Harp of Winds

1 Between the Worlds ...

That temeritous swordsman!” growled Death. He was aware of all that went on in his domain, and could have stopped what was happening, had he wished—but instead he leaned upon his staff, and with a wry and rueful smile that was not untinged with respect, he settled down to watch the efforts of the brave and stubborn spirit that was trying to escape him—yet again.

The Door Between the Worlds was ancient; its weathered wood as gray and heavy as stone, the timeworn carvings on its panels obscured by the weight of years. With a grimace, Forral touched the splintered gashes that scarred the beauty of the complex, twining patterns—his own handiwork, from the first time he had tried to pass this way. Embittered by his murder, enraged by the unguarded folly that had led to his own untimely death, and frantic with fear for Aurian’s safety, he’d been in no mood for obstacles. No matter that it was forbidden for the Dead to return to the Living—all he had cared about was his Mageborn love, and her unborn child—their unborn child.

Again and again, the swordsman’s blade (Forral wondered why he had suddenly found a sword in his hand when he needed one) had hacked at this door in a frenzy of rage and grief until, shade though he was, he had become weak with exhaustion. Only then, as he leaned against the cold gray wood and wept for Aurian, had he found the answer. Where no amount of violence would open Death’s portal, love—if that love was strong enough, could take him through. The door swung open to Forral’s touch, at the sound of Aurian’s name. He stepped through into a shining veil of mist that obscured his vision and, by good fortune, concealed him within its silvery shroud. Although he’d learned how to pass this way, it did not mean that he was permitted to do so. The swordsman shrugged. As if that could keep him from Aurian. He remembered the last time he’d seen her, in the City of the Dragons. She had been so sad and weary, with tear-tracks smudging the dirt on her haggard face and her belly rounding with child beneath her tattered desert robes. Tears came into Forral’s eyes at the memory. It had torn his heart to be unable to hold her, to comfort her, to make everything right for her again. Instead, he’d done the only thing he could—he had shown her how to find the Staff of Earth. Death, the ruler of this eerie realm, had been livid at his interference.

As the swordsman reached the end of the overgrown track that led beyond the door, the fog dropped away to become a silken film, ankle-deep, where the path opened out into the valley. Praying that he was unobserved, Forral strode the familiar way between rounded hills under a starry sky, with ground mist roiling around his boots at every step. Sometimes, the way to the Well of Souls seemed short, but at other times, it seemed to take forever . . .

“Forral—stop, I command you.”

The swordsman jumped guiltily, and swore. The hooded figure had appeared out of nowhere—a stooped old man it seemed; gray-cloaked, and leaning on a staff. He bore an intricate lantern that cast a single, silvery beam. As apparitions go, this one seemed fairly harmless—but Forral blew better. “Let me pass!” His hand went to his sword.

“You think to use a sword on me?” Death chuckled, the rusty, wheezing sound emerging from the sinister depths of his hood. His hollow, sibilant voice sent like corpse-fingers crawling down Forral’s spine. “Forral, will you never learn? No matter how you try, you cannot go back! What good does it do to haunt her? That one can manage quite well on her own—believe me” The wry voice became soft, cajoling, “Give it up, for everyone’s sake. You are not permitted to linger here, Between the Worlds. Go back where you belong, and consent to be reborn. That is the only way in which you can return to Aurian.”

“Liar!” Forral spat, reckless now beyond all measure, “You only want rid of me! How will rebirth get me back to Aurian? I wouldn’t remember her, and she won’t recognize me What use would I be to her as a squalling brat?”

“Ah ...” Death’s voice was soft and cunning. “An infant yes, but which infant? Have you thought of the Life that Aurian bears beneath her heart? What if—”

“What?” Forral bellowed. “That’s obscene”

“Consider,” Death purred. “In a brief span of Mortal time, you could be back in her arms, loving and loved . . . And perhaps, eventually, you might remember who once you were. Sometimes the memories slip through ...”

