Dhiammara

28 The Pinnacle

After Aurian had left the cavern, Shia found herself becoming more and more unsettled. At first, she told herself that her mood was distress at the mystery of her vanished people—or maybe it was unease for Aurian, who had gone wandering off into the night with the Windeye. What was Chiamh up to, trying to get Aurian up on top of the pinnacle at this hour, in the dark? Full well he knew how the Mage felt about high places!

“If Aurian hurts herself up there . . .” Shia’s long black tail switched back and forth, and she growled deep in her throat. Unable to endure another moment sitting still, she rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth across the cavern mouth with long, lithe strides. What was wrong with her? There was an unaccustomed tension in her spine and tail, and she burned all over, as though there was a prickling itch beneath the surface of her skin.

Before she knew what was happening, Shia was on her back on the floor, rolling and writhing In the dust. Suddenly she became aware of a new smell—a heady musk that she had not previously noticed. She iked up to see Khanu, stalking around her stiff-legged, his brushed up along his spine and his throat vibrating with a rumbling thunder of his purr. Oh no, she thought. I can’t believe this! Of all the inconvenient . . . Then another of Khanu’s musk rolled over her, and her senses were merged in the compelling imperatives of the moment. Uttering seductive little croons, the cat continued to roll, opting her suitor; daring him to approach. With a bound he was on her—and Shia’s paw lashed out, her claws catching a glancing blow across the nose.—Then she was on her feet, blazing; circling, snarling; watching him rub his nose and away, his face furrowed with puzzlement. But she knew it her own lure was too powerful; that her voluptuous liqent would draw him back toward her.... Shia darted away from the mouth of the cavern and the sleeping humans within. This was no time to be near the puny two-legged ones! Khanu pursued her, catching up with her in grove of pines near the pool. Cunningly, the cat turned back on him, her head and forepaws pressed low to the ground. She sneaked a coy look behind her, to see Khanu stalk-closer, his glowing eyes, shining with reflected moonlight, two smaller moons come down to earth. Just as he came reach, Shia bounded away with a derisive yowl, and to face him, ears flat and fur abristle; one forepaw raised, claws extended.

She spat—he leapt. There was a tussle: a blur of motion so that it was over before Shia had time to register what was happening. Then she was free again—speeding up the steeping side of the valley, devouring the ground in great leaps, with Khanu hurtling after her, only a claw’s behind the end of her streaming tail. Together they went up the mountain like a whirlwind: turning, biting, spinning, whirling, clawing dodging tussling—until finally, Shia tempted Khanu once too much—or maybe she was tiring now, and couldn’t dodge so it. She had ducked around a rocky outcrop and was waiting him on the other side, uttering coy little croons; head down, hindquarters raised, tail waving alluringly. As he rounded boulder, she whisked to one side—but too late. Khanu’s might came pressing down on her, and his teeth met, gently firmly, in the loose skin at the back of her neck.

Shia yowled and scuffled with her claws, but she was frozen in position by his hold. With a howl of triumph he entered her, and she braced herself, half-snarling, half-purring, as he began to thrust vigorously. Then it was over—with a squall, he emptied himself into her, and leapt backward. As they pulled apart, a white-hot pain shot through Shia’s vitals and she gave an earsplitting screech, turning to claw viciously at her mate once more.—For a moment both cats stood, glaring and bristling; then a languor stole over them, and bit by bit they began to relax, shaking their heads and looking around them in a dazed fashion as the world came back into focus. Khanu, blood dripping from one torn ear, came purring to rub heads with her, but Shia suddenly stiffened beneath his caress. “Khanu!” she cried in dismay. “Have you seen where we are?”

Khanu looked around him—and his purr stopped abruptly, as though his throat had been cut. “Let’s get away from here—quick!”

But it was too late. The cats’ wild chase had brought them, all unknowing, across the Dragon’s Tail. They were on the forbidden slopes of Steelclaw—and something was aware of them.

Aurian stiffened when she first heard the yowling that came faint and far-off on the wind. Shia was in trouble. One hand slipped from its hold, and she scrabbled frantically to regain her balance on the narrow ledge. Once secure, she pressed herself hard against the stone, trembling all over, her heart racing so that her blood sounded like distant surf in her ears. As soon as she had calmed herself sufficiently, she reached out with her mind to the great cat—and met with such a turmoil of raw emotion that she snatched her consciousness back quickly, as though she had been burned.

