Harp of Winds

9 Schiannath

Ihe snow-laden wind hurtled through the narrow mountain like a river in spate, powerful, inexorable—and deadly. The pass, a strait corridor between cliffs of incredible height, was the gateway to the kingdom of the Skyfolk. At the end of the pass, a tower had been built high on a spur of rock, where in the past the Winged Folk kept a guard, A dark and tangled wood of pines below the spur provided fuel.

The wind keened shrilly around the Tower of Incondor, prying with chill claws at the solid stack of man-piled stones like a living beast, seeking to reach the puny human wawiors who had taken sanctuary within. Beyond the tower, the way opened out into a broad sweep of valley, its stark, snow-choked whiteness alleviated here and there by dark, skeletal clumps of trees bent over like worn old men by their wintry burden. Above the vale, oppressive with their looming weight, great peaks like jagged fangs shouldered one another as if jostling for the privilege of attacking the squat and sturdy building that stood bravely at their feet.

The man who hid behind a pile of tumbled boulders at the mouth of the pass spared the threatening mountains not a single glance. He was more concerned with the strangers who were sheltering within the tower. In his cloak of silvery wolfskins he was camouflaged against the snow-and-shadow backdrop, as was his horse, Iscalda, the white mare who stood patiently at his shoulder, showing less movement than the whirling snow that piled in drifts around her feet, Schiannath stared at the tower, silhouetted on its wooded mound, and cursed bitterly. Of all the vile, unbelievable, impossibly bad luck! The abandoned building was the best of his refuges, the only one in which he and Iscalda could shelter in any degree of comfort from this deadly, preternatural winter. His other lairs, discovered in months of wandering these inhospitable mountains, were either dense woodland thickets or caves: the former were pathetically inadequate in this bitter weather, and the latter were damp and drafty, tending to fill with choking and conspicuous smoke if he lit a fire. He and Iscalda had made a long, perilous journey to this place in the teeth of the storm and had arrived here wet, frozen, and unutterably weary—only to find the tower already occupied!

Once more, Schiannath cursed the interlopers—whoever they were. And who could they be? The Xandim never came so far south. These lands were quite outside their province—which was why he was here, The outlaw flinched from the memory of his trial and exile, when the bumbling, half-blind young Windeye had uttered the spells that erased his name from the wind—and from the memory of the tribe. He bit his lip to keep from crying his shame and agony aloud. Oh Goddess, why did I do it? he thought wretchedly. Why was it so important to me, to be Herdlord?

How had it come about? Why had he always been the outcast: solitary among a people where the tribe was all; secretive among folk who shared everything? Time and again, the sharpness of his wits had got him into trouble. He was cleverer than the lot of them, and they hated him for it. Well, a plague on them all! Curse his mother, for leaving him in the coastal settlement with his father when they parted, while she kept the children of her other mates with her in the hills! If not for that, Schiannath would have grown up with his brethren in the tribe. But when he a come to the Fastness after his father’s death, he had never been able to settle, clashing with the Herdlord again and again over his wild, undisciplined behavior, until it had seemed that the only way to be free of Phalihas and his tiresome rules and restrictions lay in becoming Herdlord himself. Only his sister Iscalda had cared about him, had tried her best to dissuade him from his folly—and, when that had failed, had insisted on sharing his exile,

Grief pierced Schiannath’s heart like a knife. The Xandim had no death sentence for their own; that fate was reserved for foreigners and spies. Instead, they haddone worse—they had taken his name, and driven him out with curses and stones. For defying Phalihas, Iscalda had been transformed into her Othershape of a white mare and locked forever in that state by the Windeye. Now, she was no better than a normal horse, with the needs, the instincts—and the mind—of a beast.

His throat tight with unshed tears, the outlaw glanced over his shoulder at the white mare, wishing that he could find surcease from his painful memories. There had been times, in his despair, when he had thought of ending it for both of them—with his blade, perhaps, or simply by riding Iscalda over a precipice, But he had never found the courage, There had always remained that tiny, unquenchable hope in the depths of his soul that one day he would somehow find the means to change her back . . .

