Sword of Flames

1 The Miracle of Spring

Parric would never forget that sunrise—that momentous dawn when winter’s evil grip had been loosed at last, and glorious spring had spread her gentle wings across the world. The cavalrymaster had been standing through the long hours of darkness on the high parapet of Incondor’s Tower, chilled to the bone despite his cloak and an extra blanket thrown loosely around his shoulders. The unaccustomed burdens of leadership had chased away all hope of sleep, so be had volunteered to stand watch while the others rested, and had climbed up here to be alone with his thoughts.

Parric had much to plan concerning his journey back to the Xandim lands, and the cavalrymaster from Nexis, who had risen so high as to become Herdlord of the Xandim, had an additional responsibility now in Aurian’s strange new companions from the south. But Parric found it hard to concentrate on mundane details this morning. Instead, he found his gaze turning repeatedly to the northwest, toward the towering mountain peaks beyond which lay lofty Aerillia, the Skyfolk citadel. Aurian, the headstrong young Mage that the cavalrymaster had followed halfway across the world, had gone there in haste the previous day, borne aloft by winged warriors. She had left Parric again, with barely a word of explanation, though he had traveled through so many perils in search of her and had only just found her.

The cavalrymaster’s thoughts had been dark with dismay as he stood looking out across the bleak expanse of snowfields that were slowly emerging beneath a sky growing pale behind its gloomy overcast, as the wan light of another shrouded sunrise seeped reluctantly across the stark landscape. What the blazes was Aurian up to now? What was so important that she had left her newborn son behind at the Tower of Incondor? Parric knew only that she had gone to find Anvar, the servant who had fled with her from Nexis on the night of Forral’s death. Parric frowned. What was Anvar to her, that she had gone rushing off in such frantic haste? True, she’d always been fond of the lad, but… “Oh, don’t be bloody stupid, Parric,” he told himself. It was a waste of time to worry about Aurian. She’d had little time to tell him much about her adventures, but from the fragments he had managed to glean, it was obvious that the Mage was capable of coping with far more than a bunch of flying freaks such as the Skyfolk of Aerillia.

Somewhat cheered, Parric decided to go in search of something to drink that would take the chill from his bones. But as he turned away from the parapet, he was startled by a movement above him, on the very edge of his vision. His warrior’s reflexes had him crouched in a defensive corner of the parapet, sword in hand, before he even realized what was happening. When his thoughts had time to catch up with his instincts, the cavalrymaster emerged somewhat sheepishly from his refuge, sheathing his sword with a rueful curse. It was a good thing no one had been about to see him, he thought. A right fool he’d have looked!

Parric scowled up at the changing sky. Clouds. Nothing but bloody clouds, that’s what had alarmed him. “I must be getting old,” he muttered to himself—then suddenly he stopped and looked again, his eyes narrowing as they squinted up into the growing brightness. Something unnatural was happening. The clouds were moving faster and faster: racing, hurtling across the sky toward the north. Towering banks of dark vapor rolled ponderously across the heavens, disintegrating—even as Parric looked on in awe—into smoking, streaming shreds, as though they were being ripped apart by the jaws of some mighty wind. Yet on the ground, where the cavalrymaster stood, not even the breath of a breeze was stirring. Patches of high, clear sky began to appear as the cloud cover thinned and was whisked away. Parric looked up into a breathtaking blueness such as he had not seen for a long and dismal age. He let out a low whistle of surprise, and lingered to watch the clearing sky. The unexpected beauty of the sight lifted his spirits far higher than any liquor could have done.

As the last of the vanquished clouds fled the eastern horizon, the sun burst forth in all its glory, spreading a blaze of golden warmth like a benison across the world. Before Parric’s disbelieving eyes, the snow that had locked the land in chains for so long began to melt, dissolving and shrinking away with uncanny speed. On the walls of the tower, icicles formed and dripped, and the nearby thicket was filled with the patter of falling droplets as boughs and twigs shed their coating of snow. Within minutes, it seemed, the chill white blanket that had covered the mountains for so long had vanished completely, leaving great pools and lakes of standing water that were already beginning to seep away—and a familiar sound that the cavalrymaster had not heard in many months: the joyous, rippling song of rushing water as the icebound streams were freed at last.

