Harp of Winds

2 The Windeye

There were voices on the wind that whistled around the slopes of the Wyndveil Mountain, whispering secrets across the stiff, frost-cracked grasses of the plateau, long and wide and wildly beautiful, that was the heart’s home of the Xandim. This meadow, once lush and green, and jeweled with poppies and starflowers in the summer that seemed to have fled forever, was split by a turbulent stream running out of a dark, narrow valley that vanished into the shadows of the mountain’s limbs. Within this haunted vale lay the barrows of the Xandim dead. Only for a burial would the Horselords pass the avenue of standing stones that guarded the valley’s entrance, and only the Windeye knew its secret heart, the twisted spire of rock cleft from the mountain, which stood like a tower at the valley’s end. The apex of the spire had been hollowed out in some long-ago age to form an eyrie, open to the elements, with walls of air and a roof of stone supported by four slender pillars. This Chamber of Winds was reached by a scanty stair of crumbling footholds cut into the mountain’s face and connected to the spire by a cobweb bridge of twisted rope. Only a Windeye would attempt the risky climb, and dare the perilous crossing. Only a Windeye would have the need. The keening wind shredded the misty weave of Chiamh’s shadow-cloak, hurling handfuls of sleet into his face as he sat hunched and freezing on the chill stone floor of the Chamber. He tried to ignore the storm’s distractions, reminding himself that he was the Windeye of the Xandim—blessed (or cursed) with the power to see beyond the vision of normal men, to perceive and understand the tidings of the winds. This storm, he knew, bore more tidings than most. The tortured, screaming air was swollen with portents.

The storm tore at his soaked and shivering body, flattening his tangled brown hair across his face, and the young Seer flinched from the evil Power that rode the wind like the shadow of dark wings. Coming from the north, it had haunted his nightmares—since the onset of winter. Slim, strong fingers on the wind clawed him with icicle nails. Eyes that held the merciless chill of eternal winter glinted in the darkness. Silver hair flowed like a deadly glacier, as the snow-laden winds formed the image of a face: flawlessly beautiful, its cold lips curved in a cruel, mocking smile. Her gaze passed over him, unseeing and dispassionate but painful as a blade drawn across his shrinking skin. Despite the windspun cloak of shadows that concealed him, he shuddered. If She should find him . . .

Chiamh shrank down on the exposed platform, withdrawing deep into the elusive depths of his shadow-cloak until the dark-bright shadow of her passing had sped away across the mountains. Tonight there would be more, he knew. Something had forced him from his bed to dare this lonely, freezing perch, and the terror of the Snow Queen’s passing. Turning his back on the evil north wind, the Windeye swung his blurred, nearsighted gaze toward the mountains, drawn like the nether point of a lodestone toward the south.

A sense of chill dissolution, like a wave of icy water, washed over him. Chiamh felt his weak-sighted brown eyes melting—glazing—turning to reflective quicksilver as his Othersight took control. The night turned bright and clear around him; the mountains changed from the dense solidity of stone to glittering translucent prisms; the writhing winds became turbulent rivers of silver light. The Windeye caught his breath in panic and screwed his treacherous eyes tight shut. Though it had been with him since childhood, he would never get used to this unnerving change! The lure of Vision tugged at him, demanding that he follow. Chiamh bit his lip, bribing his undisciplined fear with the promise of a jug of wine as soon as he got down from this dreadful place. From the past, he seemed to hear the voice of his beloved Grandma: “Eat your meat, Chiamh—then you may have the honeycomb” As always, her memory eased his fear, and Chiamh smiled. What a fierce old lady she had been How wise! How strong A warrior born, and the greatest Windeye in the history of the Xandim. She had borne this burden unflinching, and it was up to him, her heir, to bear it now. Scraping his dripping hair out of his face with cold-stiffened fingers, Chiamh opened his eyes, and directed the piercing silver beam of his Othersight across the mountains,

Spurning his earthbound body, the Windeye’s mind ripped loose to soar aloft and ride the unruly winds in pursuit of his Vision. Like a rainbow of jewels, the translucent mountains spun beneath him, A scattering of bonfire sparks seared his eyes, each vivid light a single, living soul, O Goddess—it must be Aerillia, the Skyfolk citadel! He had spun too far Out of control , . . Right over the mountains to the crystal lacework of the forest beyond, with its scintillant backdrop of desert sands ...

