Harp of Winds

22 The Darkest Road

He had been dreaming that the mountains had come alive, Anvar groaned, and opened his eyes to utter blackness that even his Mage’s vision could not pierce. What the blazes happened? he thought hazily. One minute he had been heading toward the door of the tower; the next, everything was disintegrating around him ... Memory flooded back, and with a gasp, the Mage sat bolt upright—or tried to. He couldn’t move. He was sprawled, facedown, on a rough, uneven surface that sloped away beneath him so that his head was lower than his heels. His left arm, trapped under his body, was completely numb. Anvar hoped that the lack of feeling was due only to constricted circulation. His right arm was outstretched in front of him, his hand still with its stranglehold around the Staff of Earth.

The Mage took reassurance from the fact that he had not lost the precious Artifact. Extending his will, he summoned the Staffs power, until a faint green glimmer lit his surroundings. Anvar’s breath caught in his throat. For an instant, his mind went blank with shock. All around him was a mass of broken rock that was trapping him with its weight. Eventually common sense penetrated Anvar’s panic, and it occurred to him that far from being crushed, he could feel no pressure at all. Then he remembered. The tower room. The High Priest’s knife hurtling toward him … And his shield. In his haste to destroy his enemy, he had forgotten to lower it again. A wave of giddy relief surged through the Mage. Close to hysteria, he laughed aloud, then shuddered at the narrowness of his escape. If Blacktalon hadn’t thrown that knife . . . Then it occurred to Anvar that his relief was premature. The shield had saved him from being crushed, but he was still trapped beneath the ruined tower, pinned down by solid rock. And his air supply must be running out... With an effort, Anvar forced himself to stay calm. It was ridiculous to panic! With the Staff of Earth, he could easily blast his way out of this predicament. Well, the sooner, the better. Taking a deep breath of the stale, stagnant air, he concentrated his will . . .

“Wizard—wait!”

Anvar blinked, and shook his head. Hearing things? Maybe the air was running out faster than he’d realized. I’d better hurry, he thought. Gathering his scattered wits, he tried again, and the green radiance brightened as power thrummed through the Staff.

“Wait! There is a better way.”

The Mage started violently. Mind-speech was the last thing he had been expecting, but there could be no mistake. The pitch of the voice, though definitely not human, had been distinctly feminine. “Who’s there?” he asked sharply.

“It was no dream, Wizard. See—the mountains do awaken!” The voice, though it was only in his head, seemed somehow to resonate through the rocks all around him. Anvar felt his heart begin to race. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you?”

“I am the elemental spirit of this peak.” As the Moldan explained her nature to the Wizard, she felt his growing astonishment, and found it hard to suppress her anger that his people had so quickly forgotten the once proud and mighty race that they had subjugated. Her determination to wrest the Staff away from him hardened.

“Forgive me,” Anvar interrupted her, “I would like to hear the rest of your tale, but first I must get out of this place. Humans need air . . .”

“Of course.” The Moldan gloated. The fool was playing right into her hands! “Perhaps I can assist you,” Using the Old Magic, she could lure him out of the mundane world, in which she had no physical form save slow, constrictive stone, and into another dimension: the Elsewhere of such elemental beings as the Moldan and the Phaerie, Her form was mobile there, and her powers would be unconstrained!

Anvar’s eyes widened with astonishment as a bleak and pallid light began to delineate the narrow space that held his body. The rocks around him were fading, slowly retreating into the cold gray glimmer until they vanished entirely, and the Mage could see nothing around him but a featureless silvery haze.

“You may stand now.”

Stand on what? Anvar thought, looking down with a shudder. There was nothing beneath him but that gray nothingness. With an effort, he pulled himself together. He was obviously lying on something…

“Yes, it will support you.” The Moldan sounded dryly amused.

