use a sword properly, yet he’s blithely big about setting off on a journey of several hundred leagues.”

Forral shrugged. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you? It looks as though you’ve got another follower. By all the Gods, Aurian—I don’t know how you manage to inspire such loyalty. . . .” He paused, and smiled at her. “No—in truth, I think I do know. You care. Within minutes of meeting Grince you had healed him and helped him, you smuggled him out of the city with you, probably saving his life in the process, and then you were the only one who stood by him when he was caught trying to steal from Mandzurano. I’ve noticed him watching you—I reckon he’s taken a real fancy to you, love.”

“To me? Absolute rubbish!” Aurian snorted.

“I’m serious,” Forral told her. “For most of his life he’s had no one. Just think what a lonely existence that must have been, without family or friends.—He’s never had anyone to love, and nobody has cared for him. Then along you come. You’re kind to him as no one else has been, and for the first time, someone is treating him like a human being.... What do you think? It’s no wonder he imagines he’s in love with you.”

The Mage glared at him. “In love, my backside. Whatever Grince imagines he’s feeling, it’s nothing more than hero worship, pure and simple—and I should know the symptoms. I remember a little girl, once upon a time, who felt the same way about you.”

“Yes, and look how that ended up,” the swordsman growled.

Aurian sighed in exasperation. “Forral, this nonsense has gone quite far enough. You’re talking more like a kitchen maid than a bloody swordsman!”

Forral shrugged. “Well, you may be right. Maybe I can see it so clearly in Grince because I’m in love with you.”

“You daft bugger.” Aurian shook her head. “Honestly—you must be going soft in your old age. If anyone should hear the world’s greatest swordsman saying things like that, your reputation would be ruined forever.” She smiled at him fondly and held out her hand. “Stop talking nonsense and come to bed.”

Chiamh took off his clothes and threw them in the general direction of a chair, then slipped quickly between the blankets of his lonely bed. After a few moments’ shivering he warmed up enough to let his body relax. Then, as always, he lay back and let his Othersight take over. Finding a slender thread of a draft, he began to follow it, sending his consciousness forth to slip through the tiny fissures and crevices in the rock, along the now-familiar route to Aurian’s chambers. It was the Windeye’s nightly ritual. He didn’t stay long—there was a feeling of wrongness and guilt in the notion of spying on the Mage while she slept. No, he simply cared about her, and felt protective of her now that Anvar had been torn away from her. After all, she was his dearest friend—what could be more natural? Chiamh would simply linger a moment and extend a tendril of his consciousness to gently touch her sleeping face. Only then could he return to his solitary bed and find sleep at last.

Tonight, he discovered the Mage asleep next to Forral, as she had been these last few nights. Though he knew that Aurian had, for the time being, managed to reconcile her feelings between the old love and the new, he had his doubts about this interloper who’d stolen Anvar’s body. Seeing them together, Chiamh suddenly found himself aflame with jealousy. Appalled by the intensity of his feelings, he fled back toward his body with a soundless cry of dismay.—The Windeye’s thoughts were in such a turmoil that he took a wrong turning somewhere, and his consciousness emerged not in his chamber, as he had expected, but in the main cavern. What he saw there drove all thoughts of the Mage right out of his mind. The night watchmen lay scattered; dead. Strange soldiers, all alike in black livery and with eyes like cold steel, were pouring into the cavern. Chiamh was about to sound the alarm when he realized that he was out of his body, and had no voice. As fast as he could he turned, and fled back the way he had come.

Zanna was awakened from a sound sleep by a fearful commotion in the corridor.—She heard shouts and screams, and one of the ship’s bells was ringing wildly.—Tarnal leapt out of bed. “Get the boys,” he cried. “We’ve been invaded.”

Zanna had never dressed so fast in her life. She threw on her rough seaman’s clothing and boots, and dashed to the children’s rooms. They were already awake and snuggled in a single bed with Wolf, peeping out from behind a barricade of bedclothes with huge, frightened eyes.

“Ma, what’s happening?” Valand demanded. Martek, now that a source of comfort had arrived, began to wail.

Zanna didn’t believe in hiding the realities of life from her offspring—they were Nightrunners, after all. “Bad soldiers are attacking us,” she said tersely. “Get up quickly and get dressed—we have to leave right now.”