For an instant, Forral was tempted. He was so desperate to return to Aurian . . . Then he thought about the torment that would be his if he did remember. “Never,” he snarled. “I’ve been a father to that lass, and I’ve been her lover—I’m damned if I’ll be her son after that”

To his acute irritation, Forral caught the flash of a smile, deep within the shadows of Death’s hood. “Enough, my belligerent friend—you pass the test.”

“Test?” The swordsman scowled. “What test? Just what the thundering blazes are you playing at?”

Forral gulped, backing away hastily as the Specter suddenly grew, blotting out the stars as it loomed over him, dark with menace. “Forral,” the chill voice hissed, “it makes a refreshing change to deal with a Mortal who has no fear of me, and for that reason I indulge your courage—but never forget, for an instant, who I am”

Forral breathed again, as the Specter dwindled back to human dimensions. “But never believe that Death is not merciful,” it said softly. “You and Aurian, and your friend Anvar, form part of a pattern that is yet to be resolved. Each of you have met me now, and been tested. Believe me, there is hope for you all.”

This was beyond Forral, and he was tired of being toyed with. “If you’ve finished,” he growled, “just get out of my way.” He took a deep breath. “Please,” he begged, “I must see Aurian!”

Death sighed. “Still you insist. Very well—but you have been warned. See her you may, but I will not permit you to interfere again!”

The ancient grove loomed dark on the shadowy hilltop, shrouding the secrets of its hidden heart. Forral strode forward confidently, knowing his love for Aurian would also cleave a path into this place, as it had opened the door Between the Worlds. Death pushed him aside—a loathsome touch that was no touch, like the gruesome lack of feeling in a scar. It made the swordsman quake to the depths of his soul. “Allow me,” the Specter said with mock politeness. “The trees dislike you, Forral—your presence defiles their hallowed shade, and your unruly haste upsets them.”

Turning toward the grove, the Specter bowed low, three times, and the trees moved silently aside to form a path. Forral, stepping in Death’s footprints, could discern, almost beyond the range of his hearing, the rustling murmur of their anger as he passed beneath the arching boughs. Clutching the memory of Aurian to his heart like a shield, the swordsman told himself he was not afraid.

The pool at the heart of the grove was just as Forral remembered it. Cupped in its hollow of soft, mounded moss, it lay silent; still and solemn in its awesome power; all the worlds of the Mortal Universe in its starry depths. The swordsman thrust forward impatiently—he had learned, long ago, that by touching the waters of the Well of Souls, he could send his shade into Aurian’s world.

“Wait!” The Specter’s voice was harsh. “Before you approach the Well, I tell you once more—you may only observe. You may not go back, and you may not interfere! And if what you see in those waters brings you anguish—well, you were warned!”

“All right!” Forral growled. Kneeling on the mossy brink, he looked into the dark waters—and flinched, as always, as the starry Universe spun out at him from the obsidian depths. But he had the way of it now. Aurian, he thought, yearning. Aurian, my love . . . Though he remained firmly on the bank, the swordsman felt as though he were falling. Falling endlessly between the endless stars . . . Then the waters cleared; became a mirror—no—a picture that moved and lived. Forral saw places, people, hours, days—all compressed into a timeless whirl, in a world that was heartbreaking in its sweet familiarity.

Bohan waited as he had waited for days, stubbornly keeping vigil on the ridge at the edge of the desert. He was not alone, though—his companions made sure of that. One of the others was always with him—one-eyed Eliizar, once the swordmaster of the Arena; or Yazour, the courageous young warrior who had fled his Prince’s service to join Aurian’s odd little band. Always, always, they had guarded the eunuch as he watched the empty sands; never leaving him alone. Bohan was tormented by guilt at having let them lull him into leaving his Lady’s side, and now he was unable to return for her—because they wouldn’t let him.

Bohan’s thoughts were bitter. They all assumed that because he was mute, he was also stupid. Everyone, that is, except his beloved Aurian. Her kindness had won his devotion—but he had left her in the desert to die, together with his friends Anvar and black, flame-eyed Shia, the great cat with an intelligence that was more than human. Though Eliizar had been forced to knock the eunuch unconscious to get him away from the Mages, Bohan still blamed himself. He had abandoned his Lady—and now, after the first lethal sandstorm had ravaged the desert, he was forced to face the truth. Aurian was dead; her breath choked off by the suffocating sands; her eyes and skin eaten away; her bones flayed bare by the knife-edged particles of gem dust.