Incredulous, Anvar scrambled to his feet, badly unnerved by the fact that, despite his shield, she had been able to pick his private thoughts out of his head so easily. For an agonizing moment, he was preoccupied with rubbing the blood back into his stiff and tingling limbs. Then:

“Where are we?” he demanded. “What is this place?”

“Elsewhere,” the Moldan answered softly, in a cold, tight voice that sent prickles sheeting over Anvar’s skin. “No longer in the world you know.”

Anvar tensed, suddenly aware of the threat that lay behind the elemental’s tone. “Why did you bring me here?” He struggled to keep his mental voice level. It would be a grave mistake to let this creature become aware of his fear.

“Can you not guess?” The icy tone took on the sneering sibilance of menace. “In this world, I possess another form, unfettered by the bonds of stone. Here I can move, and kill, and take the Staff of Earth from you!”

The gray blankness vanished. Anvar found himself standing on a slope of long, tawny grass that seemed to shimmer in a rippling pattern, like windblown corn—except that no wind cooled the air against his face. Silence, a thick oppressive absence of sound, hung over the landscape like a pall. There was no sign of the Moldan. The Mage was completely alone. Anvar, braced for a fight that had not materialized, found himself at a loss. Where was the Moldan? What form would it take? From which direction would it come? With an oath, he looked wildly around him. The Mage found himself on the high, sloping side of a mountain meadow, looking down to where a river, its water gleaming with an odd greenish, milky hue, rushed swiftly along the bottom of the vale to vanish over a precipice at the valley mouth to his left. To Anvar’s right, the meadow ended at the feet of a tall, dark pine wood; above the trees was a broken mass of jumbled rocks and crags. Before the Mage, on the opposite side of the vale, was a rough, heather-covered hillside that swept upward to a towering ridge. Behind him towered soaring cliffs with the mountain’s peak looming dizzily above.

There was something unsettlingly odd about the light. Anvar blinked, peering up at the sky and down at the valley again. The cloudless sky was a peculiar shade of gold, flooding the landscape with amber light, as though the Mage were looking through smoked glass.

There was no sun—there were no shadows to lend depth. Instead, the earth itself was suffused with a faint but burnished glow, each stone, each blade of grass, standing out clear and shimmering with its own inner light. All except the pine wood. The huddled trees were a pulsing knot of smoky darkness. Anvar shuddered—yet of all the parts of this weird landscape, the forest, with its broken crags above, was the one place where he could hope to find some cover when the Moldan decided to stop playing with him, and attack.

The thought shattered the dreamlike spell of this eerie land, and galvanized the Mage to action. He had better come up with some kind of a plan—and fast! Grasping the Staff firmly, Anvar straightened his shoulders, and set off up the valley toward the wood. He had not taken half a dozen strides when—

THUMP! The sound boomed across the valley, smashing through the silence like a battering ram. The earth shuddered under Anvar’s feet, and an avalanche of small stones came rattling down from the crags above. THUMP! Anvar’s heart leapt into his throat and stuck there. He whirled wildly, trying to place the location of the terrifying sound,

THUMP! From the pine wood came the crack of splintering branches, Treetops waved wildly, as though tossed by a violent gale.

THUMP! Something was emerging from the forest, hurling broken pines aside like kindling . . . The Mage looked up and up, a scream of terror frozen in his throat.

Standing upright on two heavy, thick-muscled legs, the creature was immense. Clad in tough gray-green hide, it was taller than the Mages’ Tower in Nexis. Two incongruously delicate paws, unnervingly like human hands, were held close to the monster’s chest on stumpy forelegs. Balanced by a long, thick tail that was held above the ground, the blunt and massive head, larger than Anvar’s body, held great jaws lined with the sharp white spikes of fangs. Two wicked, glittering little eyes, brimming with arcane intelligence, scanned the valley and came to rest on the Mage.

“I see you, little Wizard!” The familiar, gloating voice came, not from those horrific jaws, but from within the confines of Anvar’s own mind. It was the voice of the Moldan.

