Sword of Flames

10 Within the Crystal

In a prominent place on the wall of the Academy kitchen was a carved wooden rack housing eight globes of shimmering crystal, each of which had once glowed softly with a different-colored radiance. Identical racks were housed in the servants’ quarters and in the gatehouses at the top and bottom of the steep path that went down from the top of the promontory to the river. Now, however, five of the crystals in each set were dark and lifeless—their Mageborn owners would issue orders and impose their will through them no more. Only three, the red, the silver-white, and the green, still shed their light. The crystals caught the eye of Janok, head cook of the Academy, as he swept his gaze around the kitchen to make sure that the menials were all hard at work. He stood rubbing his fingers over his bristly chin, looking at the flobes and wondering. Only two days ago, the fifth, the blue-violet crystal, had been snuffed.

The Lady Meiriel had perished, too. Not many of them left now, Janok thought. His masters were dying out at last.

Janok, unlike many Nexians, bore no particular hatred of the Magefolk. Why should he, when they had furnished him with such a comfortable existence? So long as their meals were plentiful, appetizing, and available on demand, they let the head cook run his little domain in any way he chose—and since he enjoyed the favor of his powerful masters, none of the other menials dared oppose him. But how much longer would this satisfactory situation last? As the Magefolk numbers gradually decreased, Janok had begun to feel the first proddings of alarm.

Two matters gave him cause for concern: if a similar fate should befall Miathan and Eliseth, would he be able to hold on to his position of authority and prevent the other servants turning on him, and would the time spells they had placed on their supplies last beyond their deaths? If Janok could only get his hands on those provisions, so much badly needed food could obtain him anything he wanted, down in Nexis.

Of course, these preoccupations were greatly dependent on his third, and chiefest, concern. The head cook looked at the green crystal and scowled. The spark of light in its core was small and dim, indicating that its owner was still very far away—which was fine, as far as Janok was concerned. The farther away she stayed, the better he liked it. The Lady Aurian—in his mind he turned her title into an epithet—had been responsible for robbing him of the drudge Anvar, and elevating the lad to a position of merit and trust. Even after all this time, he still flinched from the memory of the punishment that interfering redheaded bitch had earned him for allowing the escape of the young servant that Miathan hated.

Recently, however, it had come to Janok’s notice that, little by little, the green glow of Aurian’s crystal was growing brighter. Wherever she had been all this time, she was apparently on her way back—and what would happen then? Janok knew to his cost that whenever she entered the game of power, the rules had a way of suddenly changing—and that made him very uneasy indeed.

Even as Janok pondered, one of the other globes flared to a bright silver-white, and began to pulse in a regular pattern. The head cook muttered a curse, and reached out hesitantly to pick up the crystal. The Lady Eliseth had never had the best of tempers, but lately she had been growing positively baleful—to the point where the big man had found himself dreading her summons. What did she want now? One thing was for sure: it would only make matters worse if he kept her waiting. Janok shrugged and tightened his fingers around the crystal to activate its power, then replaced it in the rack. A patch of silvery luminescence, half as wide as Janok’s outstretched arms, shimmered into place above the fist-sized globe, and an image of Eliseth’s face materialized in the center of the light.

Janok assumed an ingratiating pose. “How may I serve you, Lady?” he asked.

“With more alacrity,” the Weather-Mage snarled. “How dare you keep me waiting, Mortal?”

“I beg your pardon, Lady,” Janok replied with a bow. He had already learned to his cost that, in this waspish mood, she would only be further angered by excuses. “How may I make amends for my neglect?”

Eliseth’s eyes narrowed as though she was searching for something in the content or the tone of his statement at which to take further offense; then, to his relief, she dismissed the matter with a shrug. “I need Inella,” she snapped. “Is the little wretch down there with you?”

“Alas, Lady, I have not seen her all morning. I thought she was in your chambers.” Janok fought to hide his triumph at the Magewoman’s scowl of annoyance. I knew the brat would slip up sooner or later, he thought smugly.

“Well, don’t just stand there smirking, you idiot! Find her and send her up to me—and don’t be all day about it!”