For a long time, Bohan had clung to hope—against all evidence, against all sense. Hope had prevented him, over the last few days, from simply setting out into the desert and defying the others to use their weapons on him. He had always believed that Aurian would win through in spite of everything—that at any time, she would appear over the dazzling horizon of glittering dunes. That was why he had succumbed to the reasoning of the others. I must be stupid, after all, the eunuch thought. I let them persuade me: Yazour, Eliizar, and Nereni, with their cunning words:

“If she comes, she comes, Bohan. Nothing we can do now will help or hinder that.”

“If anyone can come through this, she and Anvar will.”

“The last thing Aurian would want is for you to throw your life away.”

And now it was too late. Hiding his face in his hands, Bohan choked on a soundless sob, and tears drenched the gauzy veils that covered his eyes to protect them from the desert’s blinding glare.

A hand, gentle in sympathy, touched his shoulder. He looked around to see Nereni, Eliizar’s wife, and her voice, when she spoke, was muffled with tears of her own. “Come away, Bohan, it does no good to linger here. Eliizar says—”

Suddenly she drew a sharp breath, and the eunuch felt her hand tighten on his shoulder. “Bohan, wait! They come! They come!

The first one to reach the eunuch was the great cat Shia, with whom he had formed such a mysterious bond. She threw herself at him, purring ecstatically, and despite his great strength, Bohan was hurled to the ground by her massive weight. But when he heard Aurian call his name, the eunuch could wait no longer. Untangling himself from his boisterous reunion with Shia, he hurled himself over the brow of the rise and plunged down through the steep cutting toward the flat expanse of the Jeweled Desert, kicking up clouds of glittering gem dust as he ran.

Aurian staggered toward him, helped along by her fellow Mage Anvar. She was clearly exhausted; her blood-streaked skin was smeared with gleaming gem dust, and her robe was a tattered rag. With tears streaming down his face the eunuch swept her up in a crushing embrace, wishing desperately that he could tell her that he had not wanted to abandon her in the desert; that Eliizar and Yazour had made him leave. He wanted to tell her how he had fretted and grieved for her, and, once the sandstorm had blown up, had despaired of ever seeing her again. Instead, all he could do was embrace her, putting all his heart into his eyes.

“Let me breathe!” Aurian gasped. She was laughing and crying all at once, and her face was radiant with joy. “Oh, my dear, dear Bohan, I’m so glad to see you!”

“And he is glad to see you.” Yazour approached on noiseless feet, his voice, as always, soft-spoken and low. His handsome face was disfigured by a swollen eye that had darkened to lurid purple, but he was grinning happily. “You have no notion of the time he’s given us since we last saw you, Lady,” he went on. “We had to knock him senseless to get him to leave you, and Eliizar and I have been forced to guard him ever since to stop him from going back in search of you. When the storm came, we could barely restrain him—he went completely wild.” The young warrior touched his blackened eye and gave a rueful shrug. “What a blessing you arrived when you did. I think he knocked out all of Eliizar’s teeth!”

“Not all—just some of them,” Eliizar muttered through swollen lips. “And I can spare them in a good cause!”

“It’s a good thing Yazour got the bruised eye, and not you,” Anvar teased him. “You couldn’t spare another!” Eliizar turned to pound the tall, blue-eyed Mage on the shoulder. “By the Reaper, Anvar, I’d have given my eye to see you both alive and safe after that storm! What did I say?” he added in baffled tones, as his companions collapsed into gales of laughter.

“What could you see without your eye, old fool?” Nereni told her husband with a fond chuckle. “Come, Eliizar—save this chattering until Aurian and Anvar are safe in our camp.” She turned to the Mages. “Come, my dears—you need a bath, and a rest, and a good hot meal . . .”