There was no point in running—there was nowhere to run to. For one indecisive second Anvar stood rooted to the spot—and then he remembered the Staff of Earth. Gathering his will more swiftly than he had ever done before, he called the Staffs powers, and hurled a bolt of energy at the monster . . .

And nothing happened. His own will was unresponsive, and the Staff was dark and dead within his grasp. Stunned and unbelieving, the Mage tried again. Still nothing. He might as well have been holding a plain stick of wood—and what had happened to his own powers?

The vast jaws of the monster yawned wide in a grinning void. In his mind, Anvar heard the hideous, mocking laughter of the Moldan. “Would you like to try again?” the elemental sneered. “The Staff of Earth is of your world, Wizard. Like your own magic, it has no power here, where the forces of the Old Magic hold sway.”

THUMP! One great leg swung forward, the massive clawed foot sinking deep into the earth beneath the creature’s weight. Anvar turned, and fled. With deadly speed, the monster was after him. Anvar could feel the jarring thunder of its footsteps shake the ground beneath him as it ran, its great legs devouring huge gulps of ground as it rapidly closed the distance between them.

Terror lending speed to his flailing limbs, Anvar hurtled downhill toward the river; but he knew, even as he fled, that he was doomed. There was no cover that would hide him; there would be no outrunning the Moldan in its monstrous shape. Before him there was only that strange, green river—and a plunge to oblivion at the end of the valley where the churning green waters vanished from sight in a cloud of spume. Well, so be it. Rather a quick death, pounded on the rocks at the bottom of the fall, than the slow agony of the monster’s jaws. And at least the Moldan would be cheated of the Staff of Earth . . .

As Anvar neared the riverbank, he could hear the monster pounding closer and closer. Its hot breath surrounded him in a noisome cloud . . . With one last, desperate spurt of speed, Anvar gained the bank and leapt. The moiling green flood took him, snatching him right out of the creature’s snapping jaws. A bellow of rage receded down the valley as the Mage was spun away.

Gods—how could this water be so cold, and not be ice? Even if Anvar had been a swimmer, he would have stood no chance in that swift, icy current. Gasping, choking, he was whirled and buffeted in the flood, trying to snatch a breath when his head broke the surface, trying desperately to hold that breath when he was tugged beneath. Luckily the water was deep, and there were few rocks in this stretch. Already, Anvar’s limbs were achingly numb. For a moment his head cleared the water, and to his utter horror, he glimpsed the massive shape of the Moldan, running fast along the bank, keeping pace with him, its glittering eyes two burning pinpoints of rage in that expressionless, armored face. But that was the least of Anvar’s worries. He was losing his battle for breath in the chill water . . .

Aurian! He thought of her yearningly as the icy water seared into his lungs. There was a moment’s dark confusion, then . . . Anvar found himself, not drowned, but breathing! Belatedly, he remembered Aurian telling him of her escape from the shipwreck, when her lungs had adapted to the water. Lacking his own powers at that time, he had been unable to make the change, but this time, mercifully, it had happened.

And happened too late. The current became swifter, as the river narrowed between straight banks of stone. Ahead, he heard a thundering, booming roar. The falls! As he reached the lip, the Mage had time for one swift glimpse of the endless drop below, and at the bottom a lake that looked, from this height, like a small green eye. Then he was going over . . .

A pawlike great scaled hand caught him, squeezing the water from his lungs as it snatched him from the very brink of the precipice. Again, there was that moment’s pain and darkness—then Anvar, breathing air once more, found himself being lifted, up and up, until he was on a level with the great toothed cavern of the monster’s jaws. The little eyes glittered down at him, inhuman and pitiless; and once again, Anvar heard the Moldan’s voice: “So, little Wizard—I have you at last!”