Before Janok had time to reply, Eliseth’s image vanished and shadows swarmed back into the corner of the kitchen. Sensing his temper, the scurrying kitchen menials, who had all paused to eavesdrop on his conversation with the Mage, suddenly became very noisily busy, and his thoughts were drowned by the sounds of scrubbing, slicing, scraping, and stirring.

“Quiet!” the head cook bellowed, and muttered a curse. As if he hadn’t enough to do, without wasting half the day looking for Lady Eliseth’s scheming little maid! Then his mood lightened. If the Weather-Mage was displeased, then not only would she punish Inella—and not before time, Janok thought—but he could probably get a blow or two in himself, as he had been itching to do for so long, without suffering any retribution from the girl’s mistress. Janok grinned. Enjoying the security of Lady Eliseth’s protection, Inella had been defiant and pert, and had undermined his authority with the others. He had waited ages for the brat to fall from grace—and now, it seemed, he would get his revenge at last. Janok grinned. There weren’t many places to hide in the hilltop Academy compound. He would find her. In no time at all.

Most of the cool stone storerooms behind and beneath the Academy kitchens were forbidden to the menials who worked there, for most of the extensive stock of provisions hoarded within had been taken out of time by the Magefolk. Thus, while the city below them starved and struggled and suffered through the shortages that followed Eliseth’s grim winter, the Academy and its occupants were independent, well supplied—and therefore in control. Their accumulated foodstuffs could not even be taken by force or stealth, should any Mortal be brave or foolhardy enough to try. The time spell not only preserved the supplies, but prevented the Mortal servants from purloining any desperately needed food to smuggle down to their hungry friends and families in the city below.

The hiding place that Zanna had found in one of the few accessible chambers was small and awkward to reach, especially in the darkness; but at least it provided a temporary respite from Janok’s brutality and the cruelty of the Mages. Zanna still hurt from the beating the head cook had given her when he had discovered her in the great library, but it had been nothing compared to the discovery that when the Lady Eliseth was displeased, she could inflict pain worse than any beating without even lifting a finger.

The girl wiped a tear from one smudged cheek with trembling fingers and twisted her body in the cramped space, wishing she could find a comfortable position for her aching bones. She had come here, after her mistress had dismissed her for the night, to keep out of Janok’s way—for now that the Lady was displeased with her, she knew he would feel free to abuse her as he wished. If only she had been more circumspect in her dealings with him in the past! She’d suffer for it now—but here, at least, she would be safe for a time. She would have to emerge in the morning though—and what would Janok do to her then? Suddenly, she had run out of time—and it was running out for her father, too. Zanna only wished that the cramped little nook behind the great stoneware crocks of flour, honey, and beans could provide a sanctuary from her worries and fears—and from reminders of her own failure.

Lately, she had dared to hope for a time that there would be a way to free her father. Vannor had managed to smuggle her a message, hidden beneath the dirty dishes on a tray, that told her of the hidden escape route through the catacombs that ran beneath the library and thence into the sewers. But only today Zanna had slipped away to investigate, and had discovered that the wrought-iron gate that guarded the ancient archives was securely locked. To make matters worse, she had been caught in her investigations by Janok—and though her punishment had been bad enough, the worst of it was that he would be watching her like a hawk from now on. She dared not go near the library again—not without a damn good reason!

I convinced myself I was so clever, Zanna thought bitterly. What a wonderful notion: become a servant at the Academy, and spy on the Magefolk. And then Dad was captured… She choked on a sob. I was going to release him, and we would both escape. Another sob forced its way out. But I can’t rescue him—I’ve thought and thought, and there’s just no way to get him out of the Academy past the guards. And he’s in such pain… The Archmage is killing him, bit by bit—and I can do nothing to prevent it. I can only watch him suffer…

The problem was, she was afraid that she could not watch Vannor suffer—not for much longer—and keep her feelings hidden from her mistress. Zanna was terrified that she would give herself away to Eliseth, and what would become of her then? Already she was taking too many risks, and spending too much time away from the tower in search of some way out for herself and her father. The terrible events of today had shown her that. But she had been so desperate to get away… If only she could think…

You came here to think! Zanna berated herself disgustedly. But you aren’t thinking. You’re hiding in the storeroom, sniveling… Impatiently, the young girl dashed the tears from her eyes. This skulking around and bawling like a lost calf is getting you nowhere, she told herself. This was your idea—you wanted to do it. What happened to your nerve? You always looked up to Maya and the Lady Aurian. You wished you had their courage. Well, girl—now’s your chance. You always prided yourself on your brains—so use them now.

