Sword of Flames

15 … And Through Air

“I’m sorry, love—I can’t go any farther. I must rest for a while.” Vannor’s voice was weak with fatigue and pain, and Zanna could feel his body trembling against her supporting shoulder as she helped him along the tunnel.

“All right, Dad. If you can go on just a little longer, we’ll find a room to rest in, as we did before,” Zanna told him, forcing a cheerful note into her voice. For his sake, she tried to keep from betraying her own exhaustion, and the fears and worries that crowded her mind. They were utterly lost in this maze of cold, damp tunnels, and rapidly running out of both food and strength; and injured as he was, her father had difficulties enough of his own to contend with. After every one of their halts so far, it had taken her longer to get him going again, and he was needing to rest more and more often. Zanna had had no chance to look at his injury—he would not speak of what the Magefolk had done to him, or let her unwrap the bindings on his hand—but she knew that it was bad. He ought to have rest, and proper care, and a physician—but it was only a matter of time before he would be in no condition to reach the help that he so badly needed.

Zanna lifted her candle higher and looked along the passage for the darker shadow of the next doorway. The ancient archives beneath the library were honeycombed with alcoves, niches, and chambers of all sizes: some large enough to stretch far beyond the range of the fugitives’ candlelight, and some so small that Vannor and his daughter could barely squeeze in together among ancient volumes and dusty stacks of crumbling parchment. In truth, Zanna much preferred the latter. They may have been cramped and uncomfortable, and needed extreme care with the candle to prevent a conflagration, but they were warmer, less drafty, and felt much more secure. She didn’t have to worry about what might be lurking in the darkness beyond the small, safe circle of flickering candle glow. She had overheard Eliseth complaining that though Finbarr, the former Archivist, had set spells to keep out rodents, cockroaches, and other small, destructive creatures, the magic had now started to decay through lack of upkeep; but it wasn’t the idea of small beasties that bothered Zanna—not too much, at any rate. What did bother her was the unshakable conviction that something else was down there with her and her father. Something unseen, unknown, but unspeakably evil.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Zanna muttered to herself. “Don’t be such an idiot. If you start letting your imagination run away with you down here, we’ll be in trouble for certain.” Instead, she put her arm around her father and guided him toward the nearest dark mouth in the side of the tunnel.

To Zanna’s irritation, the shadowed opening proved to be an alcove, not a doorway. Muttering one of Vannor’s choicest oaths under her breath, she was turning to retrace her steps when the light of her candle caught a stray gleam low in her line of vision: the dull, cold shine of dark and pitted iron. She gave her basket to Vannor, leaving him to lean against the wall for a moment while she peered close to investigate—and almost went sprawling down three deep steps. At the bottom, in the corner of the alcove—not in the center of the wall, where she would have expected it to be—was a narrow wooden door.

It was locked, of course. Given the obvious secrecy of the entrance, Zanna had expected nothing less. All the same, it infuriated her. Because access was denied her, she felt that she must see what was inside—and it never occurred to her that a door, in these eerie depths, might be locked for a good reason: to keep things out, as well as to hold them in. It was irrational, she knew, but suddenly that locked door came to represent all the other deprivations, abuses and insults she had suffered at the hands of the Magefolk since coming to the Academy. It was a symbol of their power over her, of what they had done to her father, and of all they had denied her race. Bracing her feet and putting her shoulder to the door, Zanna gave it a ferocious shove. No one could have been more surprised than herself when it shot open with a protesting creak and pitched her headlong into the blackness beyond.

The candle went out, of course. It fell from her hand, guttered, and rolled away into the darkness. Zanna lay there, shocked and bruised, all the breath knocked out of her. Her righteous anger was suddenly replaced by the chill of fear. What had she done?

But after the events of this night, she discovered a resilience she hadn’t known she possessed. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. How many locked and forgotten chambers must there be in this ancient labyrinth beneath the Academy? The lock was old—it had rusted and rotted, that was all, until even her own slight strength had been enough to open it. Anyway, Zanna—be practical. It was a place to rest.

“Zanna?” It was the querulous voice of an old man—and that frightened her far more than a fall into the darkness. Her dad had always been so vigorous… She’d never thought he would grow old.

“Don’t worry—I’m here. I missed the step, that’s all.” Zanna climbed painfully to her feet, but had no idea which way to go. The darkness was utterly profound. She was glad that she had Vannor to take care of, or she might have been overcome by the sneaking fear that threatened to creep up on her and overwhelm her. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to strike her a new light—but she remembered that with his injured hand, he would not be able to manage it. Zanna took a deep breath. “Dad—I’m all right, but I lost the candle.