The eunuch gathered Aurian into his arms and carried her up the sandy bank, with Nereni’s good-natured duckings following him every step of the way. Yazour and Eliizar, still grinning, helped the weary Anvar climb the steep incline. Bohan had to step carefully to keep from tripping with his precious burden, for Shia, who had befriended him when she and Aurian had escaped the Arena in the Khazalim city of Taibeth, was weaving her sinuous black body back and forth around his legs as he went, rubbing against him and purring with pleasure at seeing him again. At the top of the rise was a narrow ridge, overgrown with low thornbushes and fat-leaved succulents, and dotted with scrubby, wind-twisted pines that had managed to survive the tearing blasts of the desert’s lethal sandstorms. At the far side of the rise the land dropped down again; and here, cradled in the arms of a long valley that swelled up on its further slopes to meet the foothills of the mountains, a dense forest arose like a vast green cloud. Cradling Aurian gently in his great arms as though she might break, the eunuch crossed the plateau, bearing the weary Mage along the rough path that had been hacked through the thornbushes. Then stooping low to avoid the vault of overhanging branches, he plunged downhill and into the forest itself.

Because of its tenuous foothold at the edge of the desert, the forest had the tough, spare, weather-beaten look of a true survivor. The trees were cypress and pine; gaunt and darkly forbidding, but welcome after the harsh, arid Khazalim lands—and an unexpected blessing had brightened their grim and ancient gloom. Snow melt from the dreadful winter that had locked the mountains had threaded the temperate foothills with lively new streams that sped down the boulder-strewn slopes to form shining pools in sheltered hollows. With this extra water, the forest had bloomed. Flowers splashed color wherever the eye fell. Drifts of misty blue and lively pink; delicate, lacelike white and clusters of yellow gold like spilled coins—blossoms abounded in all shapes and sizes, attended by an ecstatic court of butterflies and bees, and mingling their perfumes with the tingling incense of the evergreens to make every breath a new delight.

Having spent his life in the arid Khazalim lands, Bohan was entranced by the forest’s beauty. After the desert, this shaded green woodland seemed a miracle, and the eunuch smiled to himself at Aurian’s exclamations of pleasure as they went on their way. He could hardly wait to show her all the wonders of this astonishing place!

The rough camp was not far from the edge of the forest, near the banks of a newborn stream whose rushing waters had washed out the roots of a gigantic pine. The tree had fallen to lean at an angle against its companions; its branches safely anchored in those of its fellows to provide a rough, slanting shelter for the wayfarers.

“This is but a temporary camp,” Eliizar was saying, as Bohan set Aurian down beneath the sheltering tree. He knelt to kindle a fire in the nearby fireplace as he spoke. “We are too near the stream here—it is damp, and there is a risk of flooding. We thought to build sturdier shelters deeper in the forest—Yazour found a perfect clearing—but we could not move while there was a chance that you might come.” He looked up at the eunuch and smiled. “Besides, Bohan would never have permitted it!”

Nereni, already advancing upon her cooking gear in a purposeful manner, shooed her husband away from the fire.

“Will you fetch some water, Eliizar? They must be parched, poor dears, and I must tend their hurts. Now where did I pack that salve? And Yazour, I need some cuts from the deer you shot this morning—Bohan can help you fetch it—and remember to bring a haunch back for Shia. On second thought, bring two. She looks starved ...”

Forral rejoiced in Aurian’s joyous reunion with her friends. Bohan was grinning from ear to ear. Lithe Yazour, his dark hair tied back in a long tail, positively glowed with quiet happiness. Eliizar and his plump, bustling wife were beaming with delight.

The swordsman listened with satisfaction as Eliizar showed his camp to Aurian and Anvar. Here they could recover from the hardships of the desert, and, thanks to the abundant gifts of the forest, prepare themselves for the next step in their journey. Everyone had been busy—even the horses, hobbled nearby, were grazing as though their lives depended on it. Making up for their near starvation in the desert, they had spent the whole time eating, and the improvement in their condition was already visible.