“Well well!” Despite her precarious position, the Mage chuckled to herself, with relief as much as amusement. So Shia’s howls stemmed from passion, not danger. Aurian smiled fondly at the thought of little fuzzy black cubs, though she was aware that it made her mission even more urgent. All too well she remembered her own grim pregnancy in the mountains, and did not want Shia to suffer the same discomforts and dangers.

Recollecting her own current discomfort and danger, Aurian pulled her thoughts away from the cats and returned her attention to the task at hand. Surely she must be nearly there by now? But when she looked across the void at the pinnacle that soared beside her, only three arms’ length away from the cliff, she realized that she still had quite some distance to climb. Bitterly, she remembered the last time she had been here, when Ibis and Kestrel had transported Anvar and herself to the top of the spire—and she had watched Chiamh scramble, fly-footed, up this thread of a goat track as though it had been the broadest of highways. “How did he manage it?” Aurian muttered to herself wrathfully. “It’s just not fair!” With effort, she pulled herself together. I’m more than halfway now, she thought, trying to boost her sinking courage. That in itself is quite a feat for a Mage who’s terrified of heights.—Why, I’ll be at the top in no time!

Aurian needed every scrap of her courage. She was crawling up the narrow, steeply sloping ledge, not daring to stand so her knees were bruised and cut, and her hands torn and bleeding. Despite the cold night, she was drenched in a sweaty terror and exertion that kept trickling down into her eyes, blurring her vision and stinging like perdition. To increase her discomfort, the Staff of Earth was poking into her ribs with every move she made: a painful and perilous distraction when perforce she must keep all her attention on the trail.

Between the cliff and the pinnacle, a chasm yawned, so dark, deep, and narrow that even her Mage’s sight could not plumb the bottom. In one sense, it helped not being able to see how far she might fall; yet where her eyesight stopped, her imagination had an unpleasant tendency to take over; furthermore, long stretches of the ledge were also obscured in the deep, deceptive shadow, forcing her to creep slowly along, inch by inch, shaking all over, until the danger had been passed.

Aurian kept her eyes on the narrow trail one step ahead of her bleeding hands, gritted her teeth, and just kept crawling, trying not to stop. Every time she was forced to halt, it grew increasingly difficult to move again....

“Keep going, Aurian—you’re almost there.” The Windeye’s soft voice came out of nowhere.

The Mage raised her head and shook it to flick the straggling, sweat-drenched hair out of her eyes. Just beyond her flight hand was a tangled webbing of slender rope that stretched across the chasm, made fast to the cliff by rusted iron spikes driven deep into the rock. Since the pinnacle narrowed toward the top, the distance between it and the cliff had widened now, to a distance of about five yards. Aurian already fought her mouth was very dry. Now, her throat closed up completely, as her mind refused to even consider the possibility of crossing the chasm on those fragile strands.

“Honestly,” Chiamh coaxed, “it’s not as difficult as it looks. You just put your feet on the lower ropes, hold on to the upper strands, and just inch your way along. It’s practically impossible to fall.”

Luckily for the Windeye, Aurian was well beyond speech at this point, but he was close enough for her to send him, in the mode of mind-speech, an image of an extremely obscene gesture.

Chiamh chuckled wickedly. “You can’t make that one good without coming over here.”

“And remember, Wizard,” the voice of Basileus added, “the alternative is to go back down again by the track—in your case, probably backward all the way.”

Silently cursing the pair of them, Aurian took a deep breath and knelt in an upright position, reaching above her head for the upper set of ropes. Clasping them so tightly that her hands were knots of bone, she used them to pull herself up to her feet. Then, carefully, she began to shuffle her feet along the lower strands.

Where the makeshift bridge left the cliff, the rope dipped suddenly beneath her weight. Aurian gave a squeak of terror, clinging tightly to the upper strands as her stomach leapt up into her throat, and she bit her tongue. The remainder of the crossing was a blur. Some deeply buried instinct for survival seemed to take over from Aurian’s conscious mind, and it decided that she had better get across that gap as fast as possible. She remembered a rapid, lurching scramble, a dreadful instant of frozen horror when she thought she must be slipping; then Chiamh was reaching out for her, and she hurled herself to safety, feeling his arms gather her, both of them collapsing in an entangled heap on the secure and solid floor of the Chamber of Winds. Long shudders passed through Aurian’s body as her mind shook itself free of the terror and she began to realize that she was safe at last.