Can you keep talking to me, or calling out, to guide me back to you?”

“Of course I can, lass.” To her relief, he sounded much more like his old indomitable self. “Don’t be afraid, now. Just follow the sound of my voice…” Even though his tones were strained with the effort of fighting the agony in his wounded hand, Vannor had rallied himself for the sake of his daughter. Zanna heard that newfound confidence, and rejoiced.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I met Leynard, and made my original deal with the Nightrunners? It was like this…”

At another time, Zanna might have been enthralled by the tale. Now all her attention was on the sound of Vannor’s voice itself. Following what she profoundly hoped was the direction of the sound, she stumbled forward, her hands groping blindly in front of her. It wasn’t easy. She made several mistakes at first, until the fading of the spoken words proved that she must be going the wrong way. After a time, though, her hearing seemed to have become preternaturally efficient in the absence of her sight. Other senses also came into play—the cold caress of the draft that came through the open doorway on her skin, and the metallic smell of blood that came from her father’s hand.

“And so there we were, all dressed up in our Solstice finery—except for Forral and the Lady Aurian, who’d been out sparring, would you believe—even on a festival day. The crazy fools. Well, your stepmother wasn’t best suited, let me tell you—and when one of the soldiers came to the door and said they’d found a runaway…”

Zanna half-listened to the story. She’d never heard this one before—and it concerned the Lady Aurian. But now it simply served as a beacon to guide her to safety.

“Poor lad—a bondservant they called him, but a better word would have been slave. But the Lady protected him, and cared for him, and took him as her servant—and a good thing too, as it turned out, because in the end, Anvar saved—”

Zanna cursed as she tripped over a step, scraping her already abraded hands and banging her knee painfully. “Dad?” she called.

“I’m here, love.” His voice was comfortingly close—as was the hand that groped for hers a minute later.

Zanna dared not betray her relief—lest he discover how afraid she had been in the first place. “Can you hand me the basket?” she asked him. Once she had grasped it, she groped inside for the spare candles and the tinderbox. It seemed to take endless minutes before she got another candle alight—only to find that it wasn’t much help, because they had strayed into another large chamber. But that was no surprise to Zanna, who had been conscious of the echoes of Vannor’s voice while she had tried to navigate herself out of the room. She simply took comfort in being able to see at all—and, especially, to see her father again.

“Come on, Dad—we’ll rest now.” Zanna guided her father down the steps and into the echoing chamber. Just inside the door, she took him a few paces to one side—to be out of the draft from the entrance, but near enough to it for a quick escape—and eased him down to rest with his back against the wall. Vannor sighed. “That’s better,” he murmured. He accepted the flask from her and took a swig of water, while Zanna rummaged in the basket to find him some bread and cheese. When she turned back to him, he was fast asleep.

Zanna gently freed the flask from his limp hand. She took a drink for herself, nibbled hungrily at a little of the bread, and then settled down to watch over the sleeping merchant. It was surprisingly lonely, being the only one awake in the darkness, but despite her own exhaustion Zanna felt that someone should be keeping watch. Besides, the unnerving atmosphere of the lonely catacombs made it impossible for her to fall asleep. If only she could rid herself of the feeling that she was not alone—that someone, or something, else lurked beside herself and her oblivious father in the darkness. “Well, whatever it is—I hope it knows the way out of here,” she muttered stoutly, trying to stiffen her courage with common sense, “because we need all the help we can get!”

It was no good. As time went on, the feeling grew and grew in her, until the idea of sitting around waiting for some nameless thing to pounce on her became unbearable. And to make matters worse, she was feeling increasing discomfort from the urgent need to relieve herself. Damn, Zanna thought, wishing that she hadn’t drunk that water. This would have to happen now. Where could she go? It seemed an unforgivable sacrilege to use a chamber full of ancient and probably priceless books as a privy. But there was no way in the world that she was going out into that drafty, open corridor, out of sight of her dad. She would simply have to find a corner, she thought, and do her best to clear a space.