Eliizar and his companions had worked together to build rough shelters of woven boughs. Nereni had harvested edible plants while Yazour and Eliizar hunted goat, wild pig, and deer. Bohan had discovered an unexpected talent for snaring rabbits. As he noted their achievements, Forral looked on with approval. He was sure that Aurian would be safe here—for the present, at least.

“And so we give the body of our brother Mage Bragar to the Fire, and his Spirit to the Gods ...” The Archmage Miathan intoned the closing words of the Death Ceremony in a rapid monotone that was utterly devoid of any respect for the late Fire-Mage, whose shriveled, scorched remains lay on the great stone altar of the rooftop temple on the Mages’ Tower in Nexis. What a waste of valuable time, Miathan thought irritably—Bragar, a stupid, shallow, overambitious bully, had done nothing to merit it ...

“And let him go forth with our prayers and blessings!” He snapped out the final words with a contemptuous curl of his lip, and raising his staff, let loose a single bolt of crimson flame. It hit the corpse with an explosive flare that seared across the cloud-dark sky over Nexis, melting the glittering network of frost that silvered the temple’s tall standing stones.

Before Bragar’s body had even begun to sizzle and smoke, Miathan was striding back toward the stairs that led down into the tower. As he passed Eliseth, who stood huddled in a furred cloak against the raw dawn chill, his glance raked the Weather-Mage, and he had the satisfaction of seeing her cringe away from him; her icy hauteur vanished along with the beauty of her formerly lovely face.

Seeing the wreck of those once-perfect features, the Archmage smiled cruelly. Using the grail fashioned from part of the Caldron of Rebirth, he had cast a spell that had reduced the Weather-Mage to a stooped and wizened crone. Eliseth had been vain of her looks—he could not have found a better way to punish her for attempting to lure Aurian to her death, by creating a vision of the Mage’s murdered lover Forral. The ruse had failed spectacularly, resulting instead in Bragar’s death.

As he passed her, Miathan saw cold hatred burning behind Eliseth’s eyes, and warned himself that she would bear watching in future. For now, she would obey—he had made sure of that—but she would not stay cowed forever. With a shrug, the Archmage went on his way, ignoring the Mage woman’s venomous look. He had much to do—the sight, in his crystal, of Aurian and Anvar emerging from the desert, had spurred him to action. They must be taken before Aurian regained her powers—and the net was tightening around the unsuspecting fugitives. His puppet, the foolish young Prince, would be meeting the winged girl in the forest beyond the desert, and Miathan planned to leave his body and travel there to control Harihn’s mind and make sure he obeyed his orders. But first, the Archmage needed to contact Blacktalon, High Priest of the Winged Folk.

Miathan regretted that Bragar’s burning would prevent him using the rooftop temple to carry out the stark, arcane ceremony that used the Death-magic of the Caldron, and permitted him to cast his mind so far abroad, It would take more than one human sacrifice to give him the power he needed to travel as far as the Winged Folk citadel of Aerillia. Still, he reflected with grim amusement, it was a bitterly cold day for working magic out of doors—and Mortals could be sacrificed anywhere, after all.

“Where in the Sky-God’s name is that accursed Archmage?” Blacktalon screamed at the unresponsive crystal.

“Answer me, you worthless stone! I demand to speak to Miathan!” Seething, he kicked the carven plinth on which the crystal lay. As the darkly glittering gem spilled from its wooden rest, he made a frantic dive to save it, but it slipped from his straining fingertips. Hitting the floor in an explosion of sparks, it shattered into fragments.

“No!” the High Priest howled. Dropping to his knees, he scrabbled at the lifeless shards, scalding the air with curses. No matter what the provocation, how could he have been so stupid as to destroy his only means of communication with his ally? Blacktalon snarled with frustration. Why did Miathan not answer? He glared at his chamber walls, as though to wrest the information from their dark, reflective surface. It was vital he speak with the Archmage. The killing winter, through which he had gained and kept his supremacy over the Skyfolk, was faltering.