This miracle had to be Aurian’s work! The untried young woman who had fled the northern city of Nexis so many months ago was older and wiser now, and hardened by sorrow and struggle. And somehow—Parric felt the certainty deep within his bones, and shuddered in awe—she had managed to find the power to break the paralyzing spell of winter that the evil Weather-Mage Eliseth had cast across the world. At long last Aurian had started to turn the tide of evil wrought by the foes who were her own kin and blood, and soon would be bringing the battle home to those who had slain her beloved Forral and enslaved the free Mortals of Nexis.

Parric was about to rush down into the tower to share the good news, but there was more to come. Spreading like a verdant tide across the brown, frost-blasted hillsides came a haze of varied green as the earth awakened and the plant life, dormant for so long in corm and seed, began to stir and stretch. Heather and juniper, grass and moss and fern, put forth foliage and fronds in an explosion of new life. In the thicket below the tower new leaves began to sprout, like tiny banners of celebration, while snowdrops dotted the ground between the outspread roots. The air was moist and fragrant, and tingling with new life. Spring had come to the mountains in a single bound, erasing every trace of winter as though it had never been. Somewhere in the depths of the thicket, a single bird—one tiny, valiant survivor of the iron cold—began to sing.

Parric’s joyful shout aroused the sleepers in the tower. One by one, they stumbled out through the narrow doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes, then stopping to stare and gape in astonishment as they registered the changes that had taken place while they had slumbered. Out came the swarthy Khazalim soldiers from the far south, leaderless now that their Prince, the misguided and treacherous Harihn, had been slain. Out came Parric’s own troops, the little band of Xandim warriors that he had brought with him to help in the rescue of Aurian. In their midst were the two Xandim exiles, Schiannath and his sister, Iscalda, who had befriended Aurian during her imprisonment in the tower. They had been redeemed now and reunited with their people, and such joy shone in their faces that Parric found himself smiling in response to their happiness.

Following somewhat more hesitantly, as though they were still in fear of their traditional foes, came the companions that Aurian had picked up on her southern travels. What were their names? Parric frowned, trying to remember. Eliizar—that was it. The bald, rangy, one-eyed man was the swordmaster Eliizar, and the small, plump woman who followed in his wake was his wife, Nereni, chattering, to Parric’s amusement, nonstop as usual as she voiced her astonishment at the sudden spring. The cavalrymaster didn’t have to understand her language to know just what she was saying!

Behind Eliizar and Nereni came Bohan, towering above the others. Cradled tenderly in the eunuch’s huge arms was the tiny form of Wolf, Aurian’s son, born amid a storm of violence and bloodshed only two days before (could it be only two days? Parric could scarcely believe it). The child had been well named, he reflected with a shudder. The poor infant had been cursed before his birth by the evil Archmage Miathan, so that he would take the shape of the first beast Aurian saw after bearing him. When Aurian had called the wild wolves from the surrounding area to help her escape from the tower, little Wolfs fate had been sealed. Parric looked down sadly at the tiny cub in Bohan’s arms. It was just as well that the child had such a staunch protector. The poor mite had not had much of a start in life. And when was his mother coming back for him? Why had she left so precipitately? What, in short, was Aurian doing in the lands of the Skyfolk?

Spring had come to the city of Nexis. Sunlight washed over the city in a honeyed tide, gilding the tips of towers and spires, pouring its healing warmth over sagging thatch and flaking limewash, mellowing the harsh old fascias of crumbling brick and venerable stone. The trees that screened the merchants’ mansions on the southern bank of the river were misted over with a haze of new leaves that mingled every possible shade of green, and across the river on the northern bank, delicate threads of smoke, soon whisked away by the fragrant breeze, rose from every chimney—a sure sign of coppers aboil in the kitchens below, where the householders were indulging in an orgy of spring cleaning. New-washed clothing, strung up across every inch of space in backyards and on balconies, wreathed the city in a rainbow patchwork of celebration banners.