Vannor’s daughter was heartened by the thought of the two women she admired so much. Just knowing that they were still opposing Miathan and Eliseth (for she had overheard from the Weather-Mage that Aurian was still alive, and clung stubbornly to the conviction that, although Maya had been missing for so long, she could not be dead) gave Zanna fresh courage. If Lady Aurian were in my position, she pondered, what would she do? Oh, if only she could be here. If only I could ask her advice…

Wait a minute—perhaps I can! Zanna sat bolt upright, her heart pounding with excitement. But would it be possible? Could it reach that far? You’ll never know until you try, she told herself firmly, remembering the rack of crystals that hung on the kitchen wall. Only that day, when Janok had caught her, he had picked up Lady Eliseth’s silver-white globe, waited until it had begun to shimmer, and spoken into it. “I’ve got her,” he had said, and the Magewoman had answered. Lady Aurian’s crystal was the green one, Zanna knew—and it still contained that telltale spark of light to show that it was active. If only she could use it to communicate—but not the globe from the kitchen. It would be missed. In the deserted quarters that had belonged to the household servants, however, there was another rack, forgotten and gathering dust… It was a small, faint hope, but it warmed the heart of Vannor’s indomitable daughter. Forgetting her hurts and despair, she began to make plans.

“Tomorrow I plan to release some of our stored food to the Mortals of Nexis.”

“You plan to do what?” Eliseth cried. “Miathan, have you lost your mind?”

To her irritation the Archmage remained unperturbed. “Here,” he said, producing with a flourish a flagon of pale wine from underneath his cloak. “While I was down checking the supplies, I found a flask of your favorite.” With a negligent flip of his hand he tossed it to her, and Eliseth cried out in alarm as her fingers slipped on the smooth glass and she almost fumbled the catch. “Damn you, Miathan—stop acting the fool,” she snapped. “I know full well that the wine is only a ruse to distract me.” She placed the flask on her table with out offering him any of its contents. “Now, what’s all this nonsense about giving our valuable food to those worthless, whining Mortals?”

Miathan sat down, uninvited, on one of Eliseth’s chairs by the fire, absently stroking the white fur that draped it as he spoke: “It isn’t nonsense, you stupid woman. Meiriel’s death set me thinking…” His face darkened at the memory, and Eliseth, too, suppressed a shudder as she remembered being awakened, the night before last, by the wrenching agony of the Healer’s death throes. Though the pangs had been muted by distance, it had still been plain how Meiriel had died—and by whose hand.

“Pay attention!” Miathan barked, making the Weather-Mage jump. “It’s important that you understand what I’m doing, and why. Though your attempts at scrying have found no trace of Aurian so far, Meiriel’s death should serve as sufficient warning of her capabilities. When she returns to the north—and return she will—we must be ready. We need the Nexian Mortals on our side; and, fortunately, most of them have scant intelligence and very short memories. If we claim it was Aurian who caused the winter and you who ended it, and then proceed to feed the starving rabble, we stand a chance of winning their support.”

“I don’t like it,” Eliseth said automatically. “Why, the very idea of groveling for the favor of those lowly vermin! And we may need that food—”

“Spring is here, you idiot!” the Archmage roared. “The Mortals are starving now, because nothing has had time to grow. In a few months there’ll be plenty of food for everyone, thanks to the botch you made of keeping control of your winter, and the power of our provisions as a bargaining tool will be lost.”

Eliseth bit her lip to keep from betraying her anger. “Very well,” she shot back at him. “Do as you will. Squander our supplies if you feel you must—but in return I want a favor.”