The mare made a low chuckling sound deep in her throat and dropped her nose into his palm, lipping gently at his fingers, Schiannath sighed, “I know, Iscalda, I’m hungry too. Come, it’s time to go.” He had another lair nearby, a small cave set high in the towering walls of the pass. It would be cramped and uncomfortable, but he had left a small store of food there for emergencies, and dried grasses for Iscalda that he had harvested from the valley during the long-gone days of milder weather.

Schiannath glanced up at the windowless tower for one last time, scowling at the thread of smoke that trickled from the crumbling flue. Curse them! Who were these folk? Why were they here? He hesitated. If they were not Xandim, then they could not know he was an outlaw! If he claimed to be a strayed traveler, they would surely take him in! Hope, painful in its intensity, swelled in Shiannath’s heart. After months spent with only Iscalda for company, the sudden hunger for people, for kind faces and the sound of human voices and laughter, overwhelmed him in a flood of desperate longing. His lean, weather-beaten face creased into its first smile in months, as he took hold of the mare’s bridle, and began to step out of his hiding place . . .

A new sound drove him swiftly back, like a hunted animal into its lair. With the sharp-honed senses of a wild creature, he heard on the wind the sound of wings, drumming through the valley toward the pass. Schiannath huddled behind the boulders, the mare tucked in behind him. He was shivering, and not from the cold. Had he become a Windeye, that the storm’s tidings brought such dread foreboding? Then, as he peered up beyond the stark limbs of the tower’s encircling trees, the outlaw saw winged figures dropping from the sky. He caught his breath in horror. By the Fields of Paradise, what were those abominations doing here?

Then to Schiannath’s astonishment, a group of human warriors—who must have been well concealed to have escaped his careful observation—had left the pine-wood at the sound, and came briefly within his sight as they fanned out toward the tower. Schiannath heard a mutter of voices in a harsh, uncouth tongue, and stiffened with rage. Accursed Khazalim! What were they doing here? With a muttered oath, he shrank back behind the rocks as the Skyfolk hovered over the copse, then dropped out of sight amid its branches.

Common sense warned the outlaw it was time to leave. If the invaders sent out scouts . . . Yet he lingered, drawn by curiosity and the irresistible urge to be near humans—any humans—again. Iscalda would warn him of approaching danger, and with his knowledge of the surrounding terrain, it should be easy to elude pursuit in the flurrying snow. So he stayed, and watched as the winged warriors soared up to land on the roof of the tower, as the Khazalim scum who seemed to be in league with them assailed the door. It was an ambush! Whoever might be within the tower, Schiannath found himself moved to pity for the poor wretches.

Yazour awakened abruptly, disturbed from his sleep by some faint, unplaceable sound. He opened his eyes, and glanced around a strangely depleted chamber. Shia was stretched out, catlike, in the warmest place beside the fire. Bohan lay nearby, his head pillowed on the hearth, and Nereni and Eliizar were curled in a tangled nest of blankets. But where were the others? He tensed in alarm, until a murmur of voices from the floor above him told him the whereabouts of Aurian and Anvar. Yazour smiled. They were making the most of the opportunity to be alone, and who could blame them? That only left Raven—but why should she be missing? He was rousing himself to go and investigate as the door of the tower flew open, and Harihn’s men burst into the room.

Yazour sprang to his feet and drew his sword. “Foes,” he roared. “Awake!” His heart clenched with the anguish of betrayal as he recognized each familiar face. Before he left the prince’s service, these had been the loyal troops that were his to command. Now he was their enemy. Yazour felt sick at heart. If Harihn was his captor, he could expect no mercy from the Prince. Then his foes were upon him, and there was no time for further thought.