“Well done, Wizard,” the voice of Basileus boomed in her mind. “You have conquered your fear, and have proved yourself courageous and worthy of the Staff. Now, you must make one last, dark journey, to restore both its powers and your own faith yourself.”

Aurian sat up and centred herself right in the middle of the Chamber of Winds, well away from the yawning drops on all four sides. She took the dull and lifeless Staff from her belt, and sat cradling it, running her hands along its polished, twisting length. “But how can I accomplish that?” she asked.

“Lift yourself free from your body, Wizard. Ride the winds With the Windeye, and see what you will find.”

Though the Mage couldn’t see how that would help, she was certainly willing to give it a try. She looked at Chiamh. “I’m ready to risk it if you are,” he told her, his brown eyes winkling.

“All right, Chiamh—I trust you.” Taking a firm grip of the Staff in one hand, she stretched out the other to grasp the left hand of the Windeye. As his eyes began to flood with reflective silver, Aurian breathed deeply, letting her body relax as her mind began to drift....

And suddenly, as easily as that, she was out and free, drifting like mist above her corporeal form and looking around at the translucent crystalline structure of the Chamber of Winds, which was also, she thought, the body of Basileus. It gave off a soft, warm glow like sunlight through the petals of rose. Drifting gently, the Mage let herself revolve until she caught sight of Chiamh, who hovered above his own mortal shell in the form of a swirl of golden incandescence. “Both of you are extraordinarily beautiful like this,” she told them.

“As are you, my friend,” Chiamh told her. “You look like a rirl of gems from the Jeweled Desert, or spindrift glittering the sun.”

“Instead of drifting around there admiring one another, I advise to get going.” Basileus cut in. “I thought you were here to fix the Staff?” Though his words were sharp, his voice, while the Mage was in this disembodied form, was like the slow, smooth pouring of honey.

She looked at the Windeye and a sparkle of amusement chased across his glowing golden surface. “All right, Basileus,” said. He extended a long, luminescent tentacle toward Aurian. “Come on, Mage.”

Aurian spun out a shimmering strand of her own and exuded it toward him. The two glistening limbs met in a flash warm brilliance, and Aurian felt waves of pleasure pulse through her, her own exaltation mingling with that of the Windeye to amplify the sensation. Chiamh reached out with another tentacle and caught hold of a current of moving air as it flowed past, and the two of them sped away from the pinnacle, like two glowing leaves borne swiftly along on a stream of light.

Swiftly they traveled, heading up toward the very topmost peak of the Wyndveil. The Mage relaxed and let the Windeye take her, simply trusting that he and Basileus knew what they were about. As they neared the summit, Aurian realized, with a shock, that they were no longer alone. Swimming through the air in front of herself and Chiamh, as though leading the way, were the twin serpents from the Staff, the Serpent of Might and the Serpent of Wisdom, moving as easily through the air as they had moved through the mysterious waters of the Well of Souls. It was only then that she realized that she no longer held the Staff of Earth, either in its mundane form or its incorporeal avatar. Dread and dismay coursed through her, causing her to tighten her grip involuntarily on the Windeye’s shining limb. Immediately, Chiamh slowed his speed, though he kept them drifting inexorably forward along the river of air.

“Is something wrong?”

“The Staff,” Aurian cried, “I’ve lost the Staff!” Again, the sparkle of amusement shimmered across the swirling golden mist that was the Windeye.

“Don’t fret—of course you haven’t. You’re here to heal and reclaim the Staff, remember—that means you’ll have to re-create it all over again.”

Aurian looked at him in some doubt. “But I...”

“Come on,” Chiamh told her. “You’ll do just fine.” Aurian realized that they were hurtling toward a dark hole: a gaping black maw set in the very apex of the mountain. Instinctively, she tried to shut her eyes, but in this incorporeal state, she could not. The next moment the great mouth seemed to leap forward and swallow them, and as it did so, the Windeye vanished. The Mage was surrounded by a cocoon of thick darkness, and was completely alone.—Aurian stopped moving—or thought she did. With all her senses muffled, there was no way to tell. The blackness pressed down on her; a cloying, muffling weight, that paralyzed and imprisoned her, as though she had been buried alive under thick, black loam. Though the Mage was striving to be calm, terror began to rise within her. There was no way out of here—she could neither see, nor struggle, nor call out for help. Has something happened to my body? she thought with increasing panic. Is this what death is like? But she had ventured into Death’s realm, and knew that it was not like this. Aurian’s scorn against her own fanciful idiocy braced her as nothing else could have done. Remember, she told herself firmly, this was always supposed to be an ordeal. It’s a test, a challenge; so stop being stupid, and get on and deal with it.