Far away, in the Chamber of Winds, the breath fled Chiamh’s body in one shocked gasp. More Powers! Another Evil One like a dark, writhing cloud—and two others, far to the south, in the forest beyond the mountains! Their lights shone clear and bright, united in love and honesty and clarity of purpose—then suddenly they were gone, eclipsed by a wave of black and overwhelming force that reeked of hatred and menace and merciless lust. Chiamh shrieked, and fled. The forefront of the wave smote him—engulfed him! Somehow his awareness clawed its way back into his body. Chiamh sobbed with terror, hiding like a child beneath his shadow-cloak until the evil had passed.

It was a long time before the shaken Windeye dared raise his head, but when he finally looked out again with his silver gaze, the streaming air ran clean. To his utter relief, there were no tidings of death on the wind, He understood then that he had been vouchsafed a vision of warning. The Powers—those bright and lovely lights—they still lived! But what would happen when the Dark One reached out to take them as he had foreseen? He had to help them—that was why he had been drawn here tonight!

Chiamh’s excitement faltered, as dismay overtook him. “How can you help them?” he said aloud, in the way of those who live alone, “You have no idea who they are, what their purpose is , , . But you can find out—if you dare.”

The storm wailed and tugged at the Windeye still, like a fretful child, its violence would make a Seeing hard to control, the danger being that he was likely to find out far more than he would wish. Such visions were perilous—yet he had to take the risk. He alone of the Xandim knew the cause of this grim winter that paralyzed the land, though not one of his people believed him, He knew that if the Snow Queen was not opposed, it would spell the end of freedom for his

—and others. Alone, he was helpless, but if he could somehow help those bright Powers ...

Turning into the storm, Chiamh wrapped a piece of wind around his fingers. As he poured his Othersight into the knot of air, it took fire, flaring into a shining tangle of moonspun silver. With the greatest he grasped it, then pulling his gently apart, he began to stretch and mold the gleaming stuff until at last, between his hands, he held a glimmering disc of silvery air. Narrowing his quicksilver eyes, the Windeye looked into the mirror . . .

And the visions came, a flood of images that flickered and changed and ran into one another in their urgent haste to reveal themselves . . .

The Snow Queen’s cold and deadly beauty; the haggard face of the Dark One, with eyes of burning stone; and all the world in chains beneath their feet . . .

The forest beyond the mountains. A solitary tower, crumbling to ruin, and the lean, fleet shape of a running wolf. The Bright Ones—a tall woman with hair of burnished red, her body rounded with child; the blue-eyed man who never left her side; and behind them, half glimpsed, the specter of a warrior, who hovered over them protectively . . . Another forest, far away in the North, that woke in Chiamh a conflicting tangle of fear and longing, and the wrenching pain of separation and loss. A fiery Sword, sealed in crystal, that marked the end of evil—and the annihilation of the Xandim ...

A face, long and narrow, bony of nose and high of cheekbone, too young for die silver that streaked the dark hair and echoed the sly, sidelong glint of hooded gray eyes. It was the face of a rascal, a malcontent, a maker of mischief—the face of Schiannath, the misfit, who had actually dared to challenge the Herdlord Phalihas for leadership several moons ago, Chiamh had no idea of his whereabouts now, His failure had meant his exile from the tribe, and he had vanished into the mountains, together with his sister Iscalda—a particular cause of anger to Phalihas, since the girl had been the Herdlord’s betrothed.

“Schiannath?” The mirror rippled and clouded, as Chiamh almost lost control of the Seeing in surprise, Schiannath a part of this business? “O sweet Goddess,” the Windeye muttered, “how in the name of your mercy can he be concerned with this?” With an effort he steadied the image—and saw the woman again, her hair a flaming banner, her body wreathed in a rainbow aura of magic. The Dark One stretched forth his hand to take her, but the vision of Schiannath lay between them like a barrier. She reached out to take the Sword, and destroy the Xandim . . .

“NO!” Chiamh shrieked. The mirror dissolved into mist between his fingers as he collapsed on the very brink of his eyrie, heedless of the lethal drop. To his Othersight, the meaning of the Vision was horribly clear. Only the Bright Ones could forestall the encroaching evil—but at the cost of the entire Xandim race.