In the unearthly realm of the Phaerie, the Earth-Mage Eilin sat in the Forest Lord’s castle, gazing through the window that showed what was passing in the human world. The deep, dark forest she saw: the wildwood that had replaced her own well-tended Valley. Her gaze fell on the bridge that crossed her lake, and followed the slender wooden span across the shimmering water to her own, dear island. But it was desolate and deserted now, her tower gone, replaced by the massive crystal, disguised by magic as an ordinary rock, that held the Sword of Flame.

Sadly, Eilin turned her gaze back across the lake, and saw, through the window’s magic, the beautiful unicorn, all formed of light, that was invisible to other eyes. Sighing, she thought of the brave warrior Maya, who had dwelt with her for a brief, happy time, before being turned into this dazzling creature whose purpose was to guard the Sword. Eilin’s gaze sped onward, through the forest, to where the young Mage D’arvan, Maya’s lover and the Forest Lord’s own son, watched unseen over the little camp of rebels that had sought sanctuary in the wild-wood. Onward went her seeking gaze again, to the city of Nexis, home of the Magefolk, where Aurian had once dwelt.

Suddenly Eilin started, gasped, and peered into the window more intently. What was the Archmage doing to the city? All around the ancient walls, the townsfolk were laboring, urged on by cruel guards with swords and whips. Great arches, equipped with barred water gates that could be raised or lowered, had been constructed across the river on either side of Nexis.

The Earth-Mage growled a curse that would have astounded her daughter, had Aurian been there to hear it. Miathan was rebuilding the city walls! What was that evil creature up to now? Quickly, she turned her attention toward the Academy—

“Eilin! Lady, come quick!” With a sound like a thunderclap, Hellorin, Lord of the Phaerie, materialized right inside the chamber. Eilin spun, startled by his unprecedented breach of Phaerie manners, and even more amazed to see the Forest Lord so agitated.

“Quickly!” he repeated, reaching for her hand. “You must come with me! Something untoward has happened!”

“What?” Frowning, Eilin pulled back from him, but was no match for his strength.

Hellorin pulled her from the window embrasure, and into the center of the room. “I feel the presence of High Magic.”

His voice was tense with excitement. “A Mage has somehow found a way into this world!”

“Aurian?” Eilin cried. Hope leapt like a flame within her.

Hellorin squeezed her hand. “We will go at once, and see,” he told her.

In a blinding flash, the Great Hall of the Phaerie vanished around the Earth-Mage. She and Hellorin seemed to be flying through the featureless amber heavens, the landscape naught but a dizzying blur, far below her. Eilin’s heart beat faster. Her grip on the Forest Lord’s hand tightened convulsively, and she swallowed hard and closed her eyes tightly. It helped. “Is—is it far?” she faltered. Their speed snatched spoken words away as soon as they were uttered, so she switched to mental speech, and repeated her question.

“Far, near ...” Eilin felt his mental shrug. “Lady, in this world, the rules of human distance do not apply. I am searching for traces of the alien magic, and as soon as I find it, we will be there.”

It seemed an age to Eilin, before she felt herself being set down on the blessed ground, as gently as a falling leaf As soon as her feet touched the earth, sound returned—the thunder of massive feet, followed by a hideous cacophony of blood-chilling snarls. With a startled cry, the Earth-Mage opened her eyes—and saw a monster. A huge, terrifying, fanged abomination that stood on its hind legs, towering up and up ... And held in its great forepaw was a tiny human figure, its identity unguessable from this distance. Eilin’s mouth went dry. Was it Aurian? “No!” she cried, and leapt toward the monster, not knowing what she would do when she reached it, but knowing she must do something.

A hand caught her, and hauled her roughly back. “Stay here, Lady! I will deal with this!” Hellorin’s eyes flashed dangerously—then he vanished, to reappear on the riverbank, confronting the monster. But this time, he had cast off his puny human form. Tall he towered, far higher than the creature, cloaked in cloud and shadow with stars glinting like jewels in the branches of his great stag’s crown. Eilin gasped in awe. This was the first time she had seen the Forest Lord revealed in all his might and majesty. Lightning flashed from his angry eyes, and his great voice thundered across the valley. “Moldan—do you dare?”