At first there seemed no way to light up the profound blackness that enmeshed her—until Aurian began to think of Chiamh. Where was the Windeye? What had become of him? Then the words that he had spoken in the Chamber of Winds came back to her: “You look like a swirl of gems from the Jeweled Desert, or spindrift glittering in the sun.” Of course! the Mage thought. I can use myself! She thought of her coruscating, incandescent form as the Windeye must have seen it, and poured all her energies into the image, trying to make it stronger and brighter.

Gradually, the black feelings of misery and dread that had pressed down on the Mage seemed to be lifting a little. In time, the physical darkness seemed to be less intense. Could it be working? Aurian concentrated on her incorporeal form, and remembered Chiamh’s words. She thought of the multicolored radiance of the Jeweled Desert; of the glitter of white surf; of sunlight glancing off the ocean in spangles of dazzling light; of stars on a frosty night; of moonlight on a field of virgin snow.

Yes—it was working! Aurian’s determined summoning of light was beginning to send the darkness into a retreat. She actually could see it creeping back now: shrinking away from her radiant form.

Then suddenly the darkness was gone—and Aurian cried out in pain as she was pierced through and through by spears and splinters of viridian, emerald, and sea-green light. There was no way she could close her eyes—there was no way to escape the brittle radiance that pierced her like a thousand swords. Only when she had pulled her wits together and dimmed her own luminescence did the light soften, swirling around her like a snowfall of glittering green flakes.—At last the Mage could see herself as Chiamh had seen her—but in the form of myriad green reflections that curved away on all sides to a dizzying infinity.—When she had managed to make sense of the many conflicting, splintered reflections, she discovered that she appeared to be floating inside a massive hollow gem. And all this green ... It was as though she had been trapped inside the crystal that held the Staff of Earth’s power—or was she viewing the scene through the eldritch medium of the Othersight, and was this place truly something else entirely?

A flash of scarlet flashed at the edge of Aurian’s vision. She spun, trailing sunburst limbs of fire, and saw the red and silver Serpent of Might approaching her, swimming with swift ease through the scintillating green void. From the other side, the Serpent of Wisdom was also approaching, its green and gold markings far less easy to see as it blended into the emerald background. Aurian’s heart leapt to see them. At least she had not lost them in the darkness!

Even as she was wondering why they should be converging on her, the serpents struck, sinking their fangs into glittering, amorphous plasm that was the Mage. Rivers of fire raced along Aurian’s streaming limbs toward the central core of her being. She screamed, shrill and voiceless, as the agony spiraled through her. The serpents struck her again and again, clamping their fanged jaws into the insubstantial gossamer of her discarnate form, and tearing away great mouthfuls like shreds of glistening cloud.

Deep within another mountain, the Archmage was awakened from uneasy dreams.

“Trespassers! Intruders! We are invaded!”

“What in the name of perdition is wrong with you, Ghabal?” Miathan muttered irritably.

“Awake! Awake! We are attacked!”

Not again! Under his breath, the Archmage cursed. Lately, Ghabal’s madness had taken this form: every time a bird flew over, or a breeze brushed by his stony flanks, the Moldan was imagining invaders. “Come now—who could be attacking you?” he soothed. “The Xandim? That’s nonsense. They wouldn’t dare. Why, since the cats departed, no one save me has come closer to you than the Field of Stones.”

“Intruders! They set foot on me! They touched me!”

Miathan sighed. “All right—I’ll take a look. Will that satisfy you? Now, where were these so-called invaders?”

“On my western flank—they must have come across the Dragon’s Tail.”