The Seer wrestled with the conflicting possibilities, but whichever way his thoughts turned, he came up against one inescapable truth—whether or not the Evil Ones succeeded, the Xandim were doomed. The Windeye bowed his head, and with tears streaming down his face, he turned north, to look out across the heartlands of his people. He had forgotten that the Othersight still held him in thrall. Chiamh’s body stiffened, left behind on the brink of the platform as his consciousness fled on the wings of his Othersight, arrowing down the valley along a path of silver toward the source of the Vision, Across the snow-scoured meadow of the plateau he sped, following the crystal course of the ice-locked stream, down the broad, shallow steps of the cliff path, beside the diamond-lace curtain of the frozen waterfall, and along the well-traveled track that skirted the foot of the cliff until , , , Until ...

“Iriana of the Beasts!” Chiamh shouted in astonishment. There, approaching the blocky fortifications of the Xandim

he saw the prisoners. Strangers from across the sea! A man and a woman, warriors by their garb; a silver-haired grandsire, clinging stubbornly to life . , . And the other. Goddess, the other! She was one of the Powers—but Bright or Dark, Chiamh could not tell, Her mind was hidden from his Othersight by a cloudy labyrinth of madness. The Windeye was sure that the outlanders were somehow connected with the Bright Powers, And he also knew, with a chill of certainty, that as foreigners in the Xandim lands, they would be killed out of hand, But they must not die—or the Bright Ones would be lost! The Vision was telling him to save them!

But saving the strangers was easier said than done. How would he persuade the Herdlord? Chiamh knew he had failed to win the respect accorded to his Grandam. She’d had the advantage of-venerable old age ... She had no always been old, but she had proved herself as a warrior against the marauding Khazalim. He had never done so and never would—the weakness of his normal sight prevented it. Why, before he saw his enemy, he’d be dead meat! Face it, Chiamh, he thought, you’re a laughingstock—and so you hide in your valley, living in a cave like a hermit . . . They will never believe you—they’ll mock, as they have mocked so often . . .

Nonetheless, he had to try—and there was no time to lose! By the light in the sky, half glimpsed between the scudding clouds, Chiamh knew that dawn was on its way. Stifling his doubts, the young Windeye scrambled down from the tower, slipping and slithering and scraping himself painfully in his haste as his Othersight faded back to his own defective vision. He fell the last few feet and landed, winded and bruised, on a pile of gravel. Without waiting to catch his breath, he picked himself up and pelted down the valley, stumbling and rolling and getting up only to be tripped again by rocks and roots and hampering drifts of snow that massed in this narrow, sheltered place. But he kept on going, driven by sheer determination. The Bright Ones must be helped! He must get there in time to save the strangers! With the forgotten tatters of his shadow-cloak streaming out behind him, Chiamh ran as he had never dared run before.

The Windeye burst out of the woods at the lower end of the valley, and passed the standing stones that were its gate. The smooth, inviting grass of the plateau beckoned, and he heaved a sigh of relief. No longer did he have to worry about breaking a leg on uneven ground—on the plateau, he could really move! Chiamh stopped in the shadow of the great stones and collected himself, turning his attention inward. Then—he changed.

To an observer, he knew, the transformation would have taken place in seconds. To Chiamh, time seemed to stretch—as did his body, his bones and muscles gaining a tingling elasticity as they lengthened and grew thick and strong. There was a moment of blurred confusion, as impossible to register as the instant between consciousness and sleep—and in the lee of the stones that had previously shadowed a young man, Stood a snaggy-maned bay horse.

Chiamh pawed the ground, enjoying the power of his equine body, and the tapestry of rich scents that swirled around him. His ears flicked back and forth, hearing the slurring of the wind across the plateau’s snowswept grass, and the creak of branches back in the woods. His eyesight, unfortunately, remained unchanged in his Othershape—flatter in depth of vision and more peripheral and encompassing than that of a human—but still as blurred as ever. Still, at least in this form, he had other senses that could, in some measure, compensate . . .

