Sword of Flames

9 On the Wings of the Wind

The sun was reaching its zenith when Chiamh emerged from the shadowy entrance to the Xandim Fastness. He noted the hour with some surprise. Had he really slept so long? At about the same time the previous day, he had been flown back by reluctant Winged Folk from Steelclaw, along with Shia, Khanu, and the Mages. All of them had been chilled to the bone and light-headed from exhaustion, and no one really had the energy to answer the anxious entreaties of Parric, Schiannath, and the others who had waited behind. Much to the evident frustration of the temporary Herdlord, they had spent some time answering only the most urgent of his questions while they shared the bowls of stew and the hot spiced wine that Iscalda had prepared. Then Anvar, concerned at Aurian’s evident weariness, had cut the meeting short with a brusqueness that had brought a scowl to the face of Parric, who had already been annoyed at having to stay behind to find accommodation for the new influx of Outlanders, and to calm his people after the shock of Meiriel’s attack.

The Windeye, glad to make his escape at last, had sought his chambers as quickly as possible. After the harrowing events of the previous night, he had flopped down onto his hay-stuffed pallet and fallen asleep fully clothed, before he even had time to pull the fur covers over himself.

When he finally awakened, Chiamh had still felt heavy-eyed with lack of rest. In an attempt to revive himself, he had decided to go and bathe in the icy pool at the bottom of the nearby waterfall. Gathering a change of clean clothing in a thick warm blanket in which he would wrap himself until he dried, he set out through the labyrinth of passages toward the entrance of the fastness.

Chiamh stood to one side of the great arched doorway, yawning and stretching, and looked across the steeply sloping green expanse that lay beyond the massive stone edifice, to the vast open vistas that lay beyond, where the land dropped down toward the sea. The day was cool, with a brisk wind that harried the ragged knots of gray cloud across the sky and sent beams of sunlight stalking across the land between the drifting showers, to patch the dull greens and duns of the woods and grasslands with pockets of emerald and gold. Brighter still, however, were the hues of the colorful tents that dotted the meadowland before the fastness.

The Windeye exclaimed aloud in astonishment to see the vast encampment of Horsefolk that had sprung up in his absence, in response to the messages that he and Parric had sent out before they’d left for the Tower of Incondor. So much had happened since then that he’d forgotten about sending out the summons—and last night Chiamh had failed to see the dark outlines of the tents in the rainy darkness. Besides, he’d had far more pressing matters to concern him. The Xandim, however, had answered the Herdlord’s call. From the different and distinctive designs on the hide tents, Chiamh could see that they had flocked in from every region.

At the sight of so many folk thronging the meadow, the Windeye took an involuntary step backward into the shelter of the entrance tunnel. He had never seen such a crowd of people all together, and their presence unnerved him a little. He had lived most of his days in enforced solitude before the coming of the Outlanders had changed his existence, and though he reveled in the warmth of his newfound companionship and acceptance, he still found himself longing, on occasion, for the peace and solitude of his own little vale, and the airy freedom of his Chamber of Winds, where he could reflect and meditate for a time on the incredible and portentous events that had overtaken him lately.

On impulse, Chiamh decided to change his plans and go home for a little while. He could just as easily bathe in the stream-fed pool in his valley, and he really ought to check his living cavern to see that everything was still in order. That, at least, was what he told himself. In reality, the Windeye was running away—but that was something he would rather not think about.

First of all he had to get through the busy encampment without being seen, but to one of his calling, that presented no difficulty. Entering a pool of shade within the depths of the passageway, Chiamh took up the insubstantial shreds of shadow and wove a mantle of twilight about himself. Securely concealed in his shadow cloak from curious eyes, he slipped toward the archway with a secretive smile.

“Ho, Chiamh!”

On hearing his name, the Windeye froze in his tracks with a cry of dismay. Turning, he saw Aurian, silhouetted against the torchlit doorway of the inner hall. “That’s a very clever trick,” she said as she approached, “but I should warn you, it doesn’t work on a Mage. Why the disguise, my friend?” She smiled at him, and Chiamh’s chagrin melted away.

“You should look outside,” he told her. “It appears that the entire Xandim nation has camped in the meadow. I felt the need for solitude, and—”

“And I interrupted your escape,” Aurian apologized.

“I don’t feel any need to escape you. I just wanted to go home for a time.”

“Isn’t this your home?”