“What favor?” Miathan’s eyes bored into her. She could actually see him bristling with suspicion. The Weather-Mage shrugged. “No great thing,” she replied silkily. “While you are dealing with matters here in the city, it would still be to our benefit if I could extend my scrying to get a glimpse of Aurian.”

“Face it, Eliseth—your powers don’t extend that far,” the Archmage snapped impatiently. “How many times now have you tried and failed? Since Aurian reached the mountains, something has been shielding her.”

“And we must find out what it is,” Eliseth insisted. “Miathan, listen. You prevented me from torturing Vannor to boost my powers—you said you wanted to experiment on him yourself. Let me try now, as the favor I asked of you. The merchant will still be alive when I’ve finished, you have my word on it.”

“Though knowing you, he may well wish that he were dead,” Miathan said dryly. “Very well, Eliseth. You may try, if it will amuse you. Do what you must within reason to get results, but remember”—he leaned close, glaring fiercely into her eyes—“I want Vannor alive for a number of reasons. If you kill him, on your head be it—or on your face, at least.” His smile was cold and cruel. “It would be interesting to see what effect another twenty years would have on those flawless features…”

Eliseth shuddered. “I’ll be careful, Archmage—I swear it.”

“It’s up to you—you know the consequences if you are not.” With that parting shot, the Archmage got to his feet and left without another word. The Weather-Mage stared at the door as it closed behind him, and clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms. One day, Miathan, she thought, I’m going to kill you.

Eliseth wrapped a white linen kerchief around her long, pale fingers, and used it to pick up the flagon of wine. Lifting it up to the firelight, she studied the amber flicker of the dancing flames through the pale, clear liquid, and sighed. Though Miathan’s cellars had been extensive, this was almost the last of the white. The Archmage preferred the richer, robust vintages with sparks of fire and ruby smoldering in their dark depths. Well, there was no help for it—not yet. “When I am Archmage,” Eliseth murmured, “things will be different.” A smile curled the comers of her lips. But there was much to do before that day could arrive…

The Weather-Mage focused her powers on the angled glass facets of the flagon and tightened her hand around the slender neck. The creation of her winter, and her subsequent researches in Finbarr’s neglected archives, had taught her much about the forgotten and forbidden spells of the Cold Magic. At her word, the flames in the fireplace cringed back like beaten curs and flickered blue, and the light of the candles shrank and dimmed. A wisp of icy vapor came curling through the air to settle on the flask, hiding the wine within beneath a glittering white film of frost.

“Enough!” Eliseth banished the spell before the liquid could freeze and spoil and, still holding the flagon carefully in its cloth, poured the chilled wine into a crystal goblet. She went to her favorite chair by the fireside and sat sipping appreciatively, reflecting on the irony of such ancient, powerful, and lethal magic being harnessed for so mundane a task. Then again, why not? She felt the need to pamper herself a little tonight. Her spirits needed lifting, for lately things had not been going well.

It had been a mistake, she reflected, to take her frustrations out on her maid, although the lazy little slattern had deserved to be punished. Eliseth took another delicate sip of wine, reliving the memory of the girl’s distress as she had stood, frozen and immobile, in the middle of the room, only her eyes reflecting her terror as the Weather-Mage stood over her, flexing her fingers to tighten the ache of burning, icy cold around Inella’s body. Only afterward, when she had caught the expression of veiled resentment in her servant’s eyes, bad Eliseth realized her error. Though tormenting the maid had given her a satisfying and much-needed outlet for her recent frustrations, it had possibly caused irreparable damage to the child’s loyalties—and these days, the Magewoman reminded herself, she needed to foster what support she could get.

With gentle fingers, Eliseth smoothed away the wrinkle of a frown. Since Miathan’s spiteful spell had burdened her face with ten additional years of age, she had been forced to take great care of her beauty. All was not lost, she reassured herself. She had been quick to note the darkening bruises that disfigured Inella’s arms and face, and the child’s hunched posture and stiff, awkward movements, which had betrayed other damage out of sight: a gift from Janok, no doubt. Perfect! Eliseth found her smile again. The head cook had played right into her hands. She would turn a blind eye for a while and let him brutalize the girl—then she would punish him and rescue Inella, earning her maid’s gratitude once more.

Mortals were so easily manipulated—with one infuriating exception. As she thought of Vannor, Eliseth found herself beginning to scowl again. Leaping to her feet, she refilled her goblet from the frosty flask and gulped down the fragrant wine to cool her anger. For many days now, while the moon had passed through half its cycle, she had been trying to persuade Miathan to let her use the dark energy of the Mortal’s fear and pain to fuel her power. That first night, when she had gone to the merchant’s chamber to try her luck, the Archmage had forbidden her, and had been spitefully keeping Vannor to himself ever since. He could not seem to see how essential it was that Eliseth extend her scrying to pierce the miles of distance that separated her from Aurian, and the former leader of the rebels was the key—of that she was certain.

The Weather-Mage snarled a curse. Miathan! He had insisted that Vannor’s strength must be husbanded, and that he must be spared from any severe or crippling injury, the shock of which might kill him. What nonsense! That merchant was strong as an ox—strong enough to have learned to resist what suffering Miathan had chosen to inflict. That doddering fool of an Archmage was growing soft. Or was he? It was always a mistake to underestimate Miathan’s cunning, as she had learned to her cost. Did the old fox have plans of his own for Vannor? Or was he simply trying to limit Eliseth’s power? Well, whatever he was up to, it wouldn’t work. She’d had enough of waiting, enough of holding back. Fueled by the wine she had drunk, her resolve leapt up like a white-hot flame within her. Smiling, she went to seek her crystal so that she could call the gatehouse and summon two of the mercenary guards who were stationed there to assist her with the merchant. A plague on Miathan and his damned experiments. But she had worn him down at last. So long as she didn’t actually kill Vannor, the Archmage could scarcely complain of what she did to the Mortal—not if she achieved results. And tonight she would succeed at last. She would find Aurian, whatever it took to accomplish the task.

Vannor was lying huddled on Aurian’s bed as Eliseth stalked into the chamber, flanked by the two stone-faced mercenaries. At the sound of her entrance he hauled himself to his feet and straightened in a posture of insolent defiance, as though he had nothing to fear from her. But the Weather-Mage had seen, for a fleeting instant, the way his face had blanched at her approach, and had glimpsed the shadow of dread, now veiled, that lurked behind his eyes.

“Still on your feet, Vannor?” she mocked him. “Evidently the Archmage has been too lenient with you. But now comes my turn.” Her voice dropped to a snarl. “Tonight you will assist me.”

“I’ll assist you in nothing,” Vannor blazed, “as I told your master before you.”

“Indeed.” Eliseth’s voice was icy with anger. “That remains to be seen.” At her signal the two guards rushed forward and seized the merchant. Turning her back on Vannor and beckoning the mercenaries to follow with their captive, she walked back into the living chamber and laid her crystal on the polished wooden sill of the narrow window, placing two candles so their light reflected in the diamond panes and angled into the glittering facets of the gem. “Now, Mortal…” She looked back at Vannor, held tightly in the grip of his captors, in much the same way she might have regarded an insect. “Let us test the measure of your defiance.”

Her impassionate gaze turned to the guards. “Something small at first,” she mused, calm as though she were selecting silks in the marketplace. “Yet something that will serve as a permanent reminder never to defy the Magefolk. A hand, perhaps. The right hand—so he will never take up a sword in rebellion again.”

“No,” Vannor howled, thrashing and writhing in frantic desperation to escape as the mercenaries manhandled him into position with his hand held flat against the smooth surface of the table. Still he continued to struggle until the Weather-Mage, with a small exclamation of annoyance, lifted her hand in an abrupt, sharp gesture. All at once the merchant found himself unable to move, unable to speak, his limbs and tongue wrapped in a gelid shroud of icy cold that struck agonizingly to his very bones. His eyes were frozen open, looking down at the hand that lay limp and helpless, white against the darkly glowing wood of the table. There was no way he could avoid seeing what they did to him.

