Harp of Winds

8 The Tower of Incondor

The ground shook and the ears of the companions were battered by the receding roar of the avalanche. Snow, hurled high into the air, came spattering down on top of them. Raven took wing like a startled bird. The terrified horses reared, trying to pull their lead reins free of the eunuch’s hands. One broke free and shot forward, vanishing over the edge of the slide with a shriek that was abruptly and sickeningly cut off. Bohan and Nereni had fallen to the ground beneath the hooves of the plunging animals, and Aurian fought to keep her balance by hanging on grimly to the bridle of her wheeling mount. Then mercifully, the world began to settle.

“Anvar!.” Heartsick, Aurian scrambled toward the edge of the slide—but hands were holding her back. After a frantic struggle she realized that Yazour and Eliizar were hanging on to her arms.

“Wait, Aurian,” the young warrior told her urgently, “lest we lose you too!”

As the echoes of the avalanche died away, Aurian, her knuckles clenched tight against her mouth, stepped forward with Yazour and Eliizar, and looked down into the pass. Crystalline clouds of powdered ice hung in the air as a silvery haze above the snow slide, obscuring what lay below. Raven landed beside them. “We must wait until it settles.” She sounded very subdued. “I can see nothing down there.”

Aurian cursed. “You wait. I’m going now.”

“Let me—I can move faster on that slippery surface.” It was Shia. “Follow—but take care, my friend. We want no more falls today!” With a bound, the great cat was gone.

Behind the Mage, Bohan and Nereni were picking themselves up. Barring a bruise or two, the eunuch seemed unhurt, and went limping off to gather up the reins of the horses. A shaken Nereni had to be helped to her feet by Eliizar. Her face was streaked with tears, and blood poured from a cut in her forehead, where she had been caught by a flying hoof. Aurian, numb with shock over Anvar’s disappearance—she would not let herself call it more than that—found herself thinking that the woman was lucky to be alive . . . With that, the Mage’s thoughts returned to Anvar. At the top of the pass, the rocky trail had been swept almost bare of snow. What was left had been smoothed and impacted in patches by the avalanche until it looked like glass. Aurian felt a shiver of dread. Automatically, she groped in her belt for the Staff of Earth to help her balance—and stopped dead, her eyes wide with horror. Dear Gods, if the Staff had been lost . . . Flinging caution to the winds, she started down.

Luckily, Yazour caught up with her before she had gone more than a step or two—and even that had been almost enough to send her hurtling to the bottom of the defile. He caught her arm as she floundered for balance.

“Take care!” he scolded, handing her one of the stout walking staffs that Bohan had cut for her companions before they left the forest. “You should have waited.”

“But—” Aurian protested.

The warrior hushed her. “I know,” he told her sadly. “We have no choice, however—we must go slowly, if we hope to reach the bottom intact”

Though Aurian was frantic with fear for Anvar, not to mention the fate of the Staff, it was impossible to descend the pass with any speed. Visibility, between the heavy gray sky and the steepening walls of the defile on either side was poor, and the trail was like glass underfoot. She had to test her footing with each step before she could put her weight on it, and to make matters worse, she was continually unbalanced by the bulk of the child she carried.

Partway down, they came across the unfortunate horse. It lay broken and bloody beside the trail, its neck and limbs wrenched askew at impossible angles. Aurian turned away, with tight throat and clenched teeth, unable to stop herself thinking of Anvar. Yazour’s hand tightened on her arm. One look at his grim and pallid face, and Aurian knew that his thoughts were similar to her own. “Perhaps we should wait for the others?” he suggested tentatively.

The Mage shook her head. “It’s no use putting it off.”

It was then, in that darkest of moments, that Shia’s voice burst into Aurians mind. “ Anvar is alive !”

It was as well that the avalanche had already spent itself. Aurian let out a whoop that unbalanced her again, and sent her slithering down the trail. Yazour caught at her, and they slid for several feet before coming to an unsteady halt against the rocky wall of the defile, while Yazour blistered the air with curses. Aurian hugged him. “He’s all right, Yazourl Shia says he’s all right!”