“I’ll only go a little way,” she promised herself. Taking another candle from the fast-diminishing stock in her basket, she lit it at the first and stuck it on the bare rock near Vannor’s feet. With only that frail slip of light to guide her back to safety, Zanna struck out, feeling her uncertain way along the wall of the chamber. She had not gone far before she started to regret her rashness. The vast, echoing darkness pressed in on her, and she was startled, over and over again, until her nerves were frayed to tatters, by tiny rustlings and patterings beyond the range of her light. Once, she tripped over a scattered pile of books, and almost lost her candle.

That was quite enough, Zanna told herself. It had been a daft idea anyway, this wandering around in the dark when she ought to be resting and looking after her dad. And then a dreadful thought struck her. What if, in her absence, something horrible had crept up on Vannor while he slept? Looking back over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the tiny seed of light that was his candle, and felt somewhat reassured. Nonetheless, she had left him alone long enough. Quickly she found a spot where the wall angled sharply round into another alcove that seemed to be clear of books, and squatted down to relieve herself. As she got to her feet, she half turned, holding her candle high—and light sprang into the shadowy depths of the recess to reveal the tall, thin figure of a man who loomed over her, his face a snarling mask of horror, the flame of the candle reflected, glittering, in his glassy eyes.

The Mages and their companions retreated from the cloud of choking dust that billowed across the landing, and sought the sanctuary of the upper chambers. There they paused, some sitting, some leaning wearily against one another, all of them breathing hard from the terrors and exertions of the fight. Though no one had been seriously wounded, none of them had come out of the battle completely unscathed. After a moment, Iscalda found a water bottle in one of the packs and began to rip an old shirt into bandages, for it was clear that the Mage was too spent, for the moment, to attempt any Healing magic. Aurian and Anvar, the only ones who yet knew of Bohan’s death, clung to one another briefly, sharing their relief at finding one another safe, and their sorrow at the passing of their friend. All too soon, Aurian lifted her head from Anvar’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, Basileus,” he heard her say to the Moldan. “I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly, but I had no other choice.”

“I understand.” The Elemental’s voice was somber. “It was no great injury to a being of my vast dimensions—but it proved an unwelcome reminder of the powers your race can wield. Even now the Xandim are hacking at my bones elsewhere, to break a path through to where you are, and I would place any blame for this business with them, rather than with yourself. Nonetheless, the time has clearly come for you Wizards to leave this place—for the good of us all.”

“I’m sorry,” Aurian sighed. “You’re right.” Then Anvar sensed the mental shift as she turned her thoughts toward Shia.

It took all of Aurian’s courage to ask the question, for already she feared that she knew the answer. “Shia—what about Wolf? He didn’t…”

“No. He is quite safe. Khanu is taking the cub and his guardian wolves to Chiamh’s tower.”

Relief washed over Aurian in a dizzying wave. She felt almost guilty that she should feel so glad when the eunuch had perished. “What happened to Bohan?” she asked softly.

“He fell.” The cat’s mental tones were heavy with sorrow. “I think the ledge cracked beneath his weight. I tried to save him, but…” It was clear that she was too overwhelmed to say more.

“And I sent him out there.” Though she spoke aloud this time, the Mage’s voice was little more than a whisper. Abruptly she gasped, swore, and wrenched herself out of Anvar’s arms, heading for the window. “Shia—what about the ledge?”

“Gone for some distance, as is your bridge. You will find no escape this way.”

Aurian found her companions pressing all around her as she leaned out of the window.

“We tried to tell you,” Iscalda was saying. “The plank had gone…”

They were crowding her so closely that the Mage, with a stab of panic, felt in danger of falling herself. “Get back,” she shouted, and pulled herself away from the terrifying drop, shaking at the thought of Bohan’s fatal plunge to the rocks below. With an effort, she wrenched her thoughts away from the horror. She must concentrate now on surviving the present crisis.

“Everybody take what you need,” she ordered. Dashing across to her bed, and the assorted pile of baggage that lay beside it, she thrust the Staff of Earth into her belt and began to rummage in one of the packs for the whistle that would summon the Skyfolk.

“Here—use mine.” Anvar, the Harp now slung securely across his shoulders, was a step ahead of her.

“You signal them.” Aurian didn’t want to lean out of that window again, if she could help it. As she was stuffing the contents back into her disemboweled pack, she heard the first shrill blast go echoing out into the darkness. She only hoped that for once in their lives, those wretched Winged Folk would hurry. “How long do we have?” she asked Basileus.

“Long enough—if you are quick. ”

“That’s a great comfort,” the Mage muttered irritably—but was careful not to project the thought.