Blacktalon rose, shaking out his dusty black wings as he hurried to the wide, arched casement. Maybe this time he could deny the evidence of his own eyes? But the delicate spires of the city bore dripping fringes of ice spears, and as he watched, a slab of snow slid down the roof of the Queen’s Tower to vanish with a rumble into the chasm below. Hearing voices, Blacktalon leaned out of the window to look across the city that he coveted. Winged Folk swept back and forth between the pinnacle towers, crying out in excitement as they dodged the snowslides. The sound of their joy was bile in the High Priest’s throat,

Blacktalon was too preoccupied to heed the ominous rumbling overhead. Leaning out as he was, the lump of snow from the roof caught him square between the shoulders, knocking the breath from his lungs and splattering his bald head with slimy slush. Ice slipped down the loose neck of his mantle, and slithered, melting and mocking, down between his wings where he couldn’t reach it, “By the all-seeing eyes of Yinze, I won’t stand for this!” the High Priest howled, as he danced about, trying to shake the snow out of his robe. “Where is that wretched Archmage?”

Slamming the window shut, Blacktalon cursed the loss of magic that had afflicted his race since the Cataclysm, He’d spent hours poring over the wretched gem, in a frantic attempt to stretch his mind across the miles that separated him from Miathan. His efforts had resulted in nothing but a pounding headache and the loss of his precious crystal. It would take too long to make another—and by then he might have lost his hold over the Winged Folk altogether, Blacktalon was desperate to restore the dignity of his race. Before their decline, the Skyfolk had been one of the four great races of Magefolk—the Guardians appointed by the Gods to oversee the ordering of the world. Before they had been robbed of their powers in a disastrous magical war for supremacy, his people had charge of the element of Air, Together with the human Wizards, or Earth-Mages, they cared for the birds and all creatures that were borne on the wind, In conjunction with the mighty Leviathan, or Water-Mages, the world’s weather had been under their control. The loss of this power was like a choking briar that had twined itself about the High Priest’s soul, growing greater with each passing year. The memory of his race’s former greatness was a matter for pain, not pride. In Blacktalon’s view, the Skyfolk, even in their ascendancy, had never fulfilled their true potential. “Why?” he snarled. “Why did we never have complete control of our element?” Every act of significance was shared, either with those groundling Wizards or the pathetic, softhearted Seafolk; the self-appointed conscience of the world. Blacktalon’s driven mind had never paused to consider that all Elements and their controlling forces were interdependent; all interlinking and supporting one another in the complex web of life. He was only concerned with himself, his own race—and what they had lost. In his youth, the High Priest had been more idealistic. The young Blacktalon had grown up in the sacred precincts of the peaktop Temple of Yinze, dedicated to a priestly life by unknown parents—the usual fate among the Skyfolk for an unwanted child. But Blacktalon had been different. The others, accepting their fate, had become meek, obedient little priests, but he had always wanted more. Highborn females had rejected him—and the others, less proud and particular, he despised. Ugly, gaunt, and ambitious, underestimated by his teachers and mentors, he had clawed his way to power to spite them, achieving his ends, within the Temple, by becoming too good a student to be ignored.

In truth, in his loneliness and isolation, Blacktalon aspired to the family he had lost, the security and acceptance he had been denied. Lacking knowledge of his true parents, he had fostered the best possible dream—that he was truly a bastard scion of the Royal line. Fantasies filled his head each night, in which he took control of the Winged Race and restored them to their former glory—and brought himself to the position of supremacy in the world that had always been denied him.

Then had come the writings. Put to cleaning the temple by his superiors, who were still desperately trying to instill some seeds of priestly humility in his soul, Blacktalon, more zealous than most in his ambition, had discovered the secret, hidden journal of Incondor.

It was obviously meant to be. The young, arrogant, accursed Mage, co-instigator of the dreadful events of the Cataclysm, whose very name was taboo among the Winged Folk, had left his solitary message to posterity to be discovered by Blacktalon in a dark, forbidden niche behind the altar. And nothing, in the view of the priest, happened by chance.