The air was vibrant with birdsong, and from scores of shutters, flung wide to admit dry air and sunshine, came the rasp of saws and the rhythmic tapping of hammers as the citizens of Nexis set to work with a will to repair the ravages of winter. Women sang as they wielded scrubbing brush, bucket, and broom; children, half-wild with the heady thrill of liberation from endless days spent in dark, damp rooms, ran shrieking with excitement through the drying mud of the alleys.

Only in two hearts was the joy of spring conspicuously absent. Miathan, Archmage of Nexis, stood looking out over the parapet that guarded the lofty, open temple crowning the roof of the Mages’ Tower. Beside him was Eliseth, the Weather-Mage, whose plans had been so cruelly thwarted by the death of the unnatural winter that she had created. The endless, ice-locked season had been her own creation and charge, and now, as she looked out across the city, a sneer of angry disgust distorted her flawless features while her cold gray eyes held the expression of a hawk that had struck at—and missed—its prey. The Archmage suppressed an ironic smile. Though his own plans were currently in tatters, he was old and cunning enough to know that such setbacks could be reversed, given time—and meanwhile he could take some small consolation from this irresistible opportunity to feel smug at Eliseth’s expense, despite the fact that he himself had not emerged unscathed from his latest encounter with his renegade runaway apprentice—Aurian.

But Miathan had either not been paying sufficient attention to the screening of his thoughts, or Eliseth’s mind had been running along a similar track, for turning to the Archmage, she scorched him with a scathing glance. “Well?” she snapped. “Proud of your pupil, are you? Just look at this—and all because you let Aurian and her paramour, Anvar, escape you!” She glared at the sunlit panorama below her as though it were a personal affront. “What in the name of all the gods do we do now?”

“I have no idea.” With an abrupt motion of his hand Miathan quelled the protest that was forming on the Magewoman’s lips. “I have no idea—yet,” he continued, “but rest assured, Eliseth, this battle is not over—not by a long road. Now, of all times, we must stay calm, and think, and plan—and, as a matter of priority, complete our defenses.” Striding across the flat rooftop, he crossed to the other side and turned the glittering gaze of the gems that were his eyes toward the south, as though to pierce the long miles that separated him from Aurian. “One thing is certain,” he muttered. “Even if we do nothing at all, it is only a matter of time now before Aurian comes to us.”

Aurian was cleaning the rust from her sword.

“Must you do that in bed?” Anvar protested sleepily.

“I was waiting for you to wake. Now that you have, I’m sure I can think of a better alternative.” Aurian’s eyes twinkled as she looked across at her fellow Mage. Winning the Harp of Winds had changed him, much as she herself had been altered when she had recreated the Staff of Earth and claimed it as her own. Anvar was more, somehow, than he had been before. His blue eyes sparkled with a greater intensity; his hair was a brighter shade of gold. An aura of vibrant power surrounded him, transforming his entire being into the appearance of something more than merely human. Aurian, however, had undergone a similar transfiguration when she had claimed the Staff of Earth, and knew that appearances could be deceptive. In his heart, where it mattered, her fellow Mage was the same as he had ever been.

Anvar stretched and smothered a yawn. “What time is it?”

Aurian shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.” She glanced out of the window. “It’s dark again, though, so we must have slept all day.” She sighed. “I suppose they’ll be coming to fetch us soon, for Raven’s celebration banquet—not that it’ll be much of a feast. This winter has left the Skyfolk on short rations indeed.”

“It won’t be so bad,” Anvar replied. “While you were talking with Shia this morning, Raven remembered all the food we left cached in the forest on the edge of the Jeweled Desert. She went off at once with a squadron of Winged Folk to collect it. And to try out her newly recovered powers of flight,” he added with a frown.