“Is there no way I can help you?” Shia’s voice came into her mind. “It’s a long leap in the dark, but I think I could reach the window—”

“No! Don’t!” Aurian could not bear the thought of losing another friend to the rocks at the bottom of the chasm. “Don’t worry, my friend. The Skyfolk are coming.”

“You’ll be lucky.” Shia’s mental tones were sour with disgust. “I may have been running for my life at the time, but I distinctly saw those craven feathered traitors fly away when the Xandim began their attack.”

“What?” Aurian spat out a vile epithet that made even Parric raise his eyebrows in surprise.

“What now?” he asked.

“The bloody Skyfolk have deserted us,” Aurian snapped.

Parric gave her a knowing look that made her want to strangle him on the spot. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, after what you said to them the other day. You have to know how to handle folk, if you want to be a leader. You just can’t—”

“That’s sound advice, Parric, coming from the man who has skillfully ‘handled’ the Xandim into attempting our murder,” the Mage retorted. Seething, she turned her back on him and went to join Anvar in the window embrasure. The trouble was, she knew that the cavalrymaster had a point.

Without Raven there to control them, the winged escort that she had assigned to the Magefolk had been proving more and more restive and willful; and the farther they went from their mountain home, the more plainly reluctant they had been about their duty. Nevertheless, this cowardly desertion, just when they were needed most, came as a tremendous blow to Aurian’s plans. Bitterly now, she regretted the scathing words she had said to them the day after Wolfs kidnapping. At the time, she’d been so incensed by their craven lack of support that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her. But though they had seemed resentful and unrepentant, she had thought she could heal the breach, given time. Unfortunately, what with Elewin’s death and the attack of the Xandim, she’d never managed to find an opportunity.

“What are we going to do?” Iscalda said. The Xandim woman’s smoke-smudged face had the pale, set look of one who was reaching the end of her courage.

Luckily for Aurian, who had no reply to give, Schiannath answered for her. “If worst comes to worst, we fight.” He drew his sword and went to stand beside the Mage. Aurian was buoyed by his courage, and the comforting clasp of his hand on her shoulder, but oh—for them to die like cornered rats in this foreign land would be so senseless!

“So don’t die, then,” she muttered to herself. “There must be some way out of this.”

Anvar wasn’t giving up. He was still leaning out of the window, blowing shrilly on the whistle fit to burst his lungs. “Come on, you misbegotten feathered freaks,” she heard him gasp between breaths.

“You had better hurry.” The Moldan’s voice sounded grim as iron in her mind. “They have broken through into the stairwell. They have only to clear your rockfall. …”

“Have they, now?” Aurian replied grimly. “Well, I hope you have plenty of rock to spare, Basileus—because if they clear that rockfall, I can always provide another!”

“Wizard, I warn you—I will not permit you to injure me again!” It was the first time she had heard the Moldan sound really angry. “You have—”

“You said it wouldn’t injure you badly—and you know I’d never hurt you if I had a choice,” Aurian interrupted. But even as she was pleading for his understanding, she was striding purposefully toward the door.

Anvar’s triumphant yell halted her in midstride. “Aurian—they’re here. They’re here!”

Whirling, the Mage ran back to the embrasure, where the heavy curtains were blowing inward and the air was vibrating to the concussive thunder of great wings. In an excess of relief she hugged her soul mate. “Well-done, Anvar. If you hadn’t been so persistent… Hurry, everyone—we’re getting out and there’s no time to lose…”

“Indeed there is not, if you wish our aid in your escape. There are only two of us left—the rest have returned to Aerillia.”

Aurian turned to see the figure of a single winged warrior perched precariously on the windowsill. Beyond him another figure hovered—but only one. Her heart sank, but if they hurried, there might still be time—so long as these Skyfolk could still be trusted. “I’m endlessly grateful for your loyalty,” she told the winged man, “but why?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why did we stay? Because we are loyal to Queen Raven, and we treat our acceptance of her command as a sacred oath.”

“And, besides,” the other warrior—a female—added from beyond his shoulder where she hovered, “we are indebted to you groundling Wizards for slaying Blacktalon and ending the winter—and not least, for saving our Queen.”

That was good enough for Aurian. It only took a minute to get Iscalda in position on the windowsill. They could not take her far—only to a safe place on the mountain beyond the perilous ledges, for normally it took four of them with a net to maintain their flight with a burden as heavy as a human. But it would be far enough. Each of the Winged Folk took hold of one of her arms and hoisted her up and away, their wings beating rapidly as they strove to gain height with their unaccustomed burden.