Shia leapt up with a snarl as the door burst open. The first two men had fallen to her claws before Yazour had drawn his sword, and then her companions were beside her, defending each other against the overwhelming numbers. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eliizar go down, and moved back to defend him—but Bohan was already there, fighting with the strength of three. Nereni, shrieking, darted in to help her husband, and in a moment Eliizar was up again, fighting one-handed with the other clasped to his bleeding side, while Nereni, veiling angry curses, was flinging burning brands from the fire into the knot of Harihn’s men who were still forcing their way in at the door. The great cat clawed out right and left, with a deadly economy of motion, inflicting dreadful injury on her foes—but there were so many of them! Despairing, she glanced back toward the stairs. Where were Aurian and Anvar? Why had the Mages not come to help? Linking with Aurian, she saw the scene upstairs through her friend’s eyes. Winged Folk, Aurian and Anvar captured! A bolt of fear streaked through Shia for the safety of her companions, She was already fighting her way toward the stairs when she heard Aurian’s voice in her mind, telling her to run.

“Have you lost your mind? I’m not leaving you!”

“You must! If we lose the Staff, there will be no hope for any of us! Shia, please!”

Shia snarled with frustration. Abandoning the fight with reluctance, she leapt toward the shadowy corner by the chimney breast, where stood the Staff of Earth. The great cat tensed herself, to close her jaws on the hated magical object, then: “I have it! I go!” Although she was hampered by the long, unwieldy object that was clutched between her teeth, she was determined to wreak as much destruction as she could manage, on her way to the door.

When Shia, with the Staff clenched in her jaws, erupted into action, Yazour moved with the speed of pure instinct to take advantage of the confusion. They were badly outnumbered here—it made sense to have as many of the companions as possible free, and on the outside.

Swinging wildly, he hacked his way out behind the great cat, caring nothing, in his desperation to escape, that these men had once been his companions. The crowded room had erupted into chaos. Swords were flailing, and men were falling over one another to get away from the fearsome teeth and claws of the great cat. The floor was slippery with blood, but Yazour, fighting for his life, gained the door at last—and charged out into the freezing night.

Cold seared his lungs with every gasping breath, and the snow was thick and treacherous underfoot, Yazour knew he’d be finished if he fell, yet dared not risk slowing his pace. Behind him, he heard a call for bowmen. Reaper, no! Wasting a breath on a curse, he faltered briefly, until the jolt of terror gave new impetus to his flying feet. He began to zigzag like a hunted hare to confuse the archers’ aim, his feet slipping on the treacherous ground with every turn. Deadly shafts peppered the snow around him, as the skin between his shoulders cringed in dread anticipation, expecting at any moment to feel the impact of an arrow.

When it came, it blocked him from his feet. Fire in his left shoulder forced a shriek from his throat, and Yazour went tumbling, over and over in the snow.

Schiannath had listened, dismayed, to the sounds of fighting within the tower, and had wished with all his heart that he could go to the aid of the strangers against the accursed Khazalim raiders and filthy Skyfolk. Luckily, common sense had prevailed. He had no idea who the victims were—why risk himself? Yet if they were fugitives, did he not have something in common with them? Some fellow feeling?

Then the night erupted in a terrifying cacophony of snarls and roars, punctuated by screams of pain and fright. Iscalda reared in terror, pulling at her reins and trying to break away from him. Engaged in quieting the mare before they were discovered, he had failed to see Shia bolt out or the tower and vanish into the wood. What he did see, when he turned his attention back to the fight, was a man fleeing in a staggering, zigzag half-run, downhill toward the pass. Even as the outlaw watched, a Khazalim bowman appeared in the doorway of the tower. Afraid to call out a warning and draw attention to himself, the outlaw could only watch as the bolt flew—hitting the man in the left shoulder.

The victim stumbled, driven off balance by the force of the bolt, and fell on his face in the snow. Schiannath held his breath, willing the man to get back on his feet. The bowman took aim once more, his fallen prey an easy target. The man staggered upright—the bolt flew—and swerved wide of its target as the long shaft loosed by Schiannath entered the bowman’s eye with swift precision and pierced his brain.