The monster recoiled. Great fangs flashed white as it bellowed its defiance. Though it was using mental tones, its thoughts were so powerful that Eilin could hear them clearly. “Stay out of my business, Forest Lord. Let the Phaerie seek their prey elsewhere! This Wizard is mine!”

“I think not,” Hellorin said quietly. Eilin took an involuntary step backward, her heart chilled by the depth of menace in those few soft words. “Would you pit your power against the might of the Phaerie?” the Forest Lord went on. “Give me the Wizard, Moldan, and slink back into your mountain—ere I blast you beyond the bounds of oblivion!”

“This prey is mine! Eilin heard a sudden note of doubt in the creature’s voice.

Hellorin smiled. “Put it down, then, Moldan, and fight me for it.”

“NEVER!” The word ended in a snarl.

The monster snatched the tiny figure toward its mouth, opening those dreadful jaws . . . And from Hellorin’s hand sprang a great bolt of blue-white fire that struck the Moldan, sizzling, right between the eyes. With a shriek, the monster dropped its prey. Eilin cried out in horror, but the Forest Lord’s great hand reached out and caught the falling figure, laying it gently aside on the grass, out of harm’s way.

The monster, meanwhile, seemed to be shrinking in on itself. Smoke and bluish flame leaked from its eyes, and the jaws stretched wide in an endless scream as its great tail thrashed in agony. Vivid lightning crawled, a lethal network, across its body, searing where it touched. With one last shriek, the Moldan toppled, falling into the swiftly racing river. The chill green waters snatched it greedily, and hurled it over the edge of the falls.

As if released from a spell, Eilin dashed forward and flung herself down on her knees beside the prone form of the Mage. For a moment, hope burned bright within her . . . But the figure was not Aurian. The Earth-Mage frowned in puzzlement, taking in the dark-blond hair, the blue eyes that flew open in that moment, their gaze wide and stark with terror. “I don’t know you,” she ac-

Anvar was aching, bruised, and chilled to the bone from his immersion in the river. His battered body would not stop shaking, and his thoughts were awhirl with shock. His mind simply refused to encompass the reality of what had happened. That vast shadowy figure, the giant hand that had caught him and borne him to safety . . . Surely it had been a dream—some kind of hallucination brought on by an extremity of terror. The words of this strange woman seemed so incongruous, so—so ordinary after his last bizarre and terrifying ordeal, that Anvar burst out into hysterical laughter. Her angry scowl and her exclamations of impatience only served to make him worse. Hugging the Staff, which he had clung to desperately even in the monster’s grasp, Anvar laughed until the tears ran down his face; until his ribs ached; until he ran out of breath and began to wheeze.

A shadow fell across his tear-blurred vision: another figure had joined the woman. Wiping a sleeve across his eyes, Anvar looked up—and recognized the gigantic figure, diminished now to almost human proportions, that had defeated the Moldan. The Mage’s laughter cut off abruptly. “It was real ...” he gasped. Above the stranger’s head, like an illusory shadow, hovered the image of a branching antlered crown. Then the Mage’s eyes fastened on that hand, the same size as his own now. The hand that had been vast enough to encompass his body . . . Slowly, he looked up from the hand to those fathomless, inhuman eyes. “Who are you?” he whispered.

The man did not answer him, but looked across at the woman instead. “My sorrow, Lady,” he said. “I had so hoped for you . . . But as this is not Aurian, then who—”

“Aurian?” Anvar’s fear was forgotten. “What do you know of Aurian?” he demanded.

The woman’s hand shot out to grasp his arm, her fingers digging like claws into his skin. “What do you know of her?” she rasped. Her eyes were blazing with a savage intensity. “Hellorin said you were a Mage, but I know all of the Magefolk. You aren’t one of them! What do you have to do with my daughter?”

“You’re Eilin?” Anvar gasped. “Aurian’s mother? Then where the blazes am I?”

“In my realm,” the deep voice of the man announced. He looked across at Eilin. “I think we had better take him home.”

With that, he laid a hand on Anvar’s forehead, and the Mage knew no more.

When Anvar awakened, he was curled in a deep, soft chair before a blazing fire. A blanket of some peculiar fabric, light but warm, was draped around him, and he was dressed in a shirt and britches made from similar stuff, their hue a shimmering, changeful grayish-green, with a leather jerkin on top. For a panic-stricken instant, he looked wildly for the Staff of Earth, but to his relief it was propped against the chair beside him. Only then did he notice the low table of food and drink set out before the fire, and the figures of his two rescuers seated opposite. Looking beyond them, Anvar’s eyes widened in amazement. “Why, it’s just like the Great Hall at the Academy,” he gasped.

The man chuckled from his seat across the hearth. “D’Arvan’s words exactly! Do you still doubt, Lady, that he is a Mage?”

“D’Arvan?” Anvar interrupted in perplexity. “D’Arvan is here?” It was becoming more obvious by the minute that this must be a dream!

“You know my son?”

“What about Aurian?” The two strangers spoke together.

Anvar looked from face to eager face. “I don’t think I know anything, anymore,” he sighed.

An expression akin to pity softened the stern, sculpted face of Anvar’s rescuer. “Here ...” He handed the Mage a brimming crystal goblet of wine. “Drink, eat, refresh yourself. You are still not quite recovered from the shock of the Moldan’s attack. I will tell you what you want to know, and then . . .”—his expression grew hard again—“you will answer our questions, Mage. I am especially anxious to learn how you came by one of the Artifacts of Power.”

“And where my daughter is,” Eilin added urgently.

The explanations took some time. Anvar, desperately anxious now to return to Aurian, was forced to take comfort from the Forest Lord’s assurance that time held no sway here in this Elsewhere that was the Phaerie realm—and in truth, he wanted to learn what the Archmage had been up to in Nexis, in the absence of himself and Aurian.

If the Mage was staggered by the tale of Davorshan’s death, and what had happened subsequently to D’Arvan and Maya, he was more shocked by Eilin’s news that Eliseth was still alive. “Are you certain?” he asked the Earth-Mage.

“Aurian and I were positive that we’d killed her.”

Eilin nodded. “I have seen her, in Hellorin’s window that looks out upon the world. I imagine that you must have felt the death of Bragar—I saw the Archmage conduct his burning.” She leaned forward anxiously. “But how did you come to believe you had slain Eliseth? Tell me of yourself now—and of Aurian.”

The Earth-Mage cried out softly in astonishment as Anvar told her that he was Miathan’s son, a half-blood Mage, who had started off as Aurian’s servant, until he recovered his powers after he and his Lady had fled to the Southern Lands. Anvar wished, however, he had remembered that Eilin would not know about Aurian’s pregnancy, and Miathan’s curse on the child. He never thought to prepare her, but simply blurted out the news. Witnessing the shock and distress that he had caused, he cursed himself for a clumsy fool.

The Forest Lord gave her wine, and comforted her, and when Eilin had recovered sufficiently for him to continue, Anvar brought his tale up to the present—his defeat of Blacktalon in Aerillia, and the trap that the Moldan had set for him. “And now,” he finished, looking pleadingly at the Lord of the Phaerie, “if you could only return me to my own world, I must get back to Aurian. Surely the child must have come by now, and she—” The look on Hellorin’s face stopped him in mid-sentence. To Anvar, the room suddenly seemed very cold. “You can get me back, can’t you?”

Hellorin sighed. “Alas, I cannot send you back to your own world. It is beyond my power. But . . .” A gleam brightened his fathomless dark eyes. “I can send you beyond. Along the darkest road, Between the Worlds, to the Lady of the Mists. I warn you, the way is fraught with peril; but she has the power to return you, if she will—and she also holds the Harp of Winds: one of the lost Artifacts that you seek!”