Chiamh shook his head. “I live farther up the mountain, usually. It is very beautiful there.” Suddenly, he decided that maybe solitude was not so attractive after all. “Would you like to see it?”

“Is it very much farther?” Aurian, profoundly glad to be off the broad cliff path at last, stood at the top of the incline that snaked up the crag behind the fastness, and looked out across the windswept expanse of the mountain plateau. She could see no sign of another valley anywhere, and she did not want to stay away from Wolf too long. He had been sleeping contentedly when she’d left him, guarded by the hovering presence or Bohan and the two wolves, who had finally limped back to the fastness, footsore and defeated, while she and Anvar had been on Steelclaw. They had greeted the cub ecstatically, and one or both of them had been at his side ever since. Although her son appeared to be suffering few ill effects from his abduction, he had been badly frightened, and the Mage wanted to be nearby should he need reassurance—although, in truth, the cub seemed quite happy with his lupine guardians. Nonetheless, Aurian had been hovering over him all morning since she had awakened, until both Anvar and Shia had chased her out to get some air—and some peace and quiet for themselves.

Anvar had needed to spend some time with old Elewin, who had been longing to see the young servant from the Academy whom he had once protected. Now, it seemed, their positions were reversed. The steward, already enfeebled by his illness, had taken Meiriel’s death very badly. He seemed shrunken, somehow: listless and morose and suddenly very, very old; and Anvar, his brow furrowed with concern, had gone to see if he could cheer his former mentor. Aurian, knowing the closeness that the two former servants of the Academy had once shared, had been unwilling to intrude upon them. Shia and Khanu also had plans: to make a brief trip back to Steelclaw—on foot this time—to see how Hreeza was faring in her new role as First Female, and Parric, Aurian knew, would not be fit company until he had overcome his current fit of bad temper because she had escaped him the previous night to go to the aid of her son.

Yazour was still asleep, and so the Mage, seeking companionship, had sought out the two former Xandim exiles—but their company brought her little enjoyment, for Schiannath, in particular, had been silent and morose. Though it took a great deal of persistence on her part, Aurian finally discovered that the young warrior, having at last made the acquaintance of the two great cats, had learned that the Goddess Iriana who had seemingly spoken to him in Incondor’s Pass when he had rescued Yazour, had been none other than Shia herself. He felt foolish, humiliated, and angry at himself for being so gullible, until Aurian, thinking quickly, had suggested that, since Shia could not usually communicate with non-Magefolk, the Goddess might well have taken a hand in the business, after all. Though Schiannath had been comforted by the notion, the two Xandim were still far from cheerful. Glad as they were to be released from their exile, they were uneasy about being immured within the fastness within reach of their former enemies. Iscalda, in particular, seemed to feel that once Parric’s term as Herdlord ended, as it shortly would, the companions would be in danger once more. Aurian shared their concerns but wanted one day’s peace, at least, to rest and recover before starting to worry about the next set of problems. She had left them as soon as she decently could to go in search of Chiamh—but almost as soon as she had found him, she was starting to be anxious about getting back.

Although she had asked him a question, it seemed to the Windeye that Aurian had almost forgotten his presence. Seeing the faraway look in her eyes, he cleared his throat loudly.

The Mage swung round to face him. “Goodness, you startled me.”

Chiamh pushed a windblown lock of hair out of his eyes. “You asked me a question, remember? My valley is a good league away, maybe—and part of it uphill again.” He noted Aurian’s hesitation with a pang of disappointment. He had been looking forward to showing her his home—he had not realized how much, until now. Then an idea struck him. But could he do it? Suddenly, his mind was made up. He turned to Aurian and grinned. “On horseback, it would take no time at all.”

“But we don’t have a horse,” Aurian objected.

The Windeye grinned broadly. “Do we not? Stand well clear, my friend, and I will show you a wonder.”

Aurian knew, in an abstract sense, that the Xandim were shape-shifters, but because of her absence in Aerillia she had never actually seen the change take place. Chiamh heard her gasp with amazement as his outline blurred and expanded; his bones thickened and his head and neck grew heavy and long as his position altered to a four-legged stance. All at once the transformation was complete. In the place of the Windeye stood a stocky, shaggy-maned bay horse.

“Oh, Chiamh,” Aurian breathed. Slowly she approached him, plainly unsure whether she dared to touch him. Nervously, Chiamh waited, as tense as she—until after a moment’s hesitation, the Mage laid a gentle hand on his warm, thickly muscled neck.