Woolgathering! Chiamh snorted disgustedly. That was the trouble with this shape—one’s thoughts tended to become those of a horse, and the longer one stayed this way, the greater was the risk of losing all vestiges of human intelligence. But enough! Time was passing! At the far side of the meadow, he would have to change back again, to descend the steep cliff path, but in the meantime it was worth it, both For the saving in time—and the sheer, exuberant joy of the run. With a flick of his heels, the Windeye was off, racing the wind across the plateau.

In the lands of the North, yet in a place unreachable within the boundaries of the mundane world, the palace of the Forest Lord, with its treelike towers and innumerable gardens and glades, lay deceptively tranquil in a waiting silence, within and upon its massive hill. Upon the craggy slopes of the mound, a ferny hollow cupped a crystal pool, fed by a silvery filigree of water that twisted and tumbled down a stony precipice from the heights above.

The Lady of die Lake sat by the water, combing the silver-shot strands of her long brown hair. Warily, the great stag watched her from its thicket on the other side of the pool; safe, he thought, and unobserved—until the Earth-Mage lifted her eyes to him and smiled.

“Do you prefer that form, my Lord?” Her voice was low and musical.

Hellorin, chagrined, stepped forth, shifting to his magnificent human shape. Only the branching shadows of the great stag’s crown above his brow remained as a reminder that this was no ordinary Mage or Mortal—for indeed, the Lord of the Phaerie was more than both. His feet, clad in high boots of supple leather, caused nary a ripple as he walked toward Eilin across the surface of the pool. “The eyes of the Magefolk were ever keen,” he complimented her. “Many’s the Mortal huntsman I have lured and deceived with that shape.”

The Lady Eilin laughed. “Aye, and many’s the Mortal maid, I’ll wager, that you have lured and deceived with the shape you are wearing now!”

Hellorin chuckled, and made her a flourishing bow. “I have done my best,” he told her loftily. “After all, my Lady, the Phaerie have a certain reputation to uphold!” Sitting down beside her on the fragrant turf, he turned to more serious matters. “I did not expect to find you here. Are you tired, then, Lady, of your vigil?”

Eilin’s brow creased in a frown. “Not tired. Lord-not weary, at any rate. It helps to see what passes in the world outside. But oh, it galls me to be reduced to an onlooker, when I long to be free—to go where I am so badly needed, and do my part”

Hellorin, hearing the tremor of tears in her voice, turned the starry depths of his pay eyes upon her. “But that is not the sole cause of your unhappiness. There is more, Eilin, is there not?”

The Earth-Mage nodded. “The window in your hall shows my Valley,” she said sadly. “It shows Nexis, and all the northern lands—but it doesn’t show me Aurian Day after day I bend my will upon the thought of my daughter, but she is nowhere to be found! Where is she?” Her voice caught on a sob, “Trapped in this Elsewhere, I might not know if she died. Surely, if I cannot find her, then she must be dead!”

The Lady’s hopeless weeping scalded the Forest Lord’s heart. Since losing D’arvan’s mother, the Mage Adrina, grief had been a constant companion to Hellorin, and he sorrowed for Eilin’s heartache. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close to his side. “Take heart,” he told her. “Your fears may yet be groundless. If you cannot see Aurian’s image in my window, it may only mean she has voyaged across the ocean to the south.”

Eilin stiffened. “What?” Her head came up sharply, a spark of irritation lit her eyes. “Do you mean your wretched window doesn’t work across the sea?”

Hellorin, amused by her transformation from sorrow to anger, and her sudden abandonment of the courtly manners of the Phaerie, struggled to hide a smile. Ah, it took little provocation for the Magefolk to revert to type! And how much she reminded him, in that moment, of his dear Adrina! “Did you think to try to look?” he asked her gently. The Earth-Mage reddened. “Why, yes!” she blustered, “I mean—no! How the blazes should I know what the Southlands are like? I thought your window worked in the same way as scrying—I concentrated on Aurian, and had she been in the south, I was relying on it to me there!” To Hellorin’s astonishment, she flung her arms around him and hugged him, “Gods,” she cried, half in laughter, half in tears, “what a relief it is, to hope again! For days I’ve been convinced . . .”

It had been ages since Hellorin had held a woman—of any race—in his arms. After the loss of Adrina, he had never had the heart to do so again. As the Earth-Mage looked up at him, their eyes caught, and held—then Eilin looked away. “Tell me,” she said, in a voice that sounded strained and unnatural to the Forest Lord’s ears, “why the range of your window cannot see beyond the ocean?”