Excitement quickened Anvar’s blood. The Harp! Another Artifact! Already he knew that he would dare the danger and take that darkest road—but as he nodded his assent to Hellorin’s questioning gaze, it was not the Harp that occupied his thoughts. It was the thought of returning, as quickly as possible, to Aurian.

Would that I could weep! But when Aurian blasted my eyes, she destroyed all hope of healing tears. Miathan sat before his fire, weary, stooped, and suddenly feeling every year of the double century he had lived. Until their last confrontation, the Archmage had been able to delude himself concerning the magnitude of Aurian’s hatred. But no longer—the look in her eyes had pierced him and driven him back like a spear through the heart. How could he win her back in the face of such deep and deadly loathing?

Now that he had been forced to face the truth, the magnitude of Miathan’s errors appalled him. I should never have killed Forral, he thought. That was my first and greatest mistake—and my first step on the path that led us to this wretched day. The Commander was a Mortal—much though it galled me, I need only have waited . . . Had he not fled with Aurian, Anvar would never have regained his powers. He would have remained here, a lowly servant, and under my control. And the child—had it been born with Aurian’s powers, it might have become a great Mage, an asset to our depleted ranks . . . But here, Miathan’s spirit revolted within him. He simply could not countenance Aurian’s half-blooded Mortal mongrel joining the exalted Magefolk ranks; no more than he had been able to bear the notion of Anvar—Yet—and Miathan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to face the truth—Aurian and Anvar were practically the only Magefolk he had left. Thanks to his blunders on the night of die Wraiths, Finbarr and Meiriel were gone, and D’arvan—well, he had been little use in the first place, but he was lost now for certain, Davorshan was dead, and Eilin had vanished from all knowledge. The only Mage that Miathan had to support him was Eliseth, and the Weather-Mage was not to be trusted, Aurian was now his only hope—the only full-blooded Mage that he still might influence—and besides, she was Aurian, and he had desired her from the first. I must win her back, Miathan thought desperately. I must—but how? Not by killing Anvar, that was certain, even if the Mage could be found. That would finish his chances completely. No, repugnant as the notion might be, Anvar must be spared—for the time being, at least. That should earn him Aurian’s gratitude, and later, he could think of a way to come between them. And the child? Miathan shuddered, but pulled himself together. He glanced across at the secret hiding place behind the wall, where the tarnished, corrupted remains of the Caldron lay concealed. Was there a way to reverse the curse? Could he find it in time?

“Curse you a thousand times over! How could you let her escape you!” The door slammed hard against the wall, shuddering and rebounding on its hinges. Eliseth stood there, white with anger. “Damn you!” she spat. “I should have known all along that you intended to betray and supplant me!”

The years fell from Miathan’s shoulders like a cloak. Springing up straight and tall, he flung a bolt of power at her that cracked across her face like a whiplash, leaving an ugly, livid mark. “Be silent! For all your machinations, I am still Archmage here!

Eliseth staggered, half turning, flinging her arms across her face. When she lowered them, tears of pain were in her eyes, but she gathered herself to face him squarely, her lovely features contorted with rage. “Archmage of what?” she sneered, “Have you looked out of your windows lately, Miathan? Have you ever thought, in all your endless travels of the spirit, to look down and see what is happening in your city? In the lands you now rule? You are Archmage over a handful of ignorant, grubbing Mortals—starving, sullen, and bitter with resentment. Is this the power you sought so avidly and at such cost?” She laughed shrilly. “While you waste your time mooning over that bitch like some drooling, foul-minded dotard, your new-won empire is falling apart around you!”

Inwardly, Miathan recoiled from the venom in her voice. He was careful, however, to let no trace of his dismay extend to his countenance. Rage, normally a flash-fire explosion of wrath, was building within him like a slow red tide, steeling his will and swelling his powers. For a moment he lingered, savoring the sensation.