Incondor had been fearless, merciless in his ambition. Incondor had also been solitary and misunderstood by the lesser beings around him. Devouring the journal obsessively, night after night in his damp little cell, it was but a small step for Blacktalon to reach the obvious conclusion: that the journal had been left as a message reaching out across the centuries, left specifically for himself to find. That he, in fact, was truly Incondor—newly reborn in order that he might bring his unfulfilled dreams of power to fruition at last.

A timid rap at the door of his chamber interrupted the High Priest’s musings. With a snarl, Blacktalon flung it open so hard that it rebounded on its hinges, almost knocking his visitor off the landing platform into the depths below. The messenger jumped back hastily in a blur of white wings to avoid the plaque of snow jarred from the porch above, and hovered, wary-eyed, out of danger. Blacktalon recognized him as Cygnus, a warrior-priest of the Temple who had eschewed the Way of the Sword for the Way of Healing. The High Priest’s lip curled in a sneer of contempt—yet Cygnus was a loyal, zealous follower, and his physician’s knowledge of poisons had come in extremely useful of late.

“My Lord” the young priest gasped. “Queen Flamewing is dead”

Blacktalon’s heart leapt at the news. At last By Yinze, it had taken her long enough—but she couldn’t have chosen a better time. “I’m coming!” he snapped—but as he spoke, a muted tingle in his scalp pulled him back into the room. The High Priest turned—and gasped. On the wall opposite the window, a section of polished stone was glowing with a dim and ghostly flicker. Even as he watched, the luminescence took on depth and definition, resolving itself into the familiar, harshly carved features of the Archmage.

Blacktalon let out his breath in a sigh of relief. “I will come as soon as I can,” he told the young warrior. “In the meantime, I am not to be disturbed for any reason! Is that clear?” He slammed the door on the startled messenger, and bolted it quickly.

“Miathan, where have you been?” Blacktalon was too anxious to form the disciplined thought patterns used in mental communication. “The snow is melting!” he gabbled. “My winter is dissolving, and—”

“Shut up, Blacktalon, and listen.” The Archmage’s mental voice seemed faint and far away. He sounded very tired,

“Eliseth, my Weather-Mage, has been attacked by those renegades-—”

“She was attacked? But was she hurt? Can she restore my winter?” the High Priest insisted.

“Of course—if she knows what’s good for her!” For a moment, there was naked steel in Miathan’s voice, “I shall deal with the matter on my return. More to the point, how fares that Queen of yours?”

Blacktalon smiled. “Dead,” he purred. “The poison worked perfectly.”

“Excellent! Then you must seize power with all speed. My pawn, Prince Harihn, has duped your Princess into betraying the fugitives. She will lure them to the Tower of Incondor—a superb idea of yours, that; it’s perfect for an ambush—and if you provide the warriors you promised, we cannot possibly fail! How soon can you be ready?”

The image smiled: a self-satisfied, cruel smile that sent a shiver down Blacktalon’s spine. “Ready?” he gasped. “But the Queen has only just died! I have no time—”

“Then I suggest you hurry, Blacktalon. You’ll have sufficient time to prepare—our fugitives must make ready for a journey into the mountains, and it will take them some time to reach the Tower. Take a firm grip on your city, and leave the rest to me. Have warriors ready to carry out the ambush on my word. Oh, and Blacktalon, I have no idea what has become of your crystal, but rectify the matter as soon as possible. Communicating like this is exhausting and inefficient, and I’ve better uses for my time and energy!” With that he was gone, leaving Blacktalon staring indignantly at a blank wall.

As the awareness of his surroundings returned, the High Priest heard a sound that did much to soothe his annoyance at Miathan’s peremptory manner. Opening his window, he heard a wailing of many voices, mourning the death of Flamewing, Queen of the Skyfolk. Blacktalon allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction. Then, composing his features into a suitable expression of sorrow, he straightened decisively and went to the door. He had a great deal to do, and according to Miathan, little time in which to accomplish it all, Stepping out onto his landing platform, the High Priest spread his night-black wings and soared across the darkening void toward the tower of the Queen.