“The salts are a barrier to the Old Magic, such as the Phaerie use.” Hellorin found his voice with difficulty. “A fact that your ancestors, Lady, used to their advantage, and our detriment”

“How so?” The Mage was frowning now, and Hellorin felt a fleeting pang of regret that the bitter troubles of an age long gone should mar their accord. He sighed. “Lady, forget that I spoke. What good can it do us, to dwell upon the quarrels and injustices of the past?”

“I want to know!” Eilin snapped; then her expression softened. “If the forebears of the Magefolk wronged you, then only their descendants may make amends. And since I am the only Mage to whom you can speak at present ... . .” She tilted an eyebrow at him, and Hellorin realized that her anger had been directed, not at him, but at those ancestors, long gone to dust, who had imprisoned his folk out of the world. And so he began to speak, telling her things that no Phaerie had ever told a Mage. He told her how the world had been long ago, before the Artifacts of the High Magic had been crafted, and the Magefolk had gained ascendancy over the elder races who possessed the powers of the Old Magic.

The Lady Eilin listened, wide-eyed, as Hellorin spoke of the gigantic Moldai, elemental creatures of living rock who lived in an odd but mutually beneficial association with the Dwelven, the Smallfolk, who dwelt within their mountainous bodies and went out into the world to be their eyes and ears and limbs.

“When the Magefolk wished to weaken the Moldai, what better way than to separate them from the Dwelven, exiling them in the Northern lands where they could no longer reach the Moldai, who dwelt in the South?” Hellorin’s voice was bitter. “And what apt justice, to use the sea to do so—for it was a Moldan—a mad, wild giant—who seized the powers of the Staff of Earth and used them to fracture the land mass that was once both North and South together. He caused the sea to enter, drowning the lands between, with the loss of many lives, both Mage and Mortal alike.”

Eilin frowned. “I didn’t know,” she said, “These tales of the Ancients have vanished from our history,”

Hellorin laughed sourly. “Then the more fools you, to misplace such vital knowledge! Lady, are you not aware that the Mad One—the Moldan who caused the destruction—is now the only one of his race to exist in the North? And had you no idea that he still lives, chained and imprisoned by spells, within the very rock on which you Magefolk built your citadel?”

“What?” Eilin gasped. “In Nexis? Dear Gods, if the Archmage should discover this ...”

“We must pray that he does not,” Hellorin agreed grimly. “Miathan has already placed the world in gravest peril by his profligate summoning of the Nihilim—a Moldan, mad already, and bearing a grudge that has lasted centuries, might not care about limiting his revenge to the Magefolk who imprisoned him!”

The thought of the Moldan existing all those years beneath the Academy was too frightening for Eilin to dwell on. Wishing to distract her mind with other matters, she turned back to the Forest Lord. “You said that my ancestors used the sea against the Moldai,” she told him, “but what has that to do with the Phaerie?”

Hellorin shrugged. “Little, in truth,” he admitted, “but when the Moldan created the sea that had not existed before, the Magefolk found that the power of the Old Magic could not pass across salt water. Also, the catastrophe convinced the Mages that elemental beings such as the Phaerie were too dangerous to be left at large in the world. They used the Artifacts of Power to exile us—and not content with that, they also took our steeds,”

A wistful smile softened the Forest Lord’s sculpted mouth. “What they were! What fire they had; what power; what beauty and spirit! They were fleet and strong, and terrible in battle—and they could outspeed the wind!” Hellorin

his eyes shadowed with ancient memory. “In winter, when the moon was full, we rode across the land like comets, with our hounds, like my Barodh, at our sides, and the coats of our steeds glistening like moonlight. The Mortals would lock up their beasts and hide quaking in their beds when the Wild Hunt was abroad!”

Hellorin’s voice shook with emotion, “The loss of our horses represented the loss of our freedom. Perhaps that was why the Magefolk took them—or perhaps, as I believe, they wished to tame them for their own use—as if they had a chance! At any rate, when they exiled us, they forbade us our mounts, which we loved, and sent them to the Southlands, across the sea where our magic could not reach. We only had time for one last desperate spell to confound our foes, before we lost our steeds forever ...”

“What did you do?” Eilin asked breathlessly.

“To protect our precious mounts from conquest by Magefolk and Mortals alike, and help them survive in an alien land, we gave them human form,” Hellorin told her. “They became—and as far as I know, they still are—capable of changing shape from human to equine at will.” He looked at her sadly. “We will not regain them until we have been freed from our exile—and even so, there may be difficulties, for we Phaerie cannot cross the sea. And who knows, in these long ages, how their race may have altered?” His voice grew harsh. “Truly, Eilin, if this Magefolk interference has cost us our horses forever, all the endless ages will not suffice for them to make recompense!”

His words, recalling the bitter enmity that had existed for so long between his folk and hers, were enough to strain the fragile bond that had been building between Forest Lord and Mage. Eilin was frowning, and suddenly, the evening seemed darker. Hellorin shivered, wondering what damage he had unwittingly wrought.

The Earth-Mage twisted her hands in her lap. “Speaking of recompense, Lord, there is something I have long been meaning to ask you ...”

Hellorin, his curiosity piqued, nodded, “Say on, Lady.”

“I ... Do you remember, so many years ago, when you saved Aurian and Forral, who were lost in a blizzard?”

“Aye, Lady, I recall it well—the first time we met.”

“You told me then what I already knew—that in dealing with the Phaerie, there is always a price. You said—”

“Remember that this matter is not resolved between us. We will meet again—and when we do, I will claim my debt,”

Hellorin supplied.

Eilin flinched. “What made you say that?” she demanded. “How did you know we would meet again? Had I wished to renege on our bargain, I only needed never to summon you—”

“As indeed you did not,” the Forest Lord rebuked her. “This time, it was my son D’arvan who did the summoning.”

“Thanks to which, I now owe you another debt for saving my life!” Eilin turned anxious eyes to the Phaerie Lord.

“How long will you keep me in suspense? I am a prisoner here, no matter how kindly a captivity it may seem! How can I rest, not knowing what you may see fit to ask of me?”

Hellorin sighed. “Eilin, I understand your concern. Sooner or later, a price must be paid, for our Law cannot be set aside. Why, I was unable even to spare my son and his beloved, who paid a heart-rending price for my aid with their endless vigil in the Wildwood to guard the Sword of Flame!” He shook his head, “But alas, I cannot name what I would demand of you. This is not cruelty on my part—I simply have no idea what to ask, which in itself is strange, as if it formed part of the workings of some destiny that I cannot foresee. When first we met, I hated the Magefolk—I scarcely knew you, and I had no idea of the existence of my son. When you asked for my aid, so many notions leapt into my mind, to exact revenge on your kind through you! But”—he spread his hands “I could not, I must hold your indebtedness against some future need,”

“I see” snapped Eilin, “Your actions sty little for your trust in me—and a great deal for my lack of trust in you!” She rose to her feet and strode out of the clearing without a backward look.

Eliseth sat in her chambers, bundled in cloaks and huddled over a roaring fire. Since Miathan had set his aging spell on her, her bones had ached with the cold. The Weather-Mage stared into the blaze, her silver eyes reflecting the glare of the leaping flames. Her body was wracked with shivers, but her hatred smoldered on, un-quenched—and she would not endure this loathsome condition much longer! “Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Miathan!” she grated. Her rheumy eyes tracked blurrily around the room, registering drifts of shattered crystal that twinkled frostily on the lush white carpet. After Miathan had wrought his hideous change in her, the Weather-Mage had smashed every mirror in her rooms.

Avoiding slivers of glass, Eliseth shuffled across the room, leaning on her staff for support. With stiff, twisted hands she poured spirits into a goblet, cursing herself for succumbing to the dubious comfort of drink-—the very thing for which she had once derided Bragar.

Bragar! Eliseth emptied the glass in one swallow, and refilled it quickly. The Fire-Mage had been a fool—he had deserved to die. So why was she haunted by the sight of his blackened, smoking face? Why did she still feel the ghost of his clawlike grasp on her hand’s aged skin?

Bragar loved you! Who will love you now, old crone?

That insidious, persistent thought! A snarl of rage bubbled up in Eliseth’s throat. The goblet flew across the room, impelled by the force of her magical will, to smash against the wall, its contents streaking like dark blood down the pure white surface. “Oh Gods!” Eliseth buried her face in shaking hands, “Pull yourself together!” she growled, “If you panic, you’ll ruin your only chance!” Taking another goblet from the shelf, she filled it and returned to the fireside to wait. He would be coming soon. By now, he must have discovered what she had done—and if she wanted to regain her youth, everything depended on the approaching confrontation,

The door flew open, rebounding against the wall with a reverberant crash, “You treacherous bitch. What in the name of the Gods are you playing at?”

Eliseth jerked upright, scrambling her wits to meet the ire of the Archmage, Miathan slammed his fist on the table, the gems that had replaced his burning crimson with rage. “You have one minute to begin restoring the winter in Aerillia—before I blast you to cinders!”

This was her moment! Eliseth willed her shaking body to stillness, and forced the illusion of nonchalance. “I don’t care if you do.” She shrugged. “Do you think I want to stay in this wrinkled, sagging shell? Do your worst, Miathan—ah, but I forget, you already have!”

“You call that my worst?” Miathan howled.

The Weather-Mage cringed and cowered as a roaring inferno leapt up around her. The flames closed in, reaching for her greedily. Eliseth felt their searing heat, felt her hair frizzle and flame. Her skin was beginning to blister and crack. She clenched her fists so hard that blood ran through her fingers as her nails cut into her palms; clenched her teeth so hard to stop herself from screaming that she thought her jaw must surely break, “It’s just an illusion,” she told herself.

“An illusion!” But oh—the unspeakable pain!

“Restore the winter!” the Archmage roared, his voice cutting into the depths of her agony,

Eliseth shuddered, ignoring the insistent voice. Everything was at stake—everything, I must endure, she told herself, I must! But it was too much—how could anyone endure such suffering? The mind of the Weather-Mage twisted and writhed in panic within its cage of tortured flesh, desperately seeking to end the agony.

And then—something changed.

Eliseth’s senses reeled as her vision blurred and doubled. Though she could see the inferno surrounding her, and beyond that the gloating of the Archmage, she also viewed the scene from above, as though she down from overhead. The Magewoman, needing all her strength to fight the pain, closed her eyes against the dizzying distraction—and suddenly, she understood. As though her eyes were open, she could still see the second scene—the view from above! In trying to flee the agony, her mind was trying to flee her body! Her crone’s mind had almost lost the solution, but her instincts had not led her astray! Eliseth laughed aloud as she gathered her remaining wits and slipped easily free from her outward form.

Oh, blessed relief! The Weather-Mage paused, conscious only of the absence of pain, steadying and balancing the energies that formed her inner self. Then a howl of thwarted rage drew her attention. The flames had vanished. Hovering close to the ceiling of her chamber, she looked down to see Miathan, white with fury, standing over the discarded shell of her body, heaping curses on her head.

Eliseth’s confidence returned in a glorious surge. Her inner being was not old and ugly! Here she was young and strong again, and beautiful as ever! If I could only stay like this, she thought. But without the arcane power generated by such as Miathan through the shedding of Mortal blood, a Mage could not sustain life outside her earthbound body for long. Due to the aged fragility of her mundane form, and the dreadful depletion of the energy she had squandered to withstand the Archmage’s onslaught, Eliseth could already feel herself weakening. She must go back, she knew, or remain lost and bodiless forever—but still she lingered, hoping to drive Miathan into a frenzy as he saw the last chance to restore his winter slipping away. Ah, now she had him where she wanted him! Eliseth smiled in satisfaction—then shuddered at the thought of abandoning this glory to cage herself once more in the weak and aching body of the crone, “But it won’t be for long,” she assured herself, as she swooped, closed her eyes—and sank back into the shackles of her earthbound form.

The Weather-Mage opened her eyes, and Miathan’s tirade choked off as though he had been throttled. Fleetingly, Eliseth wished he still possessed his eyes: not through any kindly feeling, but because the expressionless gems that had taken their place rendered his face unreadable. But whether it was due to relief or anger, the Weather-Mage gave thanks for his hesitation, and was quick to take the initiative.

“You’ve had your vengeance, Archmage; will you not be content? I defied you, and I have paid. Won’t you put the past behind us? For still you need my help, A bargain, Miathan—my youth for your winter. We must trust each other now, for with your aging spell, you’ll always have a hold on me—as I have the winter that is so essential to your plans. How can such cooperation not benefit us both?”

“I’d sooner bed a viper than trust you again!” Miathan spat. The Weather-Mage hid a smile. He’s beaten, she thought triumphantly. She said no more; only waited for his rage to cool. His surrender had come sooner than she’d expected, and Eliseth wondered just what had passed during his communion with the High Priest of the Skyfolk.

“Very well,” Miathan snapped at last. “But be warned—one more attempt to thwart my plans, and I will use the Caldron to blast you so far from the living Universe that not even the Gods will be able to find you!”

The Archmage raised his hands, his face taut with concentration. A wave of weakness flowed over Eliseth; her body seemed to blur and shimmer; there was a flash of excruciating pain as the old bones straightened; a tingling sensation suffused her skin as the sagging flesh filled out again with the healthy bloom of youth. Powerful blood coursed like wine through her veins, restoring suppleness and strength to stiff old muscles,

“Thanks be to the Gods!” Eliseth leapt to her feet, flinging off her swathing cloaks

“You’d do better to thank me!” the Archmage told her flatly, “Count yourself fortunate, Eliseth, that I still need your aid to accomplish my plans!”

“Whatever I can do to help you, Archmage, I will,” The Weather-Mage did her best to sound chastened, Miathan gave her a long, hard look, “Very well,” he snapped. “To begin with, you must undertake a task that I had planned to entrust to Bragar. Since your meddling killed him, you must take up his work in his stead, He scowled at her. “At least it should keep you from mischief for a while!”

Eliseth went to her cabinet and poured wine for both, Miathan took the goblet without thanks, and sipped before continuing: “I wanted Bragar to investigate the disappearance of Angos and his men. We must assume they are dead

—and since their last message said they were tracking the rebels toward the Valley, I suspect that Eilin had a hand in the matter—possibly aided by D’arvan!”

Eliseth’s fists clenched with rage at the thought of the ones who had slain her lover Davorshan, but despite her anger at his murder, she felt a shrinking knot of fear within her. She discounted Davorshan’s weak-willed twin as a threat, but the Lady of the Lake had destroyed a Mage far younger and physically stronger than herself, and seemingly, had slain about two dozen hardened mercenaries! Eilin was Aurian’s mother, and obviously, they had underestimated her power. The Magewoman shivered. Is this some new plot of Miathan’s invention, to get rid of me? she thought.

“You want me to go to the Valley?” she asked quietly,

“No!” the Archmage barked. “Use subterfuge—use spies,” he went on. “You’re good at such underhanded work] But whatever you do, find out what is happening in that Valley.

“The only reason I do not ask you to go yourself,” Miathan continued, “is that I need your skills to restore winter over Aerillia—but is it possible to keep the worst of the storms away from the southern part of the mountains?”

Eliseth looked at him through narrowed eyes. Now what is he up to? she thought. She frowned, trying to reconstruct the area in her memory, for her ancient charts had been lost in the destruction of her weather-dome. “I think so,” she said at last. “The range broadens south of the country of the Winged Folk—if I monitor the air mass carefully, those mountains form a natural barrier . . .” She frowned. “Why?”

“Eliseth, if you think I’ll trust you with my plans, so soon after your treachery—” the Archmage began heatedly, but smoothly she forestalled him.

“Miathan, please, That was all a regrettable mistake, I only want to make amends, but how can I help you when I don’t know what is going on?”

“I’ll tell you my plans in my own good time.” Miathan snapped. “At the moment, all you to know is that in order for my trap for Aurian to succeed. she must have access into those southern mountains. You will facilitate this, will you not?” His voice sank to a sinister purr. “For remember, Eliseth—the ruin of your youth that I accomplished once, I can easily wreak again!”

The Weather-Mage met his gaze, her face expression* less. “I promise, Miathan, that you will never again have the need,” she lied. “You can trust me, I swear—for it’s as much to my advantage as yours that Aurian should be captured.” Eliseth turned away to hide a smile. And once you have captured her for me, Miathan, she thought, you and Aurian must look to yourselves!