Eliseth, now that Vannor’s tongue was stilled and he was a prisoner of her magic, found that she was able to hear his raging thoughts. Though the merchant’s mind was still marginally under his control, it could do nothing but howl and curse impotently to articulate the terror and fury that he was unable to voice.

“Much better,” the Weather-Mage murmured, with a complacent little smile. “The power of your trapped emotions is increased if they have no means of expression.”

Vannor, helpless and in anguish, attempted to distract his roiling thoughts by imagining, in cold, precise detail, just what he would do to her if only he were free—Eliseth merely laughed. “Hatred will serve my purpose just as well,” she told him, “as will your despair. There is no escaping me now. You have no choice but to betray your friends.”

From the corner of his eye, Vannor glimpsed a flash of silver and heard the rasp of steel as one of the mercenaries drew his blade. The merchant’s blood turned to ice. Cut off his hand? No, they couldn’t! They—

The guard reversed his sword, holding it point up, high above the table. With the hilt in both hands, he brought it smashing down, the blade’s keen edges a silvery blur passing perilously close to the merchant’s face. Vannor’s world exploded in a flare of white-hot pain. His mind erupted in a soundless shriek as the heavy steel pommel of the hilt hammered once, twice, three times into the back of his hand, mangling and crushing the flesh and delicate bones into a bloody pulp.

“Enough.” As though it came from a great distance, Vannor heard Eliseth’s cool voice faintly through the buzzing in his ears. He wanted to let go, to lose this agony and shock and outrage in the dark haven of blessed unconsciousness, but the Mage’s spell held him like bands of iron, preventing such an easy escape. That bloody evil, foul-minded bitch, Vannor raged inwardly—but no; she had said she could use his anger just as well. I won’t permit this, he thought. I’m damned if I’ll let her use me!

With a wrenching effort he turned his mind away from the pain and mutilation to concentrate on good things: the wealth and luxury of former days, when he was head of the Merchants’ Guild; the warmth of comradeship with Forral and Aurian, Parric and Maya. He thought of loved ones: Zanna—(No—not Zanna! Vannor remembered the risk just in time.) Instead he thought of his lovely first wife, and Sara… But to his astonishment, it was the memory of Dulsina, his clever, sensible housekeeper with the compassionate heart and acerbic tongue, that gave Vannor the greatest strength to defy his tormentor.

Without sparing her prisoner a further glance, the Weather-Mage turned back to her crystal and let her mental energies flow into the fist-sized gem that sparkled in the candlelight by the window, against a backdrop of velvet night. Then, bracing her mind, she opened herself to Vannor’s pain and terror, stoking her powers with the pounding waves of negative dark energy that emanated from her suffering victim. It had taken many hours of exhausting and painstaking practice to allow her to reach this point, where her inner vision would expand to see into the Beyond, but now… Eliseth half closed her eyes as the crystal’s brittle rainbow glitter blurred and merged into a misty, opalescent haze—and within… “Ah.” The Weather-Mage breathed out a long sigh of satisfaction. “Now I have her!”

Eliseth’s first impression was the warm gold flicker of firelight; then, as they came more clearly into focus, she could see Aurian and Anvar sitting very close together. The Mages and two Mortals, a male and a female, were talking to someone else who seemed, frustratingly, constantly beyond the range of her Vision. She frowned and narrowed her eyes, pouring all her concentration into the crystal in a desperate attempt to discover the identity of the fifth person, but all she could perceive was a shape cloaked in shadow—human yet not human, flowing and shifting in her Vision, defying all her attempts at definition. With an effort, Eliseth focused into the Vision until she could hear what was being said—and to add to her vexation, it seemed there was a sixth person within the chamber! Someone else was clearly being addressed by Aurian and Anvar, and the odd, hidden being. Someone whose replies could not be heard, and whom the Weather-Mage, try as she might, could not see at all.

Aurian took a sip of syrupy mead from her cup of carven horn, and Chiamh saw her trying to suppress a grimace at the cloying sweetness of the drink. Though the Xandim brewed a more than passable ale, this stronger liquor was traditionally served on occasions of great formality—such as serious (if unofficial) councils. Today, they had gained a respite from the demands of the Horsefolk so that they could bury Elewin. Tomorrow, however, there would be hard decisions to make concerning the future leadership of the Xandim and the part that they would play in Aurian’s fight against the Archmage.