“Blast her! I just healed those wings of hers, and it was anything but easy,” Aurian said. “She had no business putting such a strain on them so soon!”

Anvar was still frowning. “I don’t understand why you did it at all,” he burst out angrily. “After betraying us as she did, she doesn’t deserve—”

“Hush, love.” Aurian laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You were still in trouble, here in Aerillia, and Shia was trapped here, too, remember? I knew you both were in danger, and I had to get here quickly—I needed Raven’s cooperation.” She looked down at Shia, who was curled up fast asleep, taking up the remaining space in the odd, circular scoop that the Winged Folk called a bed. The great cat was still exhausted from her heroic, near-impossible climb up the sheer cliffs to Aerillia—bringing Anvar the Staff of Earth—not to mention her part in the battle that had taken place in the Temple of Incondor and resulted in the death of Blacktalon, the vile and corrupt High Priest of the Winged Folk. Shia was also worn out by her grief over the fate of Hreeza, the valiant, sharp-tongued old cat who had been her friend, and who had been brutally slain in the temple at the hands of a blood-crazed Skyfolk mob. Aurian sighed. Poor Hreeza’s body still had not been found.

“I’m sorry.” Anvar’s voice pulled the Mage away from her thoughts. “I know you had good reasons for healing Raven. It just—well, it galls me, that’s all. After everything we suffered because she betrayed us…” With an effort he dismissed the subject. “Anyway, Raven can wait. What were these alternatives that you were mentioning when I woke up?” Now he was grinning, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Aurian was consumed by a surge of pure happiness as she slipped the now-gleaming Coronach, her precious and long-disused sword that she had rescued from the Tower of Incondor, back into its scabbard and reached out to her lover. She slid her fingers through the silken gold of Anvar’s hair, losing herself in the blue depths of his eyes. Her arms encircled him, his skin smooth to her touch, his body hardened to spare bone and muscle and sinew by the privations of their quest. Aurian let herself sink into the welcome of his embrace…

Their bliss was rudely interrupted by the whirring of great wings on the landing platform outside their tower lodgings followed by a thunderous knocking on the door and the rasp of steel leaping free from scabbard as Yazour and Chiamh drew their weapons in the adjoining room where they had been sleeping with Khanu, Shia’s other feline companion.

Aurian cursed, and groped beyond the edge of the bed for her scattered clothing. “Now what?” she muttered sourly.

The winged messenger, when they let him in, was in a state of considerable agitation. “Come quickly, come quickly,” he cried. “Something dreadful is happening in the ruins of the temple. We heard screams…”

“It’s not fair!” Linnet muttered. Scowling, the winged child glowered at the now-deserted ruins of the Yinze’s Temple and kicked a loose stone from the top of a tottering pile. The stone went bouncing away, dislodging a small cascade of other rubble that slid after it with a staccato rattle. Linnet jumped back, startled, her wings spread for flight. She half expected to hear a grown-up voice raised in reprimand—the Father of Skies only knew, the temple was wrecked enough without her contribution—but nothing stirred save the sharp, dying echoes of the clatter of stone on stone. Nobody was there to scold Linnet—no one, in fact, had even noticed she was missing, the fledgling thought with a sniff of self-pity. The grown-ups were all across at the palace, celebrating the unexpected coming of spring, the accession of the new Queen, and the rediscovery of the Harp of Winds by some strange, alien, wingless Wizard. Linnet’s small but vital part in these miraculous events appeared to have been forgotten entirely.

“It’s just not fair!” Linnet muttered again. “By Yinze—I was supposed to be the hero!” Had Cygnus, the white-winged Skyman, not promised her as much? Why, had she not single-handedly carried the news that the Queen was being held captive by Blacktalon, the evil High Priest? And at the risk of dire retribution from her mother for having been playing where she had no business to be in the first place? Linnet sat down on a fallen beam and dropped her chin disconsolately into her hands. “That Cygnus promised me a reward, too,” she sighed. “But what with all the fuss and excitement about everything else, I don’t suppose he’ll remember.”