Abruptly, the warrior stopped swearing. “You sorcerers! How in the Reaper’s name did he manage that?”

Anvar, lying half stunned in a pile of snow at the bottom of the trail, was wondering much the same thing. Shia looked him over anxiously, poking him from time to time with her great black muzzle. “Nothing broken?” she asked sharply.

“I don’t think so ... I can move my arms and legs . . .”

“I suggest you move them, then, before you freeze!”

Anvar groaned, and used the Staff, which he’d clung to with all his strength down every inch of the wild and terrifying slide, to help pull his aching body to unsteady feet. Shia pushed her massive body against him, propping him as he stumbled. “Idiot!” she snarled. “Aurian warned you to stay back!” She looked back at him over her shoulder, her golden eyes ablaze, and the Mage, his hands buried in the thick, warm fur of her back, gave her a sheepish grin. Her mental tones, though sharp with the aftershock of fear for him, lacked the stinging edge of true anger, and he knew she was thankful to see him alive and in one piece, more or less.

Anvar’s head was still swimming from the fall, and he sat down abruptly in the snow, hugging the cat for more than warmth. “I’m glad to see you too,” he told her sincerely.

He was even more glad to see Aurian come slithering down the track with Yazour, whose face split into a grin of relief to see him. The warrior clapped Anvar hard on the shoulder, making him wince, before fading tactfully back up the slippery defile to help Eliizar with the horses, leaving the two Magefolk alone with Shia. The Mage looked wretched, a grim expression on her ashen face. Anvar braced himself for the storm of her wrath, certain that this time, at least, he deserved it. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “You warned me, and I should have listened.”

The Mage dropped to her knees in the snow beside Anvar, wanting to curse him, to pound him with her fists for putting her through this ordeal. But she couldn’t. When she saw him there, blue-lipped and shivering, his clothing torn and wet, his skin scraped and already beginning to bruise in places—well, how could she be angry when she was so glad to see him alive? She wanted to embrace him—she was almost ready to weep with relief to see him safe. But the sick feeling of horror when she thought she had lost him remained within her, like a ball of lead in the pit of her stomach. Instead of his face, she saw the cold, lifeless features of Forral, after the Wraith had struck him down. Aurian felt her hands beginning to shake. Rather than face the bleak and horrifying possibility of another loss, she took refuge in briskness. “I understand, Anvar. I should have known—the Staff has so much power! I remember how it was in Dhiammara, the first time I held it, and the city fell apart around me . . .”

Anvar looked startled. “But that wasn’t your fault! That was a spell of the Dragonfolk, surely!”

“Well, maybe,” Aurian conceded, “but even if the destruction had been my fault, I couldn’t have prevented it! What happened today was my mistake, Anvar. Since you’d already used the Staff in the desert, I thought you would be all right, but that time, the power was channeled into the battle—it had somewhere to go! When you disappeared in that avalanche—Gods, I thought ...”

Aurian knew she had betrayed herself when Anvar put an arm around her shoulders. “And Shia called me an idiot!” he scolded. “Why blame yourself? You trusted me with the Staff, you warned me to be careful—how could it be your fault? In fact,” he went on, “it was the Staff that saved my life, I think. Its power seems to surround me and cushion me from the worst of the fall . . . I remember rolling and sliding, very fast . . . Thank the Gods, the worst of the avalanche had already gone before I started to fall, or I’d have been dead for sure.” Anvar, shuddering, fell silent. Aurian didn’t want to think about it. “Come on,” she said brusquely, “you mustn’t sit and freeze. Let’s find you some dry clothing in the packs. We ought to go on now. We stand a better chance of surviving this night if we can find the tower before dark.” She helped the shaken Mage clamber to his feet, and retrieved the Staff of Earth from his grasp. Without looking back at Anvar, she scrambled up toward the place where Eliizar and the others were bringing the horses down the trail.