Tonight, Parric, Chiamh, the Mages, and Sangra had met privately, not only to share their grief over the passing of the steward, but also to confer together in the hope of coming up with some plan or strategy that they could present to the gathered Horselords in the morning.

Parric took a swig from his horn cup and cast his gaze around the solemn assembly. “I know that no one feels like making hard decisions tonight,” he said heavily, “but after what happened yesterday, we had better come up with something, fast. It’s the dark of the moon again, so I can be Challenged, and I don’t want or need to be Herdlord any longer. Besides,” he added wryly, “I’m not going through a fight like that again for anyone. Surely there must be someone from the Xandim who can take over—someone sympathetic to our cause. What happens, under Xandim law, if the Herdlord doesn’t want to defend the leadership? Can we nominate someone?”

“Well?” Aurian prompted Chiamh, who had been sitting lost in silent thought. The Windeye turned his attention back to Parric’s question. “Yes,” he said. “With your approval another Challenger can step forward in your place—but he must fight for the leadership nonetheless, if he is opposed. Whom would you choose to lead in your stead?”

“Schiannath,” Aurian said firmly. “Apart from you, Chiamh—and obviously you can’t become Herdlord—he’s the only one of the Xandim on whose support I can count.”

“But wait,” Anvar interrupted. “I thought that Schiannath had tried to become Herdlord before, and been beaten. So how can he Challenge again?”

“Because Parric has nominated him,” Chiamh replied. “In essence, he is acting for another, not himself.” He continued: “There is no doubt that Schiannath will order the Xandim to aid you if he becomes Herdlord. At present, Lady, he connects you with all his recent good fortune. Anything that he can do to assist you, he will.”

“But I didn’t do anything for him, really,” Aurian protested.

The Windeye shrugged. “No? Had it not been for you, Parric would never have come to our lands. I would not nave been forced to take action against the Herdlord, and Phalihas would, in all likelihood, have maintained his rule. Schiannath would still be an exile, and his sister imprisoned in her equine form. Do not protest his devotion, Aurian. It is not unearned—and at the moment it is all to your advantage.” Though Chiamh had been striving to keep any part of his inner feelings from showing in his voice, there must have been something—the slightest trace of hesitation or a hint of bitterness—that betrayed him. Frowning, Anvar looked at the Windeye. “You said your advantage. Are you implying that it may not be to the advantage of Schiannath or the Xandim?”

Chiamh hesitated. Within the last few days, strong memories of his Seeing of long ago had begun to haunt him. So far, everything had come to pass as he had foreseen. He had assisted Aurian and Anvar and their struggle against the Evil Ones, and Schiannath, too, had played his part. There was only one part of the vision that had not yet become manifest: the chilling prophecy that the arrival of Aurian spelled the end for the Xandim race. For days now he had been struggling with his conscience, wondering whether he ought to let the Mages know what he had foreseen. Did Aurian not have enough difficulties to deal with already? Was it fair to increase her burden with the fate of a race that was not even her own? On the other hand, should he not warn her that there might be grave consequences to her actions? If he did not, and the worst came to happen, would he not share the blame? Yet if it was a true Seeing, could disaster be averted whether he spoke out or not? But Chiamh could feel Aurian’s eyes on him. Anvar, too, was frowning. The Magefolk would clearly not be satisfied without some kind of explanation.

“Very well,” the Windeye said at last. “I probably ought to tell you—not that it will make any difference—”

“No! Do not!”

Chiamh started as the voice of Basileus resounded sharply within his mind. Judging by Aurian’s astonished gasp and the widening of Anvar’s eyes, he guessed that the Mages had heard the Moldan, too. The Windeye saw the sharp glance that passed between them.

“Who the blazes was that?” Aurian demanded. “Surely it was the same being that defended me against Death. And why shouldn’t you tell us—whatever it is? If it’s something we need to know—”

“It is something you Magefolk do not need to know.” The Moldan’s mental tones were stern and implacable. “Little Windeye, you must not do this,” he went on, and from Anvar’s scowl and the angry tightening around Aurian’s eyes, Chiamh realized that Basileus was now addressing only himself, and the Mages could not hear.