Schiannath fell back with a curse, his hand slippery on the shaft of his bow. What had possessed him? This was not his fight! But only when the victim made for the pass and staggered almost within touching distance, did the outlaw realize the gravity of his error. The fugitive was Khazalim too! Schiannath let fall the hand he was extending to help the man and melted into the shadows, letting him pass. Let the storm and the wolves take care of the wretch. Let the accursed Southerners track their fugitive, and let him lead the bastards far away from himself!

Aurian heard the scuff of feet on stone steps, and one of Harihn’s men entered the upper chamber, bowing to the Prince who had Miathan’s burning eyes. “The tower is secured, Sire, and the Princess is in the hands of the Winged Priest. The others are in the dungeon, but the cat escaped, alas, as did the traitor Yazour. I could swear that one of our bowmen winged him as he fled, but we lost him in the storm.”

“No matter. He will not survive out there for long!” The Prince shrugged, dismissing the man with” a curt nod. Picking his careful way across the bodies of the fallen, he crossed the room to face Anvar, his face contorted once again with Miathan’s feral, pitiless expression. “Now, half-breed,” he snarled, “at last I have the chance to rid you of your miserable life! But we need not hurry—I want Aurian to appreciate every lingering moment of your agony!”

Miathan wrenched Harihn’s knife from its sheath and stooped to thrust it into embers of the fire until the tip glowed red. Removing the blade, he held it close to Anvar’s face. Anvar shrank back, white with horror, unable to take his eyes from the searing metal. Sweat streaked his face, catching the crimson glow as though his skin were already smeared with blood. With a swift, swooping movement, Miathan pressed the knife against his cheek, and Anvar screamed horribly, thrashing in the grip of his guards.

“Miathan, stop!” Aurian shrieked.

“Ah, so you recognize me!” With a triumphant smile, the Archmage removed the knife, and Anvar, limp in his captors’ grasp, raised his head to look at her.

A livid burn scarred his cheek, and his face was contorted with pain as he spoke to her through gritted teeth. “Don’t watch,” he grated. “Don’t . . . give him the satisfaction.”

“Oh Gods,” Aurian whispered, her grief a physical agony as though she shared the pain of Anvar’s burning. The Archmage put the knife back into the fire, watching her with a calculating expression, mocking her tears. He seized Anvar’s hair, pulling his head back, holding the knife a hairbreadth from his flinching face. “Now comes the first of many reckonings, Aurian. Do you remember burning out my eyes, so long ago? Did you enjoy your petty triumph? Now I intend to pay you back for that—an eye for an eye! But not your pretty eyes, my dear. Let Aiwar suffer in your stead!” His hand tightened on the knife hilt, poised to strike at Anvar’s unprotected face.

“Leave him alone!” Aurian raged, struggling to escape, but her guards hurled her down with insolent strength. She fought wildly, and with a curse, one of them twisted her bound arms up behind her back until she screamed with pain.

“Stop!” Miathan dropped the knife, sweeping across the room to thrust the man angrily aside. “She is not to be harmed!”

To Aurian’s relief, the pain in her arms subsided, allowing her to breathe again, and more importantly, to think. She knew she had very little time in which to save Anvar—and very little choice about the means she could employ, no matter how repugnant the terms of the bargain would seem to her. She struggled to her knees, looking up at the possessed form of Harihn and trying to quell the hatred that flared within her at the sight of Miathan’s expression on his handsome face. “Miathan!” she begged. “Don’t hurt Anvar—it’s me you want. If you leave him alone, I’ll do anything you want—I swear it.”

The Archmage twisted Harihn’s face into a sneer of contempt, his eyes full of wry amusement. A chill went through Aurian, as she realized just how great was his hold over her. “Indeed?” he mocked. “Whatever I desire, I can take, including Anvar’s life—and you! But I intend to possess more than your body.” He dropped his voice to silken, caressing tones, and the Mage felt her guts twist with loathing. “I require your support and power to further my plans. Put that power at my disposal, and I will spare Anvar’s life. Indeed, the wretch will be most useful as a hostage to ensure your loyalty, my dear.”