Taken aback, and not a little hurt by the swift change in the Mage’s demeanor, Anvar cursed. “Gods help me, I’ll never understand her!”

Though he had been talking to himself, Shia caught his eye. “Her behavior seems perfectly clear to me!”

“You can read her bloody mind!” Muttering under his breath, Anvar limped toward the others.

Eliizar was looking utterly disconsolate. “We lost another horse, coming down,” the swordsman was telling Aurian, as Anvar approached. “When he slipped, I could not hold him ...”

“The animal broke its leg,” Yazour put in quietly. “We had to end its suffering . . .” He sighed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Aurian consoled them. “I thought we’d have trouble bringing the horses down that trail. You did well to get the others down in one piece.”

“Very true,” Yazour told her grimly. He gestured at the weary, drooping beasts, and Anvar saw that one was holding a foot carefully off the ground, and another was cut about the knees. “We would have lost those also, had it not been for Bohan’s strength to hold them back when they slipped.”

Eliizar cheered up at Anvar’s approach, and Nereni, her face bloodied and bruised, gave a squeal of delight and hugged him. Aurian, examining the injured horses, left it to Nereni to plaster salve on his hurts and find him some dry clothing, and took no further notice of him at all.

The descent through the deep-piled snow at the foot of the defile was as grueling as the climb to the pass had been, and it took the companions a long time to plough their way through the congested drifts as they came down into the valley. The sky began to darken as they struggled on, whether with dusk or another storm, Anvar had no ideas for he had lost track of time in the blizzard.

In fact, it proved to be both.

The tower was situated at the far end or the Valley, perched atop a craggy, tree-clad hill. By the time they reached the clump of twisted pines and saw the sturdy shape of the building looming above them, snowflakes were thickening the air once more. Thinking of the freezing peril of the night, everyone worked to gather broken boughs, which they loaded on weary horses for the last ascent of the steep, slippery path.

The squat, crumbling silhouette of the ancient tower loomed black against the sky. The door was frozen shut, and Bohan had to exert all the strength of his mighty muscles before the heavy slab of wood finally shuddered open with a grating complaint. The interior was pitch-dark, and the companions, not knowing what to expect within, hung back, reluctant to enter. Yazour tugged at Anvar’s sleeve. “Anvar, can you make a light?”

Chilled and exhausted as he was, with his mind still numbed by the shock of his headlong fall, Anvar had to force himself to focus on the warrior’s words. Eventually he nodded, and tried to summon the strength to create a fireball. Nothing happened. He cursed and tried again, closing his eyes and concentrating so hard that sweat sprung out to freeze on his brow, but still nothing happened. His tired mind simply refused to obey his will.

“Here—”

Anvar opened his eyes to see Aurian holding out the Staff of Earth. After his recent mishap, and her coolness toward him afterward, he was astonished that she would trust him again with the precious artifact. “Are you sure?” Behind his question were a thousand others. The Mage simply nodded, and thrust the Staff into his hand. Once again, Anvar felt its power running through him like molten fire, as unquenchable hope rekindled in his heart. He lifted the Staff, and heard muffled gasps from the others as its tip burst into sizzling flame, lighting the way into the darkened maw of the building.

The companions surged into the tower behind Anvar, and into the single, circular chamber that they found within. Bohan snatched a bundle of wood from the back.of one of the horses and. hurled, it into the gaping fireplace. Anvar thrust the blazing Staff into the heart of the kindling, and everyone cheered as the wet wood smoldered, sparked, and burst into flame. Only then did he allow the fire of the Staff to die. It was hard to surrender such glory. When he went, reluctantly, to return the artifact to Aurian, she grimaced and shook her head.

“Keep it,” she muttered, “for now at least. It’s no good to me while I’m in this state.”

Oh, he was tempted to accept her offer, but . . . “No,” Anvar told her. “You found it. You re-created it—by rights it belongs to you. You’ll be able to use it again in no time ...” But she had already turned away. Sighing, Anvar carefully propped the Staff against the wall in a shadowy corner, where it would be out of harm’s way.

The bare tower room soon warmed with the roaring blaze and the steaming heat from the bodies of the horses and companions that were packed inside. While Nereni, who seemed to have drawn a new reserve of energy from the presence of secure walls and a fireside, raided their provisions to produce one of her heartening stews, and Yazour doctored the injured horses, Eliizar and Bohan made torches and went to explore. They returned after a short time with the news that the tower consisted of three stories. Above the rough stone chamber was another circular room with a flimsy ladder leading up through a trapdoor to the flat roof above. Below the ground-floor chamber, down a narrow flight of steps, a damp but solid dungeon had been hewn out of the tower’s foundations.

Supper was a silent affair among the weary, famished group, with everyone paying too much attention to the food to talk. As time passed, however, and some degree of comfort was restored, everyone began to relax—with the exception of Aurian and Anvar. Nereni had to press the Mage to eat, and she sat silent and abstracted, not joining in their conversation.

Anvar was almost as bad, and could do little justice to the excellent meal. Later, when the others had drifted into an exhausted slumber, he found himself unable to sleep. His frustration with Aurian was reaching the point of anger now. What was wrong with her? Surely she couldn’t be holding that fall against him? True, he might have lost the Staff through his rashness, but all had turned out well in the end! After tossing and turning for a while, Anvar gave up trying to sleep. He kindled a torch and crept upstairs to the tower roof, seeking the chill solace of the snowy night to ease his thoughts.

Aurian awakened from a sleep that had been long in coming, disturbed by the restless kicking of the child within her. Grumbling drowsily, she turned over to find a more comfortable position and Shia, disturbed by the movement, opened one eye,

“Still brooding?” the cat asked pointedly,

Aurian sighed and sat up, heartily wishing for a bottle of the peach brandy that she and Forral used to enjoy. Oh to get gloriously, obliviously drunk, and escape, for a time, the tangle of conflicting emotions that consumed her whenever she thought of the only two men she had ever cared for. Shia was still watching her waiting for an answer.

“All right,” Aurian told the cat resignedly, “When Anvar fell in the avalanche today I thought he was dead. It hurt, Shia, as it hurt when I lost Forral. I don’t want to feel that way—not ever again, not for anyone. Once was more than enough,” She swallowed hard against a tightness in her throat. “Besides,” she went on doggedly, “I’m letting the whole ridiculous business distract me from the fight against Miathan, and that’s our chief concern. I don’t need this, Shia! It could cost us our lives!”

“So you withdraw from Anvar, and try to bury your feelings,” Shia mused. “Well, in a small company such as this, you cannot avoid him. You must send him away, it seems, or go yourself.”

Aurian stared at Shia, aghast. What, face her quest alone, without Anvar? “But I can’t do that!”

The great cat sighed. “Why must you humans complicate matters? I suspect that once you stop fighting your own feelings, your distraction will vanish.” She looked deep into Aurian’s eyes. “Listen, my friend. Why torment yourself? This nonsense proves once and for all that you do love Anvar. You have loved him since the desert at least, though I suspect the seeds were sown long before. No one lives forever, Aurian. I will not. I flatter myself that you would feel some measure of anguish at my loss—do you wish to discard our friendship?”

“Why, of course not!”

“Then why make poor Anvar suffer?” Aurian felt Shia’s mental equivalent of a shrug, “After all,” the cat went on slyly,

“there is every chance that he may outlive your!

Aurian, with a guilty glance at her sleeping friends, muffled her snort of laughter, “My dear Shia, what would I do without you? You have the most amazing talent for making me feel better, while pointing out that I’m a fool!

“You give me a lot of practice, you and Anvar!” Shia replied, “Go and talk to him—he is on the roof,” she added helpfully, as Aurian, feeling lighter of heart than she had done in a long time, sped up the tower stairs. She was so preoccupied with thoughts of Anvar, that she never noticed that Raven was missing.

Blacktalon was uneasy in the pinewood below the tower. It hemmed him in on all sides, cutting off the open sky and enclosing him so that he could scarcely breathe. For all his race’s resistance to the cold, he shivered as he tried to peer through the whirling snow and tangled mass of that concealed his quarry, “Is it not time we made our move?” he whispered to the Prince, “My warriors weary of this endless wait!”

“Be patient, you idiot!” Harihn snapped, “By the Reaper, High Priest, recall the plan! The Princess will come to tell us when they sleep. We must wait for her word—then, when my men attack the tower, your warriors will go in from above. And Blacktalon—remember that I want them alive!”

The High Priest of the Winged Folk nodded impatiently, biting back his irritation. By Yinze—did his ally think him a complete fool? But fear held him back from a scathing reply. For behind the foolish, amiable expression on Harihn’s handsome face, there burned the harsh and terrifying gaze of the Archmage Miathan!

“Harihn?” Raven stumbled through the bushes, wishing that the night were lighter, so that she could safely take wing. It would be far easier, and less painful, she thought, as she sucked blood from yet another scratch, to locate him from the air. By the eyes of Yinze, where was he?

To the winged girl’s relief, the springy branches gave way before her at last, and she found herself in a clearing. Raven frowned, puzzled—and stamped in irritation. Harihn had promised to meet her in a clearing close to the tower—but this was obviously not the right one! Yet . . . Raven squinted into the gloom. Was that not a movement, over in the bushes on the opposite side? Surely that shadow was not a tree, but the tall, straight figure of a man?

“Harihn?” Raven stepped forward—too late, she heard the rustling behind her, and on either side. Before she had time to take wing, a heavy weight hurtled into her, bearing her to the ground and grinding her face into the snow and fallen pine needles. Then many hands were upon her, grabbing at her wings and limbs. Though the winged girl struggled and fought, lashing out with flailing pinions and clawed fingernails, she was hopelessly overpowered. Before she could cry out for help, a hand seized her jaw, thrusting a heavy wad of cloth into her mouth and tying it in place with another scrap of material. Her wings, wrists, and ankles were bound tightly with strips of leather—but tighter still was the hand of fear clenched round her heart. Harihn, she thought desperately—where are you?

Raven soon found out. A booted foot rolled her onto her back, and she looked up through tear-filled eyes to see the face of her former lover! “Nol” The word was only a muffled whimper through Raven’s gag—it was her mind that shrieked in rage and anguish. The Prince had betrayed her!

“Ah ...” The heart of the winged girl twisted within her at the sound of the dry, familiar voice that had haunted her nightmares for so long. Cloaked in the dusty black of his wings, the High Priest Blacktalon stepped out from behind the Prince. “Mine at last!” He knelt beside her, and Raven closed her eyes, shuddering at his touch.

“Get moving, Blacktalon—you can enjoy your plaything later!” Harihn’s voice was harsh and cold. “My side of our bargain has been fulfilled, but we need to take the others before your prey is secure!”

“Mind your tone, when you address the new King of the Skyfolk!” Blacktalon snapped stiffly—but nevertheless, he obeyed, and got to his feet at once. Raven stiffened at his words. King? But that could only mean her mother was dead! As the sound of receding footsteps faded from the clearing, Raven closed her eyes in utter despair, and sobbed.

The Mage had a tremendous struggle to haul herself up the rickety ladder to the roof. When she saw Anvar, huddled out of the wind in the corner of a crumbling embrasure, her courage almost failed her. But he looked up, aware, as always, of her presence, and the sight of his sad, tired face strengthened her resolve. She crouched down beside him, but her words were drowned by the howling of the wind. “Come inside, Anvar,” she yelled. “You’re frozen!”

The upper chamber of the tower boasted a fireplace, and a few cobweb-draped bits of old furniture of peculiar design that must have been used when the Winged Folk maintained a guard. Anvar smashed a tall, backless stool against the wall and flung the pieces into the hearth, lighting them with a sizzling fireball. As the flames flared up he began on the remains of a spindly table, and Aurian, seeing his grim expression, took an involuntary step back. His first words took her completely by surprise.

“Aurian, you are an utter idiot to risk that rotten ladder!. If you’d fallen, you could have lost the child!” Then he seemed to become aware of what he was saying, and turned away from her. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness.

Aurian took a deep breath, and laid a hand on his arm. “It is your business, Anvar,” she said softly. “That is—if you still want it to be.”

For a moment he simply stood, unmoving. Then, he turned to face her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Aurian swallowed hard, her throat gone suddenly dry, “I should have spoken sooner—after the desert, maybe, or certainly after the avalanche today. But I was afraid,” Her voice began to tremble. “Oh, curse it!” she sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast,

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever break you of that revolting habit!” The anger had fled from Anvar’s face. He led her to the fire and sat her down on the floor beside the hearth. Taking pieces of the broken table, he fed them to the dying flames.

Aurian plunged on before she lost her courage, “I let you think I didn’t love you, but I lied. I was lying to myself, too. I was afraid, because after Forral was killed, I never wanted to go through that pain again! And we’re in such danger—”

“And that was the problem? You were afraid I’d be killed, too? Oh, my dearest love ...” Anvar put his arms around her, holding her close, and at long last Aurian gladly returned Anvar’s embrace, rejoicing in his touch, his closeness, feeling the racing of his heart that matched the joyous beating of her own. But there was one vital thing that she had left unsaid.

She took her face from Anvar’s shoulder to look at him. “I can’t forget Forral, you know,” she said softly. “Even if I could, I don’t want to.”

Anvar shook his head. “I don’t expect you to forget him, my love, and neither will I. Forral was a true friend to me, and I honor his memory. Things have happened so quickly since he died, and I’d rather you came to me heart-whole, than plagued by doubts ...”

Aurian reached out to touch his face. “I’ve had enough of doubts.” She ran her palms across the breadth of his shoulders, leaning into his embrace—and stiffened, as a scraping noise from above her head shattered the web of love and longing within which she and Anvar had sheltered.

“Anvar—did you hear that?”

Anvar’s eyes were wide with alarm, “It’s on the roof ...”

The trapdoor in the ceiling burst open, its burden of snow dropping to the floor with a slither and thump as a blast of wintry air ripped through the faint warmth of the room. With a curse, Aurian scrambled to her feet as a pair of legs appeared on the frail ladder, Reaching for the sword that was always at her side, she swung with all her strength in a wide sideways swipe, her wrists taking the impact as her sword bit through flesh and wood alike, and into bone. The ladder splintered as the man fell screaming, one leg severed at the knee, the other spraying blood, Aurian jumped back clumsily, cursing the hampering bulk of her child, and Anvar steadied her as she fought for balance.

“Winged Folk! Anvar cried, as he pulled her away from the flailing wings of her writhing victim. Another figure dropped through the opening, wings folded to fit the cramped space. Aurian tried to engage the new foe before he could recover himself, but his sword was already in his hand, and he drove her back easily, knowing she was disadvantaged by the need to protect her unborn child. Inexorably he pressed forward, clearing space for more of the enemy to enter.

From the corner of her eye, Aurian saw Anvar dive under their flashing swords to snatch the weapon of the first, fallen warrior, but she was forced to concentrate on her own opponent—until a shriek of agony turned her cold. She tore her eyes from her assailant to glimpse Anvar pulling his bloody blade out of the chest of the next man through the trapdoor, but another followed, kicking the corpse aside. Another, behind him, dropped lightly through the opening. Sensing her distraction, her opponent lunged, almost breaking through her guard. Oddly, Aurian felt no fear—just a surge of anger that he was blocking her from going to Anvar’s aid. She twisted her blade in Forral’s deft, circling flick, and as her enemy’s sword went flying, she snicked his throat on the follow-through, regretting it as his blood sprayed into her face. Freeing a hand to wipe her eyes and gagging on the metallic reek, she leapt across his body—and jerked to a halt as his hand closed in a dying spasm around her ankle, trapping her foot in an iron grip.

Anvar had two opponents now—they were attacking him mercilessly, backing him into the lethal trap of the corner between the chimney breast and the wall. Unable to free herself and with no time to waste, Aurian flipped a knife left-handed from her sleeve with the deadly accuracy she had learned from Parric, and heard a grunt of pain as it sank hilt-deep into the back of its target, between the great wings. The other warrior glanced around as his comrade toppled—a fatal mistake. He doubled over screaming, clutching at the slithering loops of his gut, which had been ripped out by Anvar’s blade.

Aurian severed the limb that held her with one stroke of her blade. As the hand fell away she shot across the room, pulling Anvar toward the door as more foes dropped through the trapdoor above. Someone was hacking at the hole with a sword, enlarging the opening. The chamber was becoming impossibly cramped, and the Mages were forced to scramble backward over the bodies of the fallen, fighting a desperate rearguard action. But when they reached the door, Aurian’s relief turned to horror as she heard the sound of fighting in the room below. They were surrounded! Then the Mage remembered Shia, and a wild hope rose in her heart—only to be dashed as she touched her friend’s mind. The reply came brief and stilted, as the cat fought for her life downstairs, even as Aurian was fighting for her own. “Bohan fights—Eliizar hurt—can’t reach you ...”

“Run, Shia!” Aurian told her. “Take the Staff and run!”

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

“You must!. If we lose the Staff, we’re finished!”

For a moment there was silence, then: “I have it! I go!”

Aurian caught a blurred impression of claws and blood as the great cat fought her way to freedom—then she was gone, into the storm. Someone grabbed the Mage from behind, jerking her backward, as unseen assailants came pouring up the stairs. A handful of her hair was seized and yanked, and she felt the chill bite of steel at her throat.

“Drop your weapons!”

Aurian recognized the voice that came from behind her. Harihn! In league with Winged Folk? She stiffened with rage—and the blade bit into the taut-stretched skin of her neck, drawing a trickle of warm blood. Fuming helplessly, she let her weapon drop, and saw rage mingling with dismay on Anvar’s face. His sword fell clattering to the floor as he was surrounded by winged warriors and dragged away, struggling, to be held against the opposite wall. Aurian saw his eyes flare bright with icy rage as he gathered his powers and . . .

“Don’t try it, Anvar,” Harihn snapped. “At the first hint of magic from you, my warriors will slit her throat.”

Aurian saw the fire in Anvar’s eyes die away, his anger fading into a look of bitter defeat. Then her hands were seized from behind, jerked back, and bound, while Anvar’s winged captors dealt with him in a similar fashion.

“How good of you to join me.” Smiling sardonically, Harihn stepped out to confront the Mage. “Thanks to the treachery of little Raven, you are now my prisoners.” Ordering the knife to be removed from Aurian’s throat, he hit her across the face. Unbalanced by the blow, she fell, but her guards caught her, forcing her to her knees. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard a scuffle.

“Leave her alone—” Anvar’s yell was cut short by the sick thud of a blow, then the Prince’s hand lashed across the other side of Aurian’s face. Her head jolted sideways, and she tasted blood where her teeth had cut into her lip. “I warn you, Anvar,” Harihn said menacingly. “One more move from you, and she will be the one to suffer!”

His voice was not the voice of the Prince. Aurian looked up through tears of pain—and her heart turned to ashes within her. Those handsome, familiar features were those of Harihn—but the grim malevolence that burned behind his eyes could only belong to the Archmagel