A lot of things had been forgotten since the strange, wingless Wizard, with eyes the color of the summer sky, had appeared out of nowhere in the ruined temple, carrying the Harp of Winds. Linnet couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. A harp—so what? Why old Martin, the instrument maker, could turn out harps by the dozen! Oh, the thing looked pretty, for sure: twinkling and glowing as though it had been wrought of purest moonlight and the glimmer of stars—at least it had seemed that way in the quick glimpse that Linnet had been able to snatch before Louette, her mother, had whisked her away to take care of her little brother, Lark, while Louette went off to the palace with everyone else.

“And now they’re all having fun except me,” the winged child grumbled, aggrieved. She huddled down, shivering, and wrapped her wings tightly about herself. Spring it might be, but the glittering, starcrazed night still held a lingering chill, as if winter, though defeated, were loath to slink away. Linnet tried to warm herself with the fire of righteous indignation. ” I should be there, at the palace! I should be getting my reward for saving the Queen, instead of sitting at home with that little brat!” But in truth her conscience was nagging her—for of course she was not at home taking care of Lark. Once her brother had fallen asleep, Linnet had crept out and headed for the palace, hoping that she would be able to sneak up as close as she had done on the fateful day (could it really be only yesterday?) when she’d found the captive Queen, and catch a glimpse of the festivities through some window. And if only she could attract the attention of Queen Raven’s white-winged companion without her mother catching her first, then she might get her reward after all.

Linnet’s plans, however, had come to naught. Halfway to the palace her courage had failed her. It had been different last time, when the gigantic edifice had been virtually deserted as the Winged Folk mourned the passing of Queen Flamewing. But tonight the towers and spires had been aglow with a blaze of torchlight that outrivaled the red-gold glory of sunset, while clamorous swarms of excited Skyfolk circled the turrets and went zipping in and out of every doorway, preparing the best feast that could possibly be managed from the meager stock of remaining supplies. The winged child could not get anywhere near the building without being spotted—and if her mother should catch her, it wouldn’t be a reward that she’d be getting! A bitterly disappointed Linnet had been turning away to head back home when her eye had caught the black and shattered shell of Yinze’s Temple.

The fledgling’s thwarted, rebellious spirit had guided her toward the menacing hulk of the temple ruins. She had so desperately wanted to be distinguished by the important folk at the palace—already she had unwisely bragged to her friends about her adventures, and the reward she’d been promised. Linnet couldn’t bear to think of the teasing she’d receive on the morrow when the other children discovered that she’d been left tamely at home to sit with Lark. At least the ruins held out the hope of another adventure—or at least, if she used her imagination, an incredible and thrilling tale with which she could impress the others and hopefully avert their taunts.

Now, however, the rush of indignant disappointment had begun to cool, and Linnet was having second thoughts. While the blush of sunset had still bathed the sky, the ruins had looked like some old, harmless heap of stones—but now that night had laid a shadowy caul across its scarred and shattered face, the temple had taken on a far more sinister aspect.

A shiver ran down the winged child’s spine. In the deceptive gloom eerie transformations were taking place. An up standing sliver of stone—all that remained of one of the decorative archways—had become a tall, cloaked figure, its features hidden within the fathomless depths of a cowl of deepest black. Twisted pieces of votive silver took on the eerie gleam of ghostly figures, while a scattered drift of broken crystal from the massive stained-glass window depicting the Fall of Incondor had become the gleam of many unknown eyes. A pile of fallen stone had turned into the lithe, sinister contours of a crouching beast. Everywhere, shadows were advancing in the stillness: deep holes of deeper black against the thickening darkness. They seemed to be reaching out for Linnet—and what did they conceal? Was the ghost of Blacktalon stirring amid the desolate ruin of his stronghold? Would he come creeping forth out of the darkness, clutching the ghastly trophy of his severed head?

“Oh, for Yinze’s sake, don’t be stupid!” the winged child told herself sharply, speaking aloud to boost her faltering courage. