Harp of Winds

20 The Sky-God’s Temple

“Leave me alone!” They were the first words Raven had uttered since her wings had been destroyed,

Cygnus sighed impatiently, and turned away from her. For days he had remained at her bedside, talking to her, coaxing her, comforting her, trying anything to pierce the shell of desolation with which the Queen had surrounded herself. How typical that now, when he had troubles of his own, she should finally respond to his presence! A few moments ago, he had been visited by the High Priest, and was still reeling from the shock of Blacktalon’s words. “What fools we were,” he moaned to himself. Elster captured, and about to be executed; and himself a prisoner within Queen Raven’s rooms, awaiting a similar fate when the priest was done with his services! Suddenly, Cygnus had stopped wishing for Raven’s swift recovery. Once she no longer needed him, he could measure his life in minutes.

“Leave me alone, I said!”

The sharpness of Raven’s voice jerked Cygnus from his bleak thoughts, and he felt an irrational surge of anger.

“Willingly—if only I could!” he snapped at her. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear Blacktalon. I’m as much a prisoner here as you, so you might as well get used to it. I shouldn’t worry, though,” he added. “I doubt that I’ll be around to trouble you for long. You have a longer life than I to look forward to!”

Stunned by the bitterness of his tone, Raven turned her head to look, for the first time, at the young physician who had tended her so patiently. “I don’t want life,” she said flatly. “Would you want to live like this? Why did you not let me die, as I wished?” Her voice lifted in a childish whine, and tears of self-pity gathered in her eyes. The drops of moisture went flying as Cygnus slapped her hard across the face. “You selfish little fool!” he yelled. “Do you think you’re the only one suffering? What about your people? What about me? What about Elster, who saved your miserable life, and will die at sundown? You are the Queen! Instead of lying there whining like a coward, why aren’t you trying to revenge yourself against that black-winged monster?”

“Curse you! How dare you strike me! How dare you speak to me like that? Have you any idea what it’s like to be crippled like this?” shrieked Raven. Incensed beyond all measure, she tried to raise herself to strike back at him, struggling against the heavy splinting that bound her wings.

Horror replaced the rage on the physician’s face. “Don’t! For Yinze’s sake, lie still!” Firmly, he pushed her back to her pillows, avoiding her hands that clawed for his eyes. Raven struggled for a moment longer before hopelessness overwhelmed her, and she went limp.

Cygnus let her go as though she burned him, and the two young Skyfolk glared at one another, breathing hard.

“Gods, I hate you!” Raven spat.

“I don’t think much of you, either,” retorted Cygnus. “But Elster and I put in a lot of hard work on those wings, and I won’t have it undone by your hysterics. Try that again, and I’ll strap you down.”

“You wouldn’t! You—” Raven was spluttering with rage.

“Would I not?” Cygnus spoke softly, but the winged girl saw the obdurate glint in his eyes, and shut her mouth abruptly.

“At least you’re fighting back at last,” the physician went on wryly. “Had I known it would be so effective, I would have slapped you much sooner.”

“What’s the point in fighting back?” Raven’s despair returned to overwhelm her. Steeling herself, she looked Cygnus in the eye. “I’ll never fly again, will I?”

Cygnus shook his head, his eyes brimming with sympathy. “Alas, Blacktalon was too thorough. We saved your wings, but—” Eyes blazing, he grasped her hand tightly. “Your Majesty—avenge yourself! Keep your hold on life until Blacktalon has paid for his misdeeds!”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Raven cried. “What can I do, against the High Priest? I am crippled—helpless! I was betrayed—”

“The way I heard it from Anvar,” said Cygnus brutally, “you got what you deserved.”

Beneath his accusing gaze, Raven writhed with shame. There was no escaping the fact that he was right. She had caused her own undoing, by betraying the Mages . . . Then the import of his words sunk in, and her eyes grew wide with horror. For a moment, time seemed to stop for her. “What?” she gasped. “Anvar is here?”

Cygnus nodded. “Imprisoned below the city. Perhaps the gods have given you one last chance to redeem yourself,” he added softly.

Raven closed her eyes. How could she help Anvar? It was impossible. Yet for the first time since her capture, she felt a tiny seed of hope, buried deep within her, begin to grow. “You’re right,” she whispered. “There may be no hope for me, but at least I can try to undo the damage I caused.” Opening her eyes, she looked at Cygnus, as though seeing him for the first time. “Perhaps we can think of a way to save your life, too,” she added, with the faintest ghost of a smile.

Linnet crept around the edge of the parapet, her bare toes gripping the chill, crumbling stone, her brown wings fluttering to help her balance on the narrow ledge. Peeping around the corner of the old turret, she scanned the skies between her perch and the soaring, intricately structured towers of the royal palace beyond. Good. As she had suspected, there was nothing between here and the palace but empty air. She had chosen the perfect time for this forbidden adventure—while the grown-ups were all too busy picking up after the quake to notice what a stray child might be up to. Linnet grinned to herself, her face alight with mischief. The bizarre rococo forest of the palace’s wildly elaborate architecture formed a mysterious and fascinating landscape—an irresistible temptation to an active, adventurous fledgling. For as long as she could remember, Linnet had wanted to fly up there and explore this forbidden country, but normally the royal precincts were so well guarded that she couldn’t get near the place. Today, however, her chance had come at last!

Ducking back round the corner, Linnet waved to her companion, gesturing for him to come ahead. Lark hung back scowling, plainly uneasy about this expedition. Linnet bit her lip with vexation. She tried to make allowances for the fact that her brother was a whole year younger than herself, but honestly, he could be so dim at times! “Come on,” she hissed at him. “Hurry, while there’s no one around!”

Lark came reluctantly, lower lip jutting unhappily as he dragged his feet along the ledge. “We’re going to get into frightful trouble over this,” he warned her.

“Oh, stop whining,” Linnet snapped, “or I won’t play with you anymore.” Without looking around to see the effect of her threat, she launched herself from the turret and swooped toward the tempting vista of rooftops beyond. He had better be following her, she thought, but she was unconcerned. Sometimes it seemed that the brat had been following her around for the last six years—ever since his birth.

Ducking around the side of the first tower that she came to, the winged child looked for a convenient niche to hide in. Finding an arched alcove within the shadow of a flying buttress, she slipped inside—and leapt back with a startled squawk as a hideous, contorted face leered at her out of the gloom. Flailing the air with frantic wings. Linnet caught herself from falling—and scowled at the horrid but harmless gargoyle that had startled her. “Father of Skies” she swore,

“I’ll tell Mother that you were swearing again.” Lark’s voice was pert and taunting.

Linnet turned to glower at the little pest, who had followed her after all. “And I’ll tell her what you were doing when you heard me,” she retorted, grinning smugly as she saw his face crumple with incipient tears,

“I hate you,!! Lark sniffled, “and I’m going home, And I’m going to tell on you, see if I don’t…” His voice trailed away as he fluttered off,

“Crybaby!” Linnet yelled after him. She was unimpressed with his threat—he knew she’d get him later if he snitched on her. In the meantime, she had some exploring to do. With a shrug, Linnet forgot her brother and plunged into the mysterious forest of towers.

Exploring, she admitted some time later, was not as much fun without her little brother to show off to. Linnet was tired, dusty, and ravenously hungry; her nerves were strained with looking over her shoulder for lurking guards. The winged child found a ledge to perch on and took a last look around her, reluctant to admit the palace was not nearly so exciting as she had expected.

“It must be nearly time for supper,” she consoled herself, “and besides, I can always come back another day.” Linnet did not realize she had spoken aloud, until a voice came from the window above her head.

“Who’s there? Yinze on a treetop—it’s a child!”

A long arm shot out between the bars on the window, and Linnet, poised to flee, found herself held fast by the neck of her tunic. “I’m sorry,” she wailed, her brain churning frantically in search of an excuse. “I didn’t mean to!”

“It’s all right,” the voice said soothingly. “Stop flapping, child—I won’t hurt you. In fact, I’ve very glad indeed to see you.”

“You are?” Linnet craned her neck to look back over her shoulder at her captor. To her astonishment, he was smiling down at her. He had a kind face, she thought, and that shock of fine white hair that fell over his forehead was much prettier than her own brown curls.

“Listen,” he told her. “I have some fruit here. If you’ll do a small favor for me, you can have it all—and I won’t tell anyone that you’ve been here.”

Linnet’s mouth watered at the thought of fruit. She had not seen any since this horrible winter had begun. “All right,” she told him quickly. “What do I have to do?”

“Will you take a message from me to your father?”

“I can’t.” The child’s lip trembled. “I don’t have one anymore. The High Priest sacrificed him—”

“I’m sorry,” the young man said hastily. “Will you take word to your mother, then?”

Linnet’s face fell. “I’ll get into awful trouble if she finds out where I’ve been.”

“No you won’t—you’ll be a hero instead. Listen, child—the Queen is here with me, locked up in this room—”

“Don’t be silly,” Linnet snorted. “Queen Flamewing is dead.” She might only be a little girl, but even she knew that! The man shook his head. “Not Queen Flamewing—Queen Raven, her daughter. The High Priest has captured her, and she’s in dreadful danger, but if the people find out that she’s here, someone might be able to help her.” He gave her a winning smile. “And then you would be a hero, and the Queen would give you a reward.”

“What sort of reward?” Linnet asked dubiously.

“ Anything you want!”

“Anything?” She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but he promised her so many times that finally Linnet allowed herself to be persuaded. The winged man handed the fruit to her through the window, wrapped up in a piece of cloth, together with a note for her mother. With the man’s warnings to be careful and to hurry ringing in her ears, Linnet set off for home once more, with deep misgivings. Maybe she should just eat the fruit, Linnet thought, and throw the note over the cliffs. For one thing was certain—despite the man’s assurances, her mother would punish her for sure, if she found out where her daughter had been.

Anvar stood at the rear of the cave, breathing deeply, willing his hands not to tremble. His hands grasped the Staff of Earth so tightly that his bones showed white through the flesh. “Are you ready?” he asked Shia. Fleetingly, he was reminded of the last time he had said those words to her, when they had been stealing Harihn’s horses in the forest.

“For goodness’ sake, get on with it!” The great cat’s terse reply betrayed her nervousness. She was huddled with Khanu near the mouth of the cave, in the lee of the jutting spur of rock behind which the Mage had his fireplace.

“Brace yourself!” Anvar lifted the Staff. He felt its power pulse through him like the beating of another heart, as he prepared to blast his way through the core of the mountain. Excitement and exhilaration quickened his blood. At last! A chance to escape this place—if his plan worked. The Mage swallowed hard, and straightened his shoulders, as he cast aside all thoughts of failure. What could stop him, when he held the Staff of Earth?

Anvar pulled back his arm and gathered his will to unleash the coiled forces of the Staff—but at the last moment, something made him hesitate. A shiver ran through him as he suddenly remembered the avalanche caused by his lack of understanding of the power at his disposal—and his close brush with death as he went hurtling to the bottom of the pass. If he tried to blast his way through to the temple with the Staff in the same unthinking way . . . The Mage shuddered. He could easily bring the mountain down on top of him. Yet what other option had he?

“Coward!” Anvar goaded himself, and raised his arm once more. His hand, holding the Staff, began to shake. Into his mind’s eye came a vivid vision of Aurian, frowning and worried as she had been the day of the avalanche. She had begged him to be careful then, but he had refused to heed her warnings. Slowly, Anvar lowered his arm. This time, he must do better. He would be no good to her dead. He frowned, thinking hard. How would Aurian have proceeded? Well, first of all, she would find out more about the forces she was dealing with . . . Remembering the little that the Mage had taught him about healing, Anvar pushed his consciousness out a short distance beyond the confines of his body and probed into the rock with his healer’s extra sense, much as Aurian had done with the crystal doorway that had blocked their path beneath the Dragon city of Dhiammara.

Like a probing tendril, his will slipped between the interlinking lattices of the stone’s inner structure, like a serpent winding through the twining branches of a petrified forest. The stone was bonded in slanting layers that had cracked and slipped in places, leaving a weakness in the structure. Anvar took note of it all, then, drawing back into his body, he summoned the powers of the Staff.

Shadows sprang up around Anvar as the cavern blazed with blinding green light, The measureless force of the High Magic swept through him, like a great crashing wave, like the avalanche that had almost swept him to his death . . . Anvar gritted his teeth and strove to contain the power. A faint dew of sweat broke out on his brow. Releasing the Staff’s forces a little at a time, he directed a narrow beam of emerald radiance at the weak place in the cave’s rear wall where the layers of stone had slipped.

Smoke came curling up from the spot on the stone where the Staff’s light blazed. The rock began to glow and sizzle, and flakes of glowing stone split away with loud cracking reports. Trembling with the tension of keeping so much magic contained and controlled, Anvar pushed with his will at the crumbling wall, trying to widen and extend the newly forming fissures. Piece by piece, the rock began to fracture and fall away, the aperture widening even as Anvar watched. The interior of the cave began to darken with the twilight outside, but Anvar, burrowing like a mole deep into the stony heart of the mountain, was oblivious to everything but the tunnel he created, and the vibrant, glowing light of the Staff of Earth.

In the secret heart of the mountain, the Moldan was awake, tracing the path of the Staff of Earth as it came closer and closer. She had felt it like the irritation of a crawling fly upon her outer skin as Shia had climbed the mountain. She had felt it enter her, when the cat had reached the cave. She had waited, with excitement and not a little fear, to see what would happen next. Only when Anvar took up the Staff, did the Moldan become aware, for the first time, of the presence of a hated Wizard! “NO!” The mountain shook with the Moldan’s rage, Anvar, preoccupied as he was with controlling and guiding the power of the Staff, paid no heed, except to believe that he was the cause of the disturbance, and to proceed with a little more care. Shia and Khanu, cowering beneath the backlash of the magic, had other troubles to concern them. High in the city of Aerillia, startled Skyfolk took wing like a flock of hunted birds, as buildings cracked and shuddered, and boulders and snow were dislodged from the face of the peak. But earthquakes were not unusual in this range. The mountains had turned in their sleep before, and no doubt would again. Raven and Cygnus clung together in terror, briefly forgetting their animosity as they comforted each other. Elster, imprisoned in the cells below the temple, hoped that the walls would crack and free her, but to no avail. Even her prayer that death would cheat the High Priest of her sacrifice remained unanswered. Blacktalon, preparing for Elster’s sacrifice in the sacred precincts, took the tremors as a sign of Yinze’s favor.

The Moldan writhed in agony. The penetration of the Staff into her body was like a blade driven deep within her. Fighting for control, she at last took hold of herself, using her innate powers of the Old Magic to isolate and suppress the pain. Rage flashed through the ancient creature. What was that Wizard doing? How dared he? She traced the slanting path, marked by a sliver of residual pain, that reached far within her now. If he kept on in this line, the monster seemed bent on gnawing his way right to the top of her peak.

“We shall see about that!” The Moldan was unconcerned with the fate of the Skyfolk, uncaring about anything save this invasion by her ancient foe. And she wanted the Staff of Earth, had wanted it since the fall of Ghabal—but never had she dreamed that it would fall into her grasp.

The Moldan of Aerillia Peak tensed herself. After all these endless centuries, perhaps she would be the one to free the Dwelven, and release her people from the bondage of the Wizards. She only needed the Staff . . . But she could not escape the fetters of her stony form without it—and in this shape, how could she accomplish her desires? The powers of the Old Magic held the answer. The Wizard might, at present, be more than she could handle, but a lesser creature could be molded and manipulated . . . Narrowing her vision down to the observation of the tiniest beings, the Moldan searched within herself for a creature that might suit her ends . . .

With growing confidence, Anvar clove his way into the heart of the mountain. Occasionally he would pause, and with an effort, contain the power of the Staff while he stretched forth his will to probe ahead into the wall of rock, seeking the path that encompassed the natural weak spots, and would do the least damage to the structure of the peak. He conserved his energy, only making the tunnel tall enough for him to stand comfortably upright, though it tended to turn out wider due to the lateral bonding of the rock. Due to some trick of the Staffs power, he remained aware of his position as he went, and could feel himself climbing up and up, gradually homing in on the peaktop temple. This cramped tunnel was a far cry both from the dark labyrinthine catacombs that housed the Academy’s archives, and the wide, well-lit spiraling tunnels beneath the Dragon city of Dhiammara. Both of those, at least, had been safe and well finished, their safety and solidity proven by the test of time. For the first time in a long while, Anvar thought of Finbarr. By the gods, he wished the archivist could be beside him now! Finbarr’s delightful wit and boundless curiosity would have given him courage, and distracted him from the perils that pressed so close; for here the tortured stone creaked and complained around the Mage, the rough-hewn floor was uneven and the walls askew. Stones and dust continually spattered from the stressed and sagging ceiling. Water dripped down from pockets within the cliffs, and the air was dead and heavy with the dank scent of age and decay. The only illumination was the disconcerting and disorienting emerald light that emanated from the Staff of Earth, and thick, dark shadows thronged close in the gloom. At first, Anvar heard nothing above the hum of the Staffs power, and the sizzle and crack of disintegrating rock. The rustling patter of a multitude of feet and the sibilant scrape of scales against raw stone escaped his notice. Only Shia and Khanu,. following the Mage at a wary distance, saw the massive shadow that fell between themselves and the green light of the Staff of Earth.

Luckily for Anvar, the Moldan had never thought to take the cats into account—such mere creatures were beneath her notice. The Mage was unaware of any danger, before Shia’s warning cry ripped through his mind: “Anvar! Behind you!”

Anvar whirled instinctively, his free hand groping for the sword that Elster had reluctantly smuggled down for him. As he saw the horror that confronted him, the

Mage’s mind went blank with shock, and the blade turned to ice in his lifeless hand.

A horror, an abomination, blocked the tunnel behind the Mage, its endless, segmented black body blocking the tunnel for many lengths behind him. All down the length of its body ran a multitude of legs, each one ending in a barbed and deadly claw. Dark scales glistened slimily, picking up the emerald light of the Staff and throwing it back to Anvar distorted into flashes of the sickly luminescence of decay. Eyes glittered, pinpoints of ichorous green, higher than the level of his head. Feathered antennae waved wildly; spiked compound mandibles clicked and clashed, cleaving the air as the creature reared up, hissing evilly and eyeing the Mage with malevolent intent. Anvar swallowed, his heart laboring with terror, his throat gone suddenly dry. Without volition, he began to back away—but it was too late. In a swift, scuttling dash, the monster was upon him.

Anvar hurled his body to one side, flattening himself against the tunnel wall. The saw-toothed maw snicked past him, carried inexorably down the tunnel by the momentum of the massive creature’s charge. He struck out with his sword as it passed him, and a spray of green sparks were hurled into the darkness as the blade skidded off impervious black armor. As the backshock of the blow numbed Anvar’s arm, he struck again, wildly, hewing this time at the multitude of scuttling limbs. It did him no good whatsoever. The creature was too tough to be killed by a blade—but it was also too clumsy to maneuver in the narrow tunnel, or so Anvar though at first. Only as its sinister forked tail shot past him, did he realize that the creature had vanished into the wall ahead, moving as easily through the rock as it had done in free air! Which meant that it was turning, even now. It could be coming at him from any direction . . .

Anvar waited, his damp skin prickling, attuned to the least whisper of air or the slightest sound that could betray the presence of the monster. Shia and Khanu joined him, moving soft and fleet on padded paws, and he welcomed their arrival, but found little reassurance. The young cat’s thoughts were a churning maelstrom of terror, and for once, even Shia was shaken and lost for words.

“Back to back,” Anvar told them, his thoughts, irrationally, a mental whisper. “It could come from any—”

With a tearing crack of tortured rock, the monster erupted from the floor below his feet. Thrown aside by the buckling slabs of stone, Anvar and the cats evaded the deadly clutch of those clashing jaws. The Mage was caught up in a maze of writhing, chitinous coils as the creature tried to turn and get at him with its razored maw. Despairing, he struck out with the Staff, but the magic was simply reflected from the slippery scales, dislodging a barrage of rocks from the walls and roof. Anvar, caught up in the creature’s charge, was slammed against the tunnel wall as once again the creature overshot its mark and disappeared into solid rock.

“Khanu? Shia?” Dazed and disoriented, Anvar groped in the darkness. He felt the throb of incipient bruises, and registered the sting of many minor cuts and scrapes.

“I hear you, human.” The unfamiliar voice of the young cat echoed in the Mage’s mind. “Shia is here—just give her a moment to gather herself ...”

It seemed as though Anvar had waited no time, before Shia’s voice rang crisply in his inner ear: “Anvar, we must find a way to fight this thing.”

“I’ve already tried my sword and the Staff. I’m open to any suggestions—but you’d better hurry.”

For an instant there was nothing, then: “If its scales are impervious, you must go for the eyes instead. They may be vulnerable—I hope!”

The Mage had no time to reply. The creature was on him again, roaring down at him, coming at him obliquely from above. “Die, blast you!” Anvar had no idea he had screamed the words aloud. He had no conscious thought of directing the Staff. Yet in his hand the Artifact came to life, blazing into incandescent light. A high, thin scream tore through the tunnel. Steam began to erupt from the creature’s compound eyes, which leaked tears of greenish ichor. The feathered antennae drooped, as legs scrabbled weakly on the stone. The hideous creature’s momentum slowed, and finally stilled as its head came to rest against the far wall of the tunnel.

Yet Anvar knew he had only disabled the beast. Raising his sword, he dashed up close, and embedded the blade to the hilt in one darkly glittering eye.

The massive creature writhed, throwing the Mage to one side, but its death throes were short-lived. Soon it subsided, twisting within the confines of the tunnel, its ability to move through rock completely gone. In the dying light of the Staff, one massive compound eye glittered menacingly—then its light was doused forever. The forked tail rasped once against the stone—and was still. As the last dregs of Anvar’s energy ran out, the light of the Staff of Earth was quenched.

“Is it dead?” Khanu asked shakily.

“Gods, it had better be!” Anvar was breathing hard. “I don’t think I could go through another bout like that!” He pulled himself up into a sitting position, his back resting against the slimy wall of his tunnel. “Shia—are you there? Are you all right?” He was shivering, both from physical cold, and from the chill of reaction.

“Both!” The great cat sounded subdued. After a time, Anvar regained enough energy to relight the Staff. Khanu was nearby, not far away by the opposite wall, but it took a few moments longer before Shia came into view, clambering over the dead monster’s moribund coils. “I sincerely hope,” she muttered, “that there are no more of these creatures lurking within the mountain.”

Anvar shuddered at the thought—but he would not give up when he had come so far. Gathering the last shreds of his strength, he pushed himself to his feet and lifted the Staff once more.

The Moldan of Aerillia was both dismayed and incensed that her attack had failed so dismally. She had thrown all her power into the creation of her creature, and would lack the strength to enlarge another for some time to come. Obviously, she had underestimated the power of this Wizard! She shuddered, as pain bit into her guts again. Did the wretch intend to hammer his way right through to the hideous edifice on her peak? For the first time, the Moldan began to wonder why. Over the ages, the battles and disputes of the puny Winged Folk had been beneath her notice: ever since the Cataclysm, when they had lost their powers of magic. Since then, they had been of little more account to her than fleas or lice. Now that a Wizard had become involved, however, not to mention the Staff of Earth . . . What was this Wizard up to—and how could she turn it to the advantage of the Moldai? The Aerillian Moldan pondered, trying to ignore the painful pounding in her guts that kept threatening to scatter her train of thought. One thing was certain. Left at large, the Wizard would remain a threat to her for as long as he possessed the Staff of Earth, Her chief problem lay in the fact that the Artifact of the High Magic made him far more powerful than herself. Without the Staff, she was incapable of taking the Staff by force—a ridiculous, and seemingly insoluble, predicament! The Moldan turned her attention back within her, to the puny creature that wielded such awesome power. Very well—so be it. For now she would watch and wait until she discovered the Wizard’s plans. If force would not serve her, then she must take the Staff by guile,

The wailing of Incondor’s Lament drowned the subdued and discontented muttering of the congregation in the temple. Blacktalon peered out from between the dark curtains behind the great altar, surprised and not a little gratified to find the massive chamber filling early, and fast. Skyfolk thronged the spacious nave, and were even filling the airy galleries above. At last! thought the priest. Finally, the Winged Folk must be accepting his rule. Flame wing’s death had apparently tipped the balance, as he had hoped.

Blacktalon waited in the narrow antechamber behind the gold-stitched curtains, as his lesser priests carried out the service of worship for the Father of Skies. His heavily embroidered formal robes rustled stiffly, their weight dragging at his shoulders as he paced back and forth in the narrow space. The chanting and sung responses seemed to drag on endlessly, and the High Priest fought to stifle his impatience at such nonsense. Power was the only thing that mattered; however, if superstition kept the Skyfolk appeased, he supposed the end must justify the means. At last the time arrived for Blacktalon’s own part of the ceremony. Hearing his cue, he opened the wooden door at the rear of the chamber, and two Temple Guards came forth, supporting the physician between them. Elster’s face was stark white, and her jaw was set. She remained limp in her captors’ grasp, dragging her feet, refusing to assist them to take her on this final journey to the altar and the knife. As she passed Blacktalon, life returned briefly to Elster’s stony face, “May Yinze blast you to oblivion!” she snarled. Eyes flashing, she spat into his face.

Elster had the satisfaction of seeing the High Priest recoil from her, He could not lose face by showing his disgust before the Guards, and had to remain there, glaring fiercely as the slimy trail of spittle trickled down his chin, while she was dragged away. Elster smiled grimly. Considering the fate that awaited her, it seemed a puny victory—but it was satisfying, nonetheless.

As she was dragged beyond the curtains and out into the temple, she was further buoyed by the reaction of the congregation. As one, the crowd rose to its feet and hailed her. Elster blinked in confusion. Since Blacktalon had taken power, she had made a point of avoiding the temple, but from the tales she had heard, her reception was unprecedented. Even better was the crowd’s reaction when Blacktalon appeared. The physician could not suppress a smile at the livid expression on Blacktalon’s face, as the Winged folk booed and jeered at him.

Without waiting for the High Priest’s command, the Temple Guards fanned out through the congregation, seeking to identify and isolate the troublemakers. The restive crowd fell silent, but behind their stillness lay a palpable air of anger and resentment. Tension lay heavy on the temple like a brooding storm front. Even as the Guard fastened her down to the altar, the physician saw the look of baffled dismay on Blacktalon’s face.

Dispensing with ceremony, the High Priest stood over her with lifted knife. For Elster, time slowed to a viscous crawl. The world sprang into vivid focus, her brain registering every detail. Each pore in Blacktalon’s face, each line of ambition and discontent on his skin, stood out like a scroll, unrolled for her to read. Elster felt the crowd’s restiveness beating The pulse of so many hearts beating together in a common cause thrummed through the temple like a vibrating harpstring. Then the world narrowed and dimmed, as the physician’s attention focused with hypnotic intensity on the glistening blade that hovered above her, ready to strike. The knife arced down—

“Coward!”

“Traitor!”

“Where is Queen Raven?”

“We want the Queen!”

Elster was amazed to find that she was still alive, and further astounded to find that the Skyfolk had discovered Raven’s presence in Aerillia. How had Cygnus managed that? She opened her eyes to see the knife poised and trembling, a scant inch above her heart. Blacktalon’s eyes flashed ire.

“Curse you!” the High Priest gasped. “How did they know?” He lifted the knife once more. “This time, there will be no reprieve for you,” he hissed, Elster saw his upraised arm begin to move, and shut her eyes.,.

“We’re close.” Anvar turned to the cats, who waited at his heels, at a respectful distance from the Staff of Earth.

“Then finish it!” Shia’s voice was thin with tension.

The Mage nodded agreement, knowing that the Artifact was causing her distress. At least she was better off than Khanu, who had remained strained and silent for some time, suffering the unfamiliar discomfort of the Staff’s magic. At last, however, they had reached their goal. Only a thin skin of rock remained to bar Anvar’s access to the Skyfolk temple. And the priest was there—he knew it! Somehow, the Staff had made him sensitive to evil. The Mage could feel it, like a stream of fetid waste, seeping through the rock above, and was seized with an unconquerable urge to blast through the intervening stone. He raised the Staff, and . . .

Lethal fragments hurtled through the constrained space in the Mage’s tunnel as the rock blew apart above him. Shia and Khanu cowered, snarling. Seeing the lip of stone, and open space above him, Anvar leapt, his fingers finding purchase. Hauling himself upward, he found himself hanging onto a rim of rock, peering up into a vast chamber. Panicked Skyfolk were screaming, running, taking to the air, their wings colliding in the constricted space. The High Priest stood over a bound victim on the alter Anvar saw the blade flash down . . . Vaulting from the hole, he launched a bolt of emerald fire at the roof of the temple. Flaring, the bolt impacted. Rocks rained down as the ceiling cracked and crazed. Blacktalon cursed—glanced up ... In that instant’s distraction, his blow was deflected, and flew wide to slice the victim’s shoulder...

Two winged Guards swooped down on Anvar from above. Shia gathered herself and sprang aloft in a mighty leap, taking one foe neatly from the air, ripping at him with her claws as he hit the ground. Flashing into Anvar’s mind came a vivid picture of the pathetic heap of skins within the cave. Khanu caught the other Guard as he landed, his jaws closing around the Skyman’s throat. The air was full of blood and feathers. As Shia whirled, seeking another victim, the remaining Guards drew back hastily, and fled—only to come face to face with another flame-eyed shadow that stood snarling in the open doorway. Hreeza. As he closed the distance between himself and the shocked High Priest, Anvar caught the old cat’s triumphant thought: “Ha! There was an easier way up after all!”

Blacktalon shot one terrified look at Anvar, ablaze with the power of the Staff of Earth, and whirled and fled behind the curtain. Anvar followed, reaching the anteroom in time to see the door slam as his foe escaped. Wild with wrath, he pursued the High Priest, almost wrenching the door from its hinges in his haste. With the Staff of Earth to light his way, he hurtled down a narrow stairway and raced through the maze of catacombs beneath the temple, following the sound of running footsteps.

Coming to a place where the passage forked, the Mage hesitated. Which way had Blacktalon gone? He thought he heard the faintest echo of footsteps coming from his right, and went that way. At once, the passage began to climb again, and soon Anvar found himself winding his way up an endless spiral of narrow steps. Up and up he climbed, until his legs were aching and he was gasping for breath. There had been no sight or sound of Blacktalon for several minutes, and Anvar began to wonder whether he had taken the right path after all. The sharp bang of a door slamming far above him finally erased his doubts.

A window in the final landing showed Anvar that he had climbed to the top of a lofty tower. As the Mage had expected, the single door at the top of the stairway was firmly locked. Cursing with impatience, he unloosed a bolt of energy from the Staff and blew it into splinters, charging into the chamber beyond before the fragments had time to settle, realizing his mistake too late as a knife came flashing at him through the air. As cold shock drenched him, time seemed to slow for Anvar. The blade floated toward him, turning slowly end over end . . . And went clattering to the floor as he activated his magical shield just in time. Gasping, Anvar looked up to see the High Priest, hunched over a carved pedestal, screaming into a glittering crystal.

“Archmage, Archmage—the prisoner has escaped . . . Oh curse you, answer me!”

Somehow it seemed cowardly and wrong to use the Staff to slay this evil creature. With a ring of steel, the Mage drew his sword. As Anvar stalked him, Blacktalon backed away from the unresponsive crystal, and whirling, raced toward the window, his wings already half extended. Even as his hands stretched toward the ledge, the blade came arcing down to bite into his neck. Blacktalon’s body crumpled at the Mage’s feet. His head rolled a little way farther, the eyes staring wide and aghast, marking that last frozen moment of horror when he met his end.

Anvar wiped his blood-streaked blade on a corner of the High Priest’s robe, and with a shrug, he turned away. So much for Blacktalon—now for Miathan. Rash as it might seem, he wanted his enemy to know of his escape, because Miathan would tell Aurian. Sheathing his sword, he picked up the High Priest’s crystal, and summoned the Archmage. The gem flared into dazzling radiance, which suddenly cleared to show Miathan’s face. His astonishment that he had been summoned turned to horrified rage as he caught sight of the summoner, “Anvar! How—”

“Blacktalon is dead, Archmage.” Anvar’s mental tone was hard as ice. “Now I’m coming after you.” Before Miathan had a chance to reply, he threw the crystal out of the window, and turned to leave the chamber.

All this time, the Moldan had been watching. Now, with the Wizard isolated in the pinnacle tower, she could seize her chance at last! Sharply, the giant elemental twitched her outer skin, concentrating on the rocks beneath that slender spire of stone. The entire mountain shuddered as Blacktalon’s tower rocked, and cracked, and toppled with a thunderous roar to smash upon the rocks below.