“Very well.” The Archmage reached up to a shelf carved into the cavern wall beside his bed, and carefully, using both hands, he took down a large silver casket. Throwing back the lid, he reached inside and lifted out a great black gem, almost as large as his own head. The stone was unfaceted, like a black pearl—except that it lacked a pearl’s soft luster. Instead of reflecting light, the gem seemed to absorb it—indeed, when the Archmage withdrew it from its casket, the room seemed to grow darker, as though swarming shadows were creeping down the walls and out of the corners.

“Do you have to use that accursed stone?” the Moldan asked sharply. “It is an evil thing, filled with unquiet spirits.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Miathan snapped. The cold gems that were his eyes glittered with an avid light as his gnarled and knotted hands caressed the smooth lightless surface of the stone. “This is my creation, my treasure,” he crooned. “It will be my revenge!”

Long ago, Miathan had decided that, since he had no Artifact of his own—nor, as far as he could see, any chance of obtaining one—there was only one solution: he must try to make one.

In all the ten years that Miathan had been here, his defeat by Eliseth had never ceased to rankle. Though to date she had failed to discover his whereabouts, he would not be able to rest, he knew, while she was still at large in the world, for he would be forever looking over his shoulder.—Unfortunately, because she held the stolen Caldron of Rebirth, he still lacked sufficient power to overcome her, but soon that would change.

This audacious plan had the full support of the Moldan. “Once we wield such power, the world will fall to its knees before us!” Ghabal had crowed. Miathan had decided not to disillusion him—he needed Ghabal’s help in the matter of crystals, and the benefit of the Moldan’s experience concerning the storing of power in the lattices of stone. He had been experimenting for several years now, and had perfected a method of storing the accumulated life energies of his sacrifice victims in this smooth crystal. So far, though, he had failed to achieve the most important factor: the actual character and intelligence, the sentience, that all the original Artifacts possessed—or so he thought. The Moldan disagreed. It had taken an intense dislike to the stone, almost bordering on hysterical fear. Ghabal insisted that the gem was inherently evil, and filled with the vengeful spirits of the dead.

Arrant nonsense! Miathan thought. Clasping the crystal to his chest, he lay back on his couch, thankful that the cold stone was well padded with a thick layer of fragrant hay and herbs brought from the Xandim from the lowlands, then woven bags well-stuffed with feathers and fleece, brightly dyed woolen blankets, and a generous pile of sheepskins and furs, including the heavy pelts of several great cats who had not left the mountain in time. It wasn’t too bad, he conceded, this business of being a god. He might be stuck with living here in this mountain cabin, but at least he had the best of everything, food and wine included. The frequent offerings brought to him by the Xandim were sufficient to satisfy all his needs—save one. Revenge.

“Do you plan to seek out those intruders at any time this year?” Ghabal’s acid tones reminded the Mage of what he was supposed to be doing before he had lost himself in thought.

“All right, all right,” snapped Miathan. “I’m going.”

The Archmage lay back, covering himself carefully with a pile of furs. These days, his old body simply could not afford to lose too much heat while he was absent. Once settled, he closed his eyes and relaxed, until the interior of the cavern became clearly visible to him through his closed eyelids. Now that his inner form was discrete from its shell, he rose gently above his discarded body, and sailed through the wall of the cave and into the thick, dark layers of rock beyond.

Emerging on the shattered pinnacle of Steelclaw, Miathan pointed himself toward the west and swooped down over the Dragon’s Tail, and stopped there: hovering. To his utter astonishment, the Moldan had been right for once. Far below, on the mountainside above the ridge, were too small, familiar black shapes that he had not seen for some considerable time. Well! Miathan thought.—So two, at least, of the cats had returned to Steelclaw. How very fortuitous—he could do with some new furs.

Given the unexpected appearance of the felines, the Arch-mage wondered whether more of the creatures were wandering at large. A cat-hunt might be a useful way to test the powers of his new Artifact—and failing that, it would provide some entertainment, at least. Living up here in isolation, save for his deranged companion, meant that Miathan very rarely had such an opportunity to enjoy himself. Presumably, the animals had come from the Wyndveil, so he set off in that direction, heading roughly toward the Xandim Fastness.—When he reached the high valley with the barrows of the Xandim dead, the Archmage was astounded to see the glow that meant living beings on the top of the strange, high spire that stood at the valley’s head. What in the world is going on? he thought. Surely that place is taboo for the Xandim? Suspicious now, he crept closer, keeping his thoughts to a low, almost formless murmur to make sure that his approach was unobserved.