Dark. Darkness and the smell of wet horse—both had become familiar companions to Parric since he and the others had been captured by the Xandim Horselords, The Cavalrymaster cursed, but it was halfhearted. Even his endless store of profanity had run out of inspiration. He was helpless, blindfolded and bound, and to be hauled like a sack of dung on one of the legendary Xandim beasts was a dire humiliation for a horseman. He was wet through, furious, frustrated, and afraid. He could only speak with these people through Meiriel, but the Mage was stark-mad, and hated him besides. He had no way of knowing if she’d translate his words correctly—supposing these savages would give him a chance to speak!

Behind him, Parric heard the tearing sound of Elewin’s cough. The elderly steward’s illness had worsened during this grueling journey. He might not survive it, for as far as the Cavalrymaster knew, Elewin and the others were in a similar plight to himself—bound and gagged, and with their eyes tightly covered. Bereft of information, Parric fretted. Where are these bastards taking us, anyway, he thought—and how much longer will it take to get there?

The Cavalrymaster bitterly regretted his rash decision to come in search of Aurian. How could he possibly find her in these vast, hostile lands? If only he had thought to find out more about the place from Yanis, the Nightrunner leader who had befriended the rebels, and had been running an illicit trading operation with the Southerners. It had seemed a good idea, at the time, to beg a passage on one of his ships. Parric cursed again—had it not been for the gag, he would have spat. Idris, the superstitious captain who had brought them here, had been reluctant to carry a Mage, and the situation had not been improved by Meiriel’s abrasive arrogance toward the man. It made no difference that she treated all Mortals in the same way—when his ship had been crippled by storms, Idris had dumped Parric and his friends on the nearest strip of land and abandoned them without even taking the time to repair his broken mast. Gods, I’m a fool! Parric berated himself. Forral, his old commander, would have been disgusted. The Cavalrymaster had abandoned his fellow rebel Vannor to come on this fool’s errand, leaving the merchant, with no experience of warfare, in command. The Gods know what a mess he’s making of things, Parric thought ruefully. I wonder if he found the Lady Eilin? I wonder if she’ll help us? Of course she will, he comforted himself. She’s Aurian’s mother! The Archmage murdered Forral and betrayed her daughter—she’s sure to be on our side! If I could only find Aurian . . . The horse paced tirelessly on. Parric, a horseman to his soul, found some solace in the appreciation of its smooth stride. Powerful muscles moved beneath him with fluid ease, and he rubbed his cheek against a thick but silken coat. He ached to see the beast; to run his hands along sleek flanks and powerful haunches. Oh, to ride this creature—to share such generous strength. Why, this horse could outspeed the very wind! Lulled by his mount’s even paces and comforted by the warm, rough smell of horse, he dozed, and dreamed of riding the wind ...

Parric jerked awake, as the owl that had roused him gave another soul-freezing shriek. Only senses deprived of sight, as his were, could have heard the soft, rushing whisper of its wings as it ghosted away. It must still be night—it was black behind his blindfold, and he could feel a cool, damp breeze on his skin. The relentless rain had stopped at last, to his profound relief. He concentrated, using senses honed by years of scoutcraft to tell him what his eyes could not. Ah, the terrain had changed. The heady, crushed-hay fragrance of the grasslands had been replaced by the heavy musk of forest loam, and he could hear the rustling murmur of wind among branches. The body of his mount was tilted, and he could feel its muscles straining as it hauled itself up a steep, uneven path.

The soft thud of the horse’s steps was replaced by the hollow scrape of hooves on a paved surface. A murmur ran through the ranks of Parric’s captors, and the beast came to a halt. Greetings were called out, and a babble of replies in the rolling Xandim tongue. Parric did not have to know the language to hear curiosity and consternation in their tone. Dim torchlight, interspersed with passing shadows, flicked across his blindfold. Then his horse stepped forward with an irritable snort, and they were moving again, climbing laboriously up the paved road. The Cavalrymaster gathered his wits in anticipation of meeting the leaders of the Horselords. Wherever he and his companions had been taken, they had obviously arrived!