Startled, Chiamh sprang back with a snort, unable to help himself. His mind worked somewhat differently while he was wearing his equine form, and it was unnerving to suffer the touch of an unfamiliar human hand. For a moment, he was tempted to change back again. He doubted whether he could hold to his offer to let her ride. Normally, for one Xandim to ride another in horse-form, there would have to be great need—or great intimacy between them. He and Aurian had become friends in a very short time, but…

The Windeye noticed that Aurian was standing back now, reluctant to approach him again. She was frowning, and subtle changes in her posture and her scent betrayed her anxiety. He hated to see her frown—and all because he had wanted to show off, he realized guiltily. Did she not have enough to worry about, besides the fey humors of a half-wild horse? All at once his mind was made up. Had they not journeyed together on the wind? And was this really so very different?

Taking firm control of his equine instincts, Chiamh stepped forward. Aurian reached out a hand, then hesitated, plainly uncertain, and the Windeye cursed himself for not explaining matters more fully to her before he had transformed himself, for neither his Othersight nor mental communication would work while he wore his equine form. For an instant he considered changing back, just to speak to her—but no. He would probably never summon up the courage to do this again. Instead, he took another step forward, and rubbed his long nose against her outstretched hand.

At the Windeye’s gesture, the Mage appeared to relax. She stroked the soft, bristly nose, and smiled. “Chiamh, this is amazing! I wonder how you do it,” she said softly. Chiamh snorted, flicked his ears, and shook his long black mane, and Aurian laughed with pure delight. “Are you sure you still want me to ride?” she asked him softly. “Is it really all right?”

The Windeye looked at her, and nodded his head up and down vigorously.

“Thank you,” Aurian said, “but I’ll need something to stand on, since you have no saddle. You’re taller than I thought you’d be.” She looked around until she spotted a place where a small outcrop of rock poked above the turf at the top of the cliff. “That should do.”

Chiamh, following her pointing finger, walked over to the place and stood patiently while Aurian scrambled to the top of a large, lichen-covered stone. As she threw a leg across his back, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, mastering the urge to flinch away, but once she had settled on his back, he felt better. She had done this before, he noted with surprise. Her legs clasped him firmly but not too tightly, and she knew just the right way to distribute her weight to make things comfortable and easy for him. Suddenly Chiamh began to relax and enjoy himself. Once he felt her twine her fingers in the long, coarse hair of his mane, he knew she was ready, and with a bound he was away, racing across the short, crisp turf of the plateau.

Aurian sat easily on the back of the galloping bay horse, her hair blowing behind her in the wind and her eyes watering with the exhilarating speed of Chiamh’s running. The world went flashing past them, the bright spring flowers that dotted the grass blurring past in a rainbow of colors beneath his pounding hooves. This was wonderful! Unable to stop herself, she let out a wild whoop of delight that echoed back from the surrounding peaks.

The ride was over far too soon. Ahead of them, Aurian saw a pair of tall standing stones, the gateway to a narrow, pine-clad valley with steep, rocky sides. The Windeye slowed his wild pace and came gently to a halt in the shadow of the towering stones. The Mage slid down reluctantly, and backed away until the Xandim had sufficient space to change. Once again, Aurian saw his outline blur, shrink, and resume an upright form—and Chiamh the man stood before her, slightly out of breath and grinning widely.

For a moment they looked at one another, beyond words, and then, as if at some unspoken signal, they rushed to hug each other. “Chiamh, that was wonderful,” Aurian told him as they stood apart. “I’ll never forget it as long as I live!”

“Nor will I,” the Windeye assured her. Holding out a hand to her, he added: “Come, let me show you my valley.” Hand in hand, they stepped out of the plateau’s sunlight, and into the cool shadow of the pines.

“Has Wolf recovered from his ordeal?” Chiamh asked. They had bathed—very briefly—in the icy mountain pool, and now were sitting by a hastily kindled fire in the mouth of his cave, sipping hot herb tea and looking down the valley past the shadow of the great rock spire that towered above the Windeye’s dwelling. Aurian, who was absently threading white starflowers into a chain, looked up at the sound of his voice and nodded. “Seemingly, though he’s still somewhat nervous. I think he had bad dreams last night, if a wolf can dream—but he seemed much calmer and happier today, or I wouldn’t have left him.”

Chiamh nodded. “You were right to come, though. Apart from the fact that I am enjoying your company”—he smiled at her—“you need to put aside your worries for a time.” His face grew thoughtful. “How long is it, Aurian, since you had a chance to think of only yourself?”

Aurian was touched by his concern. “Gods, I don’t remember,” she sighed. “Probably not since Forral died.” The memory, still painful after all this time, cast a shadow across the bright afternoon.

“Ah, Forral,” Chiamh said. “Parric’s friend, and Wolfs father.”

“Parric told you?”

“Briefly, when we first met.” The Windeye took her hand. “I grieve for your loss,” he said softly, and Aurian knew they were not mere empty words. “What happened after you and Anvar came south? How came you by the Staff and the Harp?” he went on, and the Mage found herself telling him of their adventures. Though she tried to keep her tale brief, by the time she was bringing herself up to the present, the sun was dipping toward the cliffs on her left and the air in the shadowed mountain valley was growing chill. “And now,” she finished quickly, “we have the Staff and the Harp, but we still must find the Sword. It is hidden, though, and I haven’t the vaguest idea where to begin to look.”

“I may be able to help, you know,” Chiamh told her. “Perhaps if I make a Seeing, I will be able to find where it is concealed.”

“A Seeing?” Aurian leaned forward, her eyes lighting with a spark of hope. “What is that?”

“It… I…” Chiamh flung his hands up helplessly, lost for words to explain. “If you and Anvar come back here with me tonight, I will show you.”

“Of course we will.” Aurian squinted up at the sinking sun. “But I think we should be heading back now, Chiamh. It’s getting late, and Wolf may be missing me.” She sprang to her feet, and suddenly turned back to him as a thought occurred to her.

“Chiamh—who is Basileus? When I almost died, he helped me—but what is he?”

The Windeye smiled enigmatically. “I think he could explain that better himself. Now that you are back from Steelclaw, I’m sure you will be meeting Basileus again very soon—and so you should. But if you want to return to your son before nightfall, we have no time at present. Can you be patient a little longer?”

“I suppose so,” Aurian muttered. Patience had never been her strong point. Chiamh grinned. “In that case—do you want to ride back again?”

Aurian’s face lit up. “Oh, yes!”

As Aurian and the Windeye, now back in his human form, were clambering down the shallow, zigzag cliff path that led to the fastness, Chiamh was the first to spot the trouble. The Mage’s fear of heights extended even to this broad trail, and the descent was proving much more nerveracking than the climb had been. Cursing the overwhelming Magefolk curiosity that had led her up here in the first place, she had been hugging the cliff face all the way—and the one direction in which she had not been looking was down.

“Look down there!”

Aurian shot the Windeye a sour look. “Do I have to?” Chiamh, unexpectedly, did not smile at her discomfiture.

I “I really think you should,” he said gravely.

“Very well—but we’ll have to stop for a minute, or I’ll get dizzy.” Steadying herself against the comforting wall of stone on her right, she looked down past the many-leveled, crenellated roofs of the fastness. The snaking track was situated in a curve of the cliff that barely gave her a view of the great arched entrance and the crowd that stood before it. Though dusk was falling fast, she could make out the dark shapes of many people, most of whom were carrying torches. Now that she was paying attention, the faint murmur of protesting voices drifted upward on the wind. Aurian cursed. At the top of the entrance steps, Parric stood at bay with Iscalda and Schiannath, evidently the focus of the angry, spear-waving mob.

“Great Goddess! We must get down there—and fast,” Chiamh cried. Even Aurian could see the necessity. “You go on ahead,” she told him. “I’ll follow you as quickly as I can.”

The Windeye had clambered down to the bottom of the cliff before he could make out individual voices in the crowd. As usual, the hectoring Galdrus was one of the most vociferous.

“Thick in the body and thick in the head,” muttered Chiamh to himself as he ran toward the mob—but it didn’t make the warrior any less dangerous. Galdrus had long been the ringleader of those who had mocked and victimized the young Windeye. For an instant Chiamh’s quick strides faltered; then he plunged forward again. The days of fearing Galdrus and the others were past, now. It was time to consolidate the grudging respect that he had recently begun to wrest from his fellow Xandim.

“We were promised a new leader, Outlander,” Galdrus was bawling at the beleaguered Parric. “Yet the dark of the moon is three days away, and we have heard no word. We want no more of you!”

Many voices took up his cry.

“You bring our foes, the Black Ghosts and the Skyfolk upon us!”

“You defile our fastness with filthy wolves and Outland magicians!”

“You consort with outlaws and exiles!”

“You have cursed our true Herdlord!”

“We want Phalihas!”

Other Xandim took up the chant: “We want our Herdlord!”

“Free Phalihas!”

Parric was attempting to answer them, but his shouted words were lost in the roar of so many voices. The mood of the mob was turning uglier by the minute. Chiamh ran faster—and then one of them turned and spotted him, and he realized his mistake.

“There he is—the Windeye!”

“He’s the one who sided with the Outlanders!”

“It’s all his fault!”

Some of the crowd stayed to hurl abuse at Parric, but a large group, headed by Galdrus, broke away and ran toward the Windeye, their faces contorted with hatred and menace. An icy knot of terror congealed in Chiamh’s stomach. He stopped and half turned, every instinct screaming at him to run, then changed his mind. His communion with Basileus and the coming of the Outlanders had transformed his life: his days of running away were over. Snatching at the brisk wind that swirled around the front of the fastness, he gathered a handful of air and twisted it into the shape of a luminous, hideous demon. It was the worst mistake he could have made. Galdrus, and several of the others, had seen his demon before. It had terrified and humiliated them then, and the memory served to fuel their anger. What was worse, they knew now that though it looked fearsome, it was only an apparition which could not harm them.

“It’s all right.” A bellow from Galdrus cut through the beginning cries of dismay and panic. “It’s just harmless Windeye trickery. Get him!”

The mob surged forward—but for all their leader’s brave words, few of them were willing to go near the demonic shape that hovered in front of the Windeye. Even Galdrus, with his bluster and brag, was reluctant. For an instant, Chiamh gasped with relief—then someone stooped, picked up a stone and threw it. Before he knew what had happened, the Windeye found himself amid a hail of hard-flung missiles. His pursuers were finding their range now, and even in the deepening twilight were gaining accuracy. A rock hit him on the shoulder with bruising force, and he cried out in pain. His demon flickered and began to fade. It was all that was keeping them from tearing him limb from limb, and he was losing it. Even as he struggled to re-form the apparition, another stone went whistling past his face, cutting open his cheekbone close to his eye. With a curse, Chiamh let his demon scatter to the winds and took to his heels.

As he ran back toward the cliff path, the Windeye heard the howling of the mob close—too close—behind him. Many missiles struck his back, bruising and winding him, but even in agony, with every breath a hard-won fire in his lungs, pure terror gave him the impetus to keep scrambling forward, praying to the Goddess that he would not miss his footing in the gathering dark. Then a stone struck his head, and for an instant the world flashed black as he fell. Half-stunned and bleeding, he struggled to make himself rise, but he felt sick and dizzy, and his limbs would not obey him. The mob was almost upon him. He saw their faces, contorted like the bestial face of his demon. Their hands reached greedily toward him…

… And suddenly stopped, as though they had run into a solid but invisible wall that shimmered, as they touched it, with an unearthly silver light.

Then Aurian was kneeling beside him, her eyes flaring icy silver with anger, the Staff of Earth burning in her hand with its uncanny green light as she used its power as a barrier to shield the Windeye from his assailants. She turned him gently, her face dimly lit by the glimmer of her shield, and Chiamh felt an uncanny tingle sweep through him as she quickly scanned his body with her Healer’s senses—seeking, he knew, any evidence of broken bones or internal hurts. As she laid a gentle hand on his forehead, all his pain vanished and he could breathe easily again, though somehow he felt so sleepy… Chiamh struggled hard to hold on to consciousness, reminding himself that they were not out of danger yet.

“You were lucky,” murmured the Mage. “If you can call it lucky to be almost stoned to death by these stupid, bloodthirsty animals. The fact that they couldn’t see you clearly was probably all that saved your life.”

She glanced up at the rabid crowd that surrounded them now, still trying fruitlessly to break through the silvery, shimmering barrier she had created. Many now had drawn their swords, but most of them recoiled, Chiamh noted with satisfaction, from the savagery of her look, and suddenly began to seem far less enthusiastic about the attack.

“Bastards!” Aurian muttered, scowling. She lifted a hand, and suddenly, briefly, the barrier flared crimson with heat—and the swords followed suit. Galdrus and his supporters fell back, screaming, dropping their glowing weapons and clutching at burned hands.

“That’ll teach them,” he heard Aurian chuckle. Through the gap that their attackers’ retreat had created, Chiamh saw another uncannily glimmering light approaching, and wondered for an instant if the blow to his head was playing tricks with his eyes. Then he heard a wild, unearthly music that was so beautiful it brought tears to his eyes, and with a shock he saw that even to his own poor eyesight the notes were clearly visible, swirling on the air like a mist of stars. And as the starsong fell on Galdrus and his followers, one by one they crumpled and fell to the ground as if asleep.

The eerie effulgence grew brighter, and Parric, Sangra, Iscalda, and Schiannath came striding up to Aurian’s barrier. Anvar was with them, and cradled in his arm he carried the Harp of Winds, still playing it as he walked.

“Anvar! Oh, but you’re a welcome sight!” Aurian dropped her shield and rushed to embrace him, and as Harp and Staff met, the night around them exploded into beams of coruscating light that shot skyward in a crackling aurora of silver-blue and green.

Parric and the others leapt back hastily. “Be careful with those bloody things!” the cavalrymaster yelled. “You’ll blow us all to smithereens!”

The two Mages looked at each other and burst into peals of laughter, and the sound of their mirth followed the Windeye down into darkness at last.

“What did you do to them?” Aurian indicated the unconscious Xandim on the ground.

“Took them out of time, using the Harp.” Anvar grinned. “I didn’t realize how effective it would be. It seems to have a facility for that kind of magic—probably an effect of all those ages spent by the Cailleach’s Timeless Lake. I did the same with the remainder of the mob that didn’t go after Chiamh, but it’s only a temporary solution. The other Xandim—the ones who didn’t join the riot—are far from happy with their companions’ fate. We need to solve the underlying problem—and quickly.”

Parric glared at him. “The underlying problem is my business,” he said coldly. “I am the Herdlord, after all.”

The cavalrymaster’s response was so uncharacteristic that Aurian stared at him in surprise. “What’s got into you?” she asked him. “It’s the business of all of us if we want to retain the help and support of the Xandim. It’ll take all our brains to come up with the best solution—and we’ll especially need Chiamh.” She stooped to check the unconscious Windeye. “Poor man. I’d no idea they hated him so much.”

“The Xandim are like a lot of people: scared out of their senses—or their sense—by the unknown,” Anvar put in, and Aurian noticed that his eyes were on Parric as he said it. She sighed. What had been going on between the two men in her absence? Drat them, she thought resentfully. It seems I can’t let them out of my sight for a single afternoon without something going wrong! With a shrug, she shelved the problem until later. “Are you going to leave poor Chiamh on the damp ground all night?” she said sharply. “Help me get him back to the fastness. Once he’s feeling better, we can deal with this crisis and decide what to do next.”

Anvar grimaced. “That,” he muttered, “will be easier said than done—and it’s not our only worry.” His face grew grave. “Aurian, I was coming to fetch you when all this happened.” With a wide swing of his arm he indicated the unconscious Xandim. “Chiamh is not the only one who needs your Healing tonight. It’s Elewin. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but—oh, never mind.” Abandoning the struggle to explain, he hauled on her arm. “You’d best come quickly, and see for yourself.”

The old steward was dying. Aurian knew it the minute she walked into his chamber. He lay limply on his pallet, his sunken skin aglow with a pale translucence that sent a familiar shiver down the Mage’s spine. The irregular rasp of his shallow breathing scratched at the room’s unnatural, waiting silence. Because of her previous encounters in Death’s realm, Aurian was preternaturally aware of the Specter that lurked in the shadows, biding his time. With an effort, she shook herself free of the eerie, clinging atmosphere. “Build up the fire,” she told Anvar sharply. “Send for some fresh torches.”

“That’s right, boy—and be quick about it. I can’t see my hand in front of my face.” Both Mages swung round at the sound of the cracked old voice, and Aurian heard Anvar gasp. That had always been one of Elewin’s favorite sayings. Unbidden, a memory rose of sharp autumn evenings in the Academy, and the old steward using those very words as he scolded the tardy servants into lighting the lamps. Aurian compressed her lips and shook her head. It boded ill that Elewin’s mind was wandering back into the past.

Parric and Sangra had followed the Mages into the room. “What happened to him?” the cavalrymaster demanded. “He was fine yesterday—at least no worse than he usually is.”

“Since Chiamh healed him last time, he’s been much better,” Sangra put in.

Anvar was flinging fresh wood onto the fire, and the two warriors went to the foot of the pallet, murmuring to one another in worried voices while the Mage knelt down by Elewin’s bedside, looking at his face in the light of the renewed flames. The steward turned his head to look at her. “Lady, tell them to stop whispering,” he said fretfully. “I don’t like it when they whisper.”

“All right, Elewin. They won’t do it again,” Aurian soothed him. As she spoke, she was scanning him with her Healer’s senses, but they told her only what her instincts already knew. Sickness and injury she could counter, but age and despair she could not fight. The steward’s body was failing. She already knew that her patient had fought valiantly, again and again, these last months, against illness and hardship—but something else had laid him low at last. There was a shadow over his spirit that she could not pierce, and she wondered what had caused him to loose his grip upon the reins of life.

“Elewin, why?” she asked him directly. “After you’ve come so far, what made you give up now?”

“Lady, please don’t plague me.” The voice was little more than a petulant whisper. “I am tired now. I’ve had enough of struggle. I want to rest.” He turned his face away from her to stare into the shadows, and Aurian felt a chill creep up her spine as she saw his eyes focus on the Specter that only she, of all the others in the room, could see. She shook her head. It would not be long now.

“Meiriel’s death hit him very hard,” a soft voice murmured in the Mage’s ear. She turned to see Anvar kneeling at her side, his face drawn and haggard with grief. “Aurian, please—is there nothing you can do to help him?” he begged, and she remembered the fondness that had always existed between the young man and the old when Anvar had been a servant at the Academy. Now, his voice was taut with strain—the effort, Aurian knew, of denying the inevitable.

“You were with Elewin this afternoon. Surely he wasn’t like this then? Did anything happen, to explain why he should sink so fast?” she asked her soulmate. No matter that it was hopeless—for his sake, she couldn’t just give up. She saw him take the old man’s hand and hold it tightly.

“He talked a lot about Meiriel… and then he grew more and more quiet, and when he did speak, his mind seemed to wander more and more.” Anvar was frowning with the effort of remembering. “Then he started to complain of being tired, and when he lay down, I couldn’t make him get up again… Aurian, I’ve seen this before.” His voice was muffled with grief. “It happened to my grandpa, the winter that you came to the Academy. It was as though he just gave up. But it took weeks then, not hours.”

Aurian felt a draft at her back as the door swung open and Chiamh came limping in, still covered with dust and sporting bruises. She had left him asleep in his own chambers, his Healing sketchy and incomplete, to race to Elewin’s side.

“Why did you not send for me?” the Windeye demanded, glaring at her as he joined the Mages by the bed. “I care about the old one, too, you know.” His eyes followed Aurian’s gaze into the shadowy corner, and she knew that he also saw what lurked there. He shuddered, and fell silent.

“Take good care of your mistress, Anvar.” The watchers swung round, startled by the sound of Elewin’s voice. “You’ve turned out better than anyone expected—except me,” he went on. “You’ve well repaid my trust in you, lad—I’m proud of you.” He turned away from them again, his gray eyes dark with pain. “Prouder than I am of myself,” he murmured. “Meiriel was ill. She couldn’t help herself! Finbarr’s death had turned her mind. I was supposed to be watching over her and taking care of her. It was the least I could do after betraying Miathan…” Tears were running down the steward’s face. “But I failed her,” he whispered. “I failed them all. Too old, too feeble. I’m sorry…” With a sigh, his last breath left him.

“You old fool!” Anvar cried savagely, his voice cracking with grief. He pounded the bedclothes with his fist. “They weren’t worth it!”

Aurian captured his flailing hand. “Duty was Elewin’s life,” she said softly. “He had no family save the folk at the Academy. Duty and loyalty were everything to him—and I suspect that’s what kept him going through these last hard months. Once he became convinced that he had failed on both counts…” She shook her head sadly. “Poor man.”

Chiamh buried his face in his hands. At the foot of the bed, Sangra was sobbing in Parric’s arms. Holding one another, the Mages grieved together. Aurian looked over Anvar’s shoulder into the shadows where Death had stood, but the corner was empty of the Specter’s presence now. This time, he had not been cheated—but, then, his presence had been welcomed by the one he sought. After long years of loyal service, Elewin had found his well-earned rest at last.