The horrific implications of Miathan’s words cut through Anvar’s haze of pain. “No,” he shouted desperately.

“Aurian—don’t do this! Don’t put yourself in his power!”

“Silence him!” Miathan snapped, and one of the guards delivered a sharp blow beneath Anvar’s ribs that drove the breath from his body. While he fought, in agony, for air, the Archmage turned back to Aurian. “Well? Do you agree?”

Bleak-faced, Aurian nodded. “I have no choice,” she whispered. “Just don’t hurt him any more.”

Miathan smiled. “Very sensible,” he purred. “The half-breed will ensure your loyalty until the child is born, for it is too late to rid you of it now without endangering your life.” Miathan chuckled—a chilling sound that reminded Anvar of the Death-Wraith that had killed Forral. “More to the point, however,” he went on, “Anvar will act as a hostage for your continued obedience once I’ve put an end to the brat—for when you see it, you will beg me to put it out of its misery! You see, your child is cursed, Aurian—I cursed it myself, long ago, using the power of the Caldron. You carry a monster within you!”

Anvar saw the blood drain from Aurian’s face. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. “You bastard, Miathan!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you for this, I swear it!”

The Archmage laughed again. “Swear away, Anvar—you’re in no position to threaten me! You are in my power, and you will help me to manipulate this renegade slut! My problem lay in making her use her powers for my benefit, once I had killed her child. Now it will be easy—since she has obviously transferred her allegiance from that oaf of a swordsman to you.” Miathan snickered crudely. “It must be the Mortal stain on your ancestry—she could never resist defiling herself with your sort!”

Anvar’s mind went blank with horror at the simple cruelty of Miathan’s plan. His eyes went to Aurian, and he saw the sick dismay on her face. Not her child—her last, precious link with Forral! He couldn’t let this happen—and at least he could spare her the agony of choosing! He had provided Miathan with a hold over her, but if he should die, that hold would cease. Aurian, once her powers were restored, might be able to protect the child after it had been born. Through his mounting terror, he felt relief, and a dawning hope. His own life might be forfeit, but it would be well spent, if Aurian and her child might have a chance!

Anvar made his decision. It was no good attacking Miathan—he would only destroy Harihn’s body, and the Archmage was too close to Aurian. The backlash of the spell could kill her. But he had one other, desperate option . . . Miathan’s attention was locked on Aurian . . . Anvar’s expression turned grim as slowly, surreptitiously, he began to gather his powers for the last time.

He felt his eyes beginning to flare with a dark and muted glow from the mounting energies within him, as he turned his magic inward, upon himself, to his own destruction. Searing heat swept through him—his heart began to race and labor as his bubbling lungs clamored for breath. He felt his organs, his senses, falter and start to fail . . . His vision was clouding with a red haze from the destructive power of the pent-up forces he had summoned. Unable to resist, he sought Aurian’s eyes before it was too late, trying to tell her, in a final, appealing glance, that he was sorry—and that he loved her.

It proved his undoing. Through misted vision, he saw her eyes widen with sudden understanding—and horror.

“Anvar, no!” she shrieked. Miathan, alerted by her frantic cry, spun round with a curse. In a swift, brutal blow, his fist crashed into Anvar’s face. Shock and pain ripped through the Mage, dissipating the power he had gathered so carefully. As he slumped against his captors, half stunned and spitting blood, he was dimly aware that his body was stabilizing, returning to normal. With a sinking heart, he realized that he had lost his chance. Oh Aurian, he thought despairingly, why did you stop me?

Miathan was berating the guards, spitting with rage. “You fools! I told you to watch him!”