Valand obeyed her without another word, and Zanna ran help her younger son.—Martek was still sniveling as she forced him into his clothes. Zanna knelt down beside him and cupped his damp face in her hand. “Martek, you stop that.—You don’t want to frighten Wolf, do you? We have to get to the ships now, all right? Then we’ll be safe.”

The child bit his lip and nodded.

“Good lad,” Zanna told him. Picking him up, she gestured for Valand to go ahead of her.

Tarnal was standing by the door, sword in hand. “I can hear them righting in the distance, but it seems clear outside our door. We’d better go while we can.”

Zanna nodded. “Valand,” she said, “you take hold of the edge of my cloak. Hold on to it tight now—and whatever happens, don’t let go.”

They raced together along the corridor, their footsteps ringing on the stone floor. When they reached the main cavern the sight of the carnage stopped Zanna in her tracks. Small groups of smugglers, many in their nightclothes, were fighting desperately against well-armed professional soldiers. With a thrill of horror, Zanna recognized the black uniforms of Pendral’s troops.—They seemed to be everywhere. The beach was littered with the bodies of men, women, and even small children; the white sands were dyed crimson with their blood. Even as Zanna stood, transfixed with horror, more soldiers were pouring in through the narrow tunnel of the landward entrance.

“Come on!” Tarnal shook Zanna out of her trance. “We’ve got to get to the boats!” Wielding his sword like a man possessed, he plunged into the seething mass of combatants.

The three Xandim had been given chambers toward the rear of the Nightrunner complex. Their rooms were the only chambers in a short, dead-end corridor that branched off the main tunnel, and by the time the sounds of fighting reached them, it was too late.

Iscalda had hung up the blue gown that Zanna had given her, and was brushing her long, flaxen hair when she first heard the clamor outside. Almost at the same time, there came a hammering on her door. She opened it to find the Windeye, disheveled and half-dressed. “Arm yourself,” he gasped. “We’re being attacked!”

Before she had time to reply, he was gone, and banging on Schiannath’s door.—Iscalda dragged on shirt and breeches and picked up the new sword that she had obtained through the kindness of the Nightrunners. When she left her room, she saw that her brother, armed and dressed, was also coming out of his chamber—and that a large group of soldiers was rounding the corner at the junction of the corridor. A flash of fear shot through Iscalda as she realized that the Xandim were cornered and outnumbered.

Then suddenly the soldiers were backing away, howling curses and crying out in fear. Chiamh followed them, his silver eyes narrowed with concentration, pursuing them with the vision of a hideous monstrosity that was worse than the worst of Iscalda’s nightmares. “Go,” he shouted. “I’ll hold them off”

The moment the junction was clear, Schiannath and Iscalda fled past the Windeye, toward the main cavern. Iscalda glanced back over her shoulder to see Chiamh following; scrambling backward to keep facing the enemy and somehow maintaining his apparition without faltering. As they reached the more populous areas, they began to find bodies sprawled in the corridors—some of them soldiers, it was true, but far more of them members of the Nightrunner community. Another group of soldiers appeared from a junction ahead of them, and Iscalda and Schiannath went into action side by side, swords flashing as they carved a path through the enemy ranks for themselves and the Windeye.—Everything went well until the Xandim reached the open spaces of the big cavern, with a group of frightened smugglers, mostly elderly, that they had collected on their way. To their horror the beach was filled with a mass of struggling figures, and the fight was moving this way and that across the entrance to their passage. Iscalda and Schiannath waited for a break in the melee and brought the others through the entrance safely, but Chiamh, still preoccupied with maintaining his phantasm, was just a moment too late. As he emerged, the fight swept back in his direction and a duelling soldier, on the defensive, backed straight into him. The Windeye’s concentration broke—only for an instant, but it was enough. The soldier who had been following the Xandim all through the tunnels at a respectful distance saw the apparition waver. “It’s not real.”

Iscalda turned as she heard the cry—but she was too late save him. Even as she watched in horror, the soldiers shed forward in a solid mass, and she saw Chiamh go down, pierced by half a dozen swords. Even though she knew in her heart that it was hopeless, she would have gone back for him, had Schiannath not grabbed her arm and hauled her onward. “Come on, Iscalda! You can do nothing for him now!” Then the warrior was forced to turn her full attention back to her own survival, for they still had a fight in front of them before they could reach the boats. Her last sight of the Windeye was a shapeless, crumpled form like a blood-soaked pile of rags; a discarded piece of refuse that had been kicked out of the way, against the cavern wall.