As Miathan came closer, he could see two figures in the airy vantage point that crowned the spire. One, he realized after a moment, was a Xandim. He seemed to be watching over the other who lay immobile on the cold stone, clearly deep in trance. In trance? A quiver of anxiety tinged with rare anticipation ran though the Archmage. None of the Xandim possessed the powers of magic! Then Miathan drew near enough to recognize the distant form. Aurian?—He intended to return to his body, but the shock of seeing her was so intense that he never got there.

Bit by bit the serpents tore away Aurian’s inner form, ignoring her struggles.—The Mage thrashed and struggled, but there was no escape from her attackers—nor from the agony they inflicted as they tore her asunder.—Gradually she found her consciousness drifting and fading, as her memories were torn away one by one, along with every scrap of pride, of stubbornness and belligerence: all the good things and all the bad. Somehow, though, she never lost consciousness completely. No matter what was taken she always retained a last, deep spark of awareness—and that was how she knew when the serpents had reached the core of her at last. She watched, detached now and at peace, as though from a tremendous distance, as they tore away the last tattered remnants of her old self—to reveal at the center of her being a sparkling green crystal, just large enough to fit into a Mage’s palm.—Then, with tails entwined and jaws interlinking around the gem, the serpents formed a circle and began to spin, creating a whirlpool of magic whose core was in the exact center of the spherical chamber, within the ring formed by their bodies. Bit by bit, the tatters of the Mage’s incorporeal form, which had been drifting around the chamber like slips of cloud, began to gather and converge once more, whirling and spinning and conjoining—until Aurian suddenly found herself back together, glistening and newborn and beautiful, renewed and remade by the Serpents of the High Magic, which still encircled her glowing form like a diadem, holding the crystal of the Staff in their jaws.

“Very impressive, my dear.” Aurian spun at the sound of the dry, sardonic voice. There, in the form of a roiling black cloud shot through with bolts of crimson lightning, was the Archmage Miathan.

Having delivered the Mage to her fate, Chiamh returned to the Chamber of Winds, where he slipped back into his corporeal form. Even though his own neglected body was shivering with the night’s bitter cold, he took off his cloak and covered the still, pale form of Aurian where she lay. “I feel dreadful about this,” he told Basileus. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into it. Poor Aurian! She’s going to suffer dreadfully. Maybe I should just go back and see ...”

“No. Windeye! You were told how it must be. This is a trial that Aurian must face alone.”

“But...”

“Do you want her to fail? Because that is what will happen if you go back there and intervene. And you would intervene, my friend. Having seen the intensity of her suffering, you would not be able to help yourself. Leave it now,” Basileus added in kindly tones. “So long as she has the courage and the strength and the purity of purpose, she will survive, and emerge triumphant.”

Reluctantly, Chiamh was forced to accede to the wisdom of the Moldan, but he simply couldn’t leave the poor Mage to her fate without at least bearing witness—and there was one way he could do that, at least. As the familiar, melting coldness of his Othersight sank through his body, he turned to gather a silvery skein of wind between his fingers, and began to stretch and mould it into a silvery mirror. Then, kindling the disk to life with his Other-sight, he bent his will upon Aurian, and peered into the depths.

The Windeye cried out in horror and dismay. “This isn’t what you said! You said she could remake the Staff. Instead it’s killing her!” So intense was Chiamh’s distress that he lost control of the mirror, and it dissolved to formless mist between his fingers.

“Patience, Windeye. Let us hope Aurian will prevail. Instead of the Mage remaking the Staff, the Staff is remaking her. I did warn you—you should not have watched.”

Too distraught to form another mirror, Chiamh sat down beside the Mage’s still body and stroked the tangled hair away from her forehead. What have I done? he thought desperately. What have I done? Then the Windeye stopped breathing.—Beneath the cloak, bright enough to glow even through the thick woven fabric, a brilliant green light, pale and flickering at first, then growing strong and steady.

“Thanks be to the goddess . . .” Chiamh lifted the cloak gently aside. There, still clasped tightly to the Mage’s breast, was the Staff of Earth—and the great green stone between the jaws of the snakes was gleaming brighter than it had ever done before.

Forgetting to breathe, the Windeye leaned forward, expecting Aurian to open her eyes and return to him at any moment. He waited and waited—but nothing happened. The Mage made no movement, and her pale face might just as well have been carved from stone.