Anvar felt the grip of his warders tighten, their fingers bruising his bound arms. Using the pain as a focus, he wrenched his slipping consciousness back to the room, through the sheer force of his Mage’s will.

The Archmage had turned his anger on Aurian. “So much for that!” he snapped. “What use will he be as a hostage, if the fool kills himself at the first opportunity?” Then he brought himself swiftly under control, the cruelty of his expression distorting Harihn’s handsome face. “It seems, my dear, that I must impose a further condition on our agreement. You know that my powers will not transfer to this Mortal body. You have no magic until your brat is born, and that makes us even—but Anvar will always be a risk to me that must be dealt with. Therefore, when your own magic returns, Aurian, you will remove his powers, as I removed them once before.”

Aurian’s face twisted with anguish as she fought against overwhelming tears. Never had Anvar seen her look so cowed. “Very well ...” she whispered. “If that’s the only way to save him—”

“No!” In a flash of panic, Anvar recalled the time, long ago in his youth, when Miathan had torn away the power that he had not even known he possessed—remembered the agony, the despair, the dread sense of utter helplessness. It couldn’t happen again—he would rather die!

Then he caught the obdurate glint in Aurian’s eye, and cursed himself for a fool. Of course she would never do such a thing! But distracted by pain and fear, he had been slow to realize that she was engaged in a desperate gamble, playing for time to save them both. For a moment, Anvar’s pain vanished in a glow of love and pride. Despite the appalling shock of the news about her child, she had kept her head! He prayed that Miathan would be deceived . . .

“What are your plans for us, Miathan?” Aurian asked in a dull, hopeless voice, and Anvar knew she was trying to draw the Archmage’s attention away from him.

Harihn’s dark eyes glittered. “Anvar will be imprisoned elsewhere, as a surety for your cooperation. I hope he knows better than to try any further tricks to end his own life, for if he should succeed, I intend to make you pay for his folly in ways that neither of you could even begin to imagine.”

Anvar shuddered. Miathan could have thought of no better way to ensure his compliance.

“As for you,” the Archmage continued, “you will be shipped back to Nexis once your child is born—and disposed of. Once there, you will surrender to me—or see Anvar dismembered before your eyes!” Swiftly he bore down on Aurian, grasping the front of her robe and ripping it apart. Naked lust leered from Harihn’s borrowed features, and one of the guards snickered.

“I can’t think why you want her, Anvar,” Miathan taunted, “ugly and swollen as she is with another’s brat! Personally, I prefer to wait until she is in better condition before I use her! Though perhaps I may give her back to you afterward—if you still want her!” He paused in calculated reflection. “Still, why should you not? You can have no objection to used goods. You were not too proud to pick up Forral’s leavings!”

Anvar’s heart burned at the sight of Aurian kneeling there, stricken and shamed. Fighting back tears of rage, he glared coldly at Miathan. “There speaks jealousy,” he sneered. “She was too proud to take you, was she not? Do your worst—you’ll never defile this Lady, who is far beyond the reach of such as you. Used goods? You deceive yourself! If you take from Aurian what she would never give you freely, then the shame is on you, not her. You may take her body, but you can never sully her brave spirit or touch her heart. No matter what you do, you’ve already lost!”

The Archmage stood as if turned to stone by Anvar’s words, but they restored Aurian’s tattered courage. Turning away from Miathan, she lifted her chin proudly and spoke directly to Anvar, as though they were alone in the room.

“My love,” she said softly. “As long as I have you, I have hope.”

Anvar looked at her, his heart in his eyes, “You’ll always have me—I promise.”

Miathan spat out a vile curse, and gestured to the guards. One of them drew his sword, and clubbed Anvar hard with the hilt. Without a sound, he crumpled to the floor as his captors loosed their grip,

“You said he wouldn’t be harmed!” Aurian cried.

“Did I?” Harihn’s face was disfigured by Miathan’s ugly scowl, and Aurian saw jealousy burning livid behind his eyes.

“I remember no such promise. Anvar’s continuing good health depends entirely on your future conduct toward me!”

He leered into her face, caressing her body. Though his attentions sickened her, Aurian bore them without flinching, concentrating instead on Anvar’s words.

Cheated of his sport, Miathan ceased his torment, and with a snarl of rage, struck her until she sobbed with pain.

“When I return, I expect to find you in a more accommodating mood—for Anvar’s sake,” he snapped, and stalked out, followed by his men who dragged Anvar’s unconscious body away. Aurian’s guards threw her down, bound as she was, and left her lying on the cold hearth with its dying fire, alone in her despair.

Yazour staggered through the pass, weak and faint from his wounds, buffeted mercilessly by wind and driving snow, and no longer even certain that he was still heading away from the tower, Blood streamed from the bolt that pierced his left shoulder, but amazingly, the pain had been numbed away from his wound, and from the tender bruise on his skull, and the sword cut in his thigh that he had received, almost without noticing, in the heat of his fight to escape. Blessed snow!. Kindly snow, to take away his pain!

What am I doing out here in the snow? Why can I not remember? he wondered. It seemed to Yazour that was something he should be remembering . , . Some danger , , . Was he not running away from something or someone? But why worry? The wonderful snow would take care of him. It lay all around him, like a thick, soft blanket. It would hide him, as his blankets had hidden him in his childhood, when nightmare-demons had threatened from die darkened corners of his room. Of course! That was the answer! That was why he couldn’t remember! He needed to rest! He would hide here, and rest in the soft warm snow . , , Dropping to his knees, the wounded warrior pitched forward, giving himself gratefully to darkness, and winter’s deadly embrace.

Miathan swept downstairs, enjoying the disciplined vigor of the Prince’s youthful body. He smiled to himself, putting Anvar’s disquieting words out of his mind. It would not be long now, before Aurian was rid of the monster she carried—then he would have her, with this wonderful new body that promised such pleasure , , ,

When the Archmage reached the lower chamber, even the scenes of carnage that awaited him did nothing to damp his spirits, though buried far down at the back of his controlling mind, he felt a faint stir of protest from Harihn. The great cat, it seemed, had proved a formidable opponent. The room resembled a battlefield, its floor awash with blood and entrails. Men were dragging bodies out of the door, or tending groaning wounded. Miathan shrugged. So long as enough remained to guard his prisoners, the ills of these Mortals were none of his concern.

Blacktalon approached with a rustle of wings, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight, his hooded eyes bright with satisfaction. “It went well,” he said. “The Princess has already been taken to Aerillia.” He smiled. “When I felt the touch of your mind that first night, it turned out to be a most auspicious meeting—for both of us.”

“Indeed,” Miathan replied brusquely, thinking that when he turned to the conquest of the south, he would have to find a way to eliminate his new ally. In a struggle for power, Blacktalon could turn into a dangerous opponent. However, in the meantime . . . “I need a favor, Blacktalon,” he said. “Will you take this wretch to Aerillia, and guard him?” He gestured toward Anvar. “He is to be a hostage.”

Blacktalon shrugged. “Of course. The Winged Folk will keep him safe for you.”

“Listen, High Priest.” Miathan held the other’s eyes in an icy stare. “I must emphasize the risk—and responsibility—involved in guarding this renegade. Anvar is a sorcerer. He may be able to escape as easily as . . .”

“Be easy, my friend,” Blacktalon interrupted. “I have studied ancient records of this sorcery of yours, and precautions will be taken. There is a cave in our mountainside, set in sheer rock with a thousand-foot drop beneath. Believe me, it can only be reached by Winged Folk.” He laughed harshly. “Unless his powers of sorcery extend to flight, he’ll be safe enough. Food can be lowered from above, and none of my people need go near him.”

Miathan smiled, betraying his keen sense of relief. “I chose well, in selecting you as an ally,” he said. “You will take the best possible care of my prisoner, will you not? Remember, I need him alive—for now.”