While they were gone, the other humans of the party drew lots with broken bits of the straw matting, to solve the quarrel over who should be next to go. Aurian and Anvar had insisted on remaining to the end, because, with their powers, they stood a chance of defending themselves if the Xandim should break through. None of the others wanted to abandon them. Chiamh was next—and could only be persuaded to go because he could defend the others and lead them to safety if anything happened to the Mortals. Parric followed, fuming, and after him Yazour, Sangra, and Schiannath—and by that time, the sound of the Xandim breaking through the rubble could clearly be heard.

Only the Magefolk remained. While Schiannath was being flown across, Anvar turned to Aurian. “You’re going next,” he told her, “and I don’t want any argument.”

Aurian opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled her. “Three considerations: First, this started out as your fight against Miathan. Not only should you be the one to finish it, but if what the Dragon said was true, you are the only one who can—for no one else can wield the Sword. Second, Wolf needs his mother. And third”—he grinned—“if they should break through, I can stop them by taking them out of time with the Harp.”

“Only so many of them,” Aurian argued, “and only for so long. Even with the Harp to help you, it would be too great a drain on your powers.”

“I can manage for a short time—and with luck that’s all I’ll need. If you must wield the Sword, Aurian, we must keep you safe to do so. You know I’m right.”

Aurian grimaced. “I might know it—but I don’t have to like it!”

All too soon, the sound of wings presaged the arrival of the Skyfolk. As they hovered, waiting, by the window, Aurian noticed that their faces were haggard with weariness and white with strain. She only prayed they had the strength for two more trips. Turning back to Anvar, she hugged him convulsively and wondered how she would ever have the strength to ever let him go. She looked deep into eyes that shone intensely blue through the black mask of soot and smoke that smeared his face, and kissed him deeply. “You take care of yourself,” she muttered gruffly, “or you’ll have me to answer to.”

Anvar grinned crookedly. “Don’t worry—after waiting all this time, I’m not going to lose you now.”

He helped her up onto the windowsill, where the strong hands of the Skyfolk clamped around her wrists. “Take special care of this one—she’s precious,” he adjured them.

“We’ve never dropped anything yet,” the female warrior chuckled. Before Aurian had time for a tart reply, they launched themselves with a rush of wings—and the Mage’s stomach leapt into her throat as she felt herself dangling by her hands over a fathomless drop—only two handclasps away from oblivion, and Anvar left far behind. It was far worse than the net. There, at least, she’d felt enclosed, with some support between herself and the empty air. But this time there was nothing but the void beneath her swinging feet, and the muscles of her arms were screaming in protest as they were forced to bear her entire weight. What it must be like for the two Skyfolk, who had valiantly performed this flight over and over, Aurian dared not imagine. They must be in agony—and certainly reaching the end of their strength. She tried not to think what would happen if that strength should suddenly fail. The cold wind blew into her eyes, making them water, and plastered whipping tendrils of hair across her face—and of course she had no hands free to push the strands aside, or wipe away the streaming tears. “Where are they going?” she thought wildly—and would have asked the Winged Folk, had she dared to distract them. “Surely we must be almost there by now!” Even more than she longed for the end of her own wild flight, she desperately wanted them to get back to rescue Anvar.

And then it was over. “This is the place,” a voice yelled shrilly above the rushing wind and drumming of wings—and suddenly Aurian found herself loosed, and falling…

To land bruisingly on her hands and knees on an expanse of soaking turf, after a drop of several inches.

“It’s the Mage! Aurian—are you all right?” The voice belonged to Chiamh. In an instant he was beside her, trying to pull her upright.

Aurian wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “Let go of me,” she muttered ungratefully, and buried her face in the wet, dawn-fragrant grass. Right now, she wanted to keep as much contact with the blessed, solid ground as she could get. For a luxurious moment she stretched there, until her worries drove her to her feet. Her remaining companions surrounded her—she could see their drawn, soot-smirched faces quite clearly now. To her surprise—for she had kept her eyes firmly shut during the duration of the flight—the sky was brightening in the east. Already, the faintest blush of copper stroked the fangs of Steelclaw, giving the tortured peaks a weird, unearthly glow against the sapphire sky.