“You and I both know what you foresaw,” Basileus continued in gentler tones. “When Aurian takes up the Sword of Flame, her actions may indeed put an end to the Xandim—but there is more at stake here than the fate of a single race.”

“That’s very well for you to say,” Chiamh retorted, so angry he barely remembered to keep from speaking the words aloud. “It won’t be your race that is wiped out!”

The Moldan sighed. “Young Windeye,” he said gently, “my race was incalculably and irretrievably injured long ago by the Wizards. The Moldai, of all the peoples of the world, know what damage they can wreak. To save the world from this new evil power that has arisen among them, I would gladly sacrifice myself, and what remains of my race. It may yet come to that—or it may not, for Moldai and Xandim both. Your Vision may have been obscure or misleading, and let us hope that it is so. But whether you were correct in your interpretation or not, you have no right to burden these Magefolk with your fears and doubts. If you reveal what you know, you may hinder them in their fight, and if the Evil One should prevail, then that will almost certainly spell the end for the Xandim race.”

Chiamh knew, to his sorrow, that Basileus was right. The Windeye had reached this same hard decision on that night, several moons ago, when he had discovered dread tidings of evil on the wind, and then seen those clear and shining beacons of hope in the south: Aurian and Anvar, with whose fate he had become so entwined. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the Moldan’s wisdom. “I understand,” he replied softly, still taking great care to shield his thoughts from the Mages. “The burden must be mine alone.”

The Weather-Mage cursed and threw down the crystal. This was getting her nowhere! She had not the slightest notion of what was taking place. A plague on Aurian—how had the bitch managed to foil the penetration of Eliseth’s Vision? Scowling, she turned to see the two mercenaries looking at her, obviously awaiting further orders. Between them, Vannor still stood frozen in her spell, though his face was gray and his expression blank. Yet though he clung to consciousness only because of her magic, the merchant’s eyes still smoldered with an unquenchable spark of defiance. Had his dogged resistance been the barrier that had foiled her attempt to spy upon her enemy? Well, she’d get no further use out of him tonight—that much was clear—but she would see his stubborn spirit well and truly broken before she attempted to use his energies again! With a wave of her hand she banished her spell, and the merchant’s knees buckled as blood began to ooze from the lump of mangled flesh and shattered bone that had been his hand. The mercenaries quickly grabbed an arm each and hauled him back upright.

“Release him,” Eliseth snarled at the guards. “Bind his hand—I don’t want him bleeding to death.” Scooping up her crystal, she stalked from the room as Vannor crumpled to the floor.

As the Weather-Mage descended the curving stairway to her rooms, her temper began to cool a little. After all, her efforts had not been entirely fruitless. She had at least discovered that Aurian was planning to return to the north—and that the Mage had enlisted the Xandim to help her. Eliseth nodded grimly to herself as she swiftly consumed fruit and wine to help restore the energies depleted by her magic. Very well. It was time to put some of her own plans into action. There was little she could do about Aurian’s mysterious southern allies, but the Mage would find little aid within her own lands, should she dare to return. And if Eliseth wanted to set a trap, then Vannor would be the perfect bait. She simply needed a Mortal agent to infiltrate the rebels, and she suspected that she knew the very man to do it. Without further delay she wrapped herself in her darkest, warmest cloak, picked up her staff, and left the tower.

Avoiding the shimmering pools of moonlight, the Weather-Mage slipped across the courtyard, invisible save as a deeper sliver of shade within the shadows of the walls. The solitary guard in the upper gatehouse never saw her pass him. The cluster of armed mercenaries that now guarded the lower gate had been told to watch for intruders, not for people going out. Besides, they were deeply engrossed in a game of dice. Eliseth made a mental note of that. Come tomorrow, those buffoons would be regretting such inattention while in Magefolk employ! Shrugging the matter aside, she drifted silent as a Wraith across the bridge, and vanished into the shadows of the city.