The Weather-Mage, clearly expecting his usual swift response to such baiting, seemed taken aback. Her instant of doubt and hesitation was her undoing. Miathan snared her eyes with his glittering serpent’s gaze, holding her motionless and aghast as he began to intone the words of a spell in a whispering, singsong voice.

“No!” Despite his control of her will, the word, no more than a whimper, forced itself from Eliseth’s throat. Her eyes were wild and wide with terror, her slim white fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. As Miathan looked on, smiling coldly, her face began to change, its clear and perfect outlines starting to crumple, blur, and sag—until abruptly, Miathan cut the spell off short.

Eliseth, freed from the fetters of his will, sagged and stumbled, catching at the side of the door to keep herself upright. As she regained her balance, her hands flew instantly to her face—and her expression altered. Gasping, she flew across the room to the nearest mirror and stared at what she saw there,

Miathan chuckled, Ten years, Eliseth—ten small years, A droplet in the endless ocean of Magefolk immortality. But what a difference ten years make to that flawless face. Is your body a little less firm, perhaps? A little less straight and slender? He smirked. “It’s almost worse than being a crone, is it not, to see those relentless signs of disintegration and the marks of time,”

Eliseth faced him, speechless and trembling, and Miathan knew that he had cowed her. “The last time, when I aged you and you outfaced me, you could do so because you had nothing to lose. But I have learned from that mistake, my dear. This time it will be different,” His voice grew hard as stone, “Each time you transgress against my will, ten more years will be added to your age, I suggest you think about the repercussions very carefully before you dare to cross me again. And Eliseth—leave Aurian alone. If you so much as raise a finger against her, I will not let you die—but you will wish a thousand and a thousand times again that I had,”

As Eliseth, beaten, turned to slink away, he threw a sop to her with deliberate and malicious cunning. “Incidentally, I have not discarded you in favor of Aurian, whatever you may think. For all those ten additional years, you are beautiful still.” Crossing the room, he cupped her face in his hands. Eliseth glared back at him, but he saw the steely wall of hatred behind her eyes suddenly pierced by a sliver of doubt.

The Archmage smiled inwardly. “Yes,” he murmured, “you are beautiful, indeed. I may want Aurian to increase our dwindling race, and I may need her powers to further my plans, but she will always remain wayward and willful. I could never trust her, Eliseth, and so she must remain a prisoner—while you are free, to come and go and work at my side.”

Deliberately, he let his smile reach his face. “You would make a fitting consort for an Archmage—if you prove that I can trust you.” With that he released her.

“Liar’ Eliseth breathed—but there was a new light behind her eyes.

The Archmage shrugged. “Time will tell,” he said. “For both of us.”

As he heard the door close softly behind her, Miathan chuckled. Had she taken the bait? Time would tell, indeed. Hearing the Weather-Mage come storming down the stairs, the little maid fled on silent feet, back round the curve of the staircase. Flinging herself through Eliseth’s open door, she grabbed her rag and began to polish the table industriously, breathing deeply and schooling her features into their usual, expressionless mask, while elation bubbled over within her heart. She had come up to clean Eliseth’s chambers as usual, but hearing voices from the floor above, she, had crept as close as she dared, to listen. And by the gods, the risk had proved worthwhile!

Eliseth came stamping into the room, holding a hand to her face. “Inella!” She recoiled at the sight of the forgotten maid, and then collected herself. “Is this all you’ve done, you idle slattern?” She aimed a blow at the maid, who ducked adroitly. Eliseth scowled, but seemed disinclined to pursue the matter further. “Fetch me some wine,” she snapped, and vanished into her bedchamber.

“Yes, Lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy at her vanishing back, and ran to do her bidding. Though her face remained expressionless, her heart was singing. The Lady Aurian had escaped! By the gods, such news was worth the risk of being here!