Then all such thoughts were driven from Aurian’s mind as a huge black shape arrowed down on her, and she found herself on the turf once more, flat on her back this time, with Shia wrapping strong paws around her body and rubbing a bristly black face against her own, all the while purring fit to shatter the fragile dawn. “You’re safe! I thought I’d lose you, too!” Shia drew back and glared into Aurian’s eyes with her fiery, golden gaze. “Don’t ever do that to me again—telling me to stay away while you are in danger!”

“I’ll do my best,” Aurian promised breathlessly—and suspected that she lied. Struggling into a sitting position, she threw her arms around Shia’s neck. “I’m so glad to see you!”

The great cat pressed close to her, and Aurian knew that she was seeking comfort from her grief at Bohan’s death. “He was the first,” the cat said softly. “Excepting Anvar, you and he were the only remaining companions from the start of my freedom.”

“And he was your friend,” Aurian replied. “I know how close you were. He was my friend, too, Shia—and when we have a chance, we’ll mourn him fitly.” Now, however, she was more concerned with Anvar. There was nothing she could do for Bohan, but while there was a chance that her soul mate still lived…

He lived indeed. Because she had been preoccupied with Shia, she had missed the first distant thrum of wings, but Aurian could hear it now, and could see the black speck approaching in the northern skies. In another instant, they had dropped Anvar at her feet. He looked pale and haggard—but unhurt, and very much alive. Thanking all the gods, Aurian disentangled herself from the cat and pounced on him, in much the same way as Shia had pounced on her. “You’re here!” She knew how ridiculous it must have sounded, but she didn’t care. “You’re all right!” She drew back and peered at him closely. “You are all right, aren’t you? The Xandim didn’t get through?”

“No, but it was close.” Then Anvar’s strained expression changed to a grin. “I would like to have seen their faces when they discovered an empty room!”

“We’ll let them work it out—but in the meantime we should be moving.” The voice came from Chiamh. “When they discover my absence, the first place they will think to seek me is my vale.”

“But I thought you said they would be afraid to pass the standing stones,” Aurian protested.

“Yes—but if they can, they will try to stop me getting that far.”

“It’s true.” Aurian looked up to see one of the Skyfolk—the male—standing beside her. “Already, as we completed our last journey, we saw men and horses mustering and heading for the cliff path.”

“Curse them.” Aurian cried. “Will there never be an end to this?”

“Not yet,” Chiamh said softly. “Not until dawn tomorrow, when there will be a Challenge, and a new Herdlord elected. They must abide by that decision, Lady—and they will, so long as the victor is one of our folk. Until then, we have only to survive—and hope that the victor will be our friend.”

There was no more time to lose. It would be a race now, to reach the Valley of the Dead before the Xandim could block their way. Chiamh, Iscalda, and Schiannath offered to change to their horse-shape, and it was decided that Iscalda would take Yazour, Chiamh would take his old friend Sangra, and Schiannath, being bigger and stronger than the Windeye, would bear the Mages, riding double, on his back. That left only Parric—and Aurian’s heart bled for him—that he, a cavalrymaster and the Herdlord of the Xandim, should be forced to fly with the Skyfolk while the others rode. There was no time now, however, to worry about hurt feelings. All such considerations must be put aside in favor of survival. Though Aurian knew that Parric was enough of a soldier to appreciate the fact, the look on his face made her spine prickle with unease. Somehow she knew, for a certainty, that they had not heard the last of the matter.

Even as Aurian was worrying, the Skyfolk took off with Parric. Chiamh and Iscalda had already changed. A bay stallion and a white mare stood there, impatiently awaiting their riders. Schiannath looked at the Mage, his teeth flashing white with a grin. “Get ready, Lady—I promise I’ll give you the ride of your life.”

Before Aurian’s eyes, he changed. His form blurred, shimmered, and altered—and there stood a great, proud war-horse, shadow-etched in dark, dappled gray, with black legs and points. Schiannath arched his muscular, curving neck and tossed the midnight clouds of his mane. To Aurian, it was like a beckoning. She leapt astride his warm, broad back, and felt Anvar scramble up behind her. The others were already mounted.

With a bound they were away, Shia racing alongside like an extra shadow, keeping up with an effortless lope as the sun leapt over the horizon and flooded the plateau with a sea of misty amber light. On the crest of that golden wave they rode, with the thundering hooves of the Horsefolk throwing up diamond-sprays of dew from the glittering emerald grass, and the silver spires of the mountains rising high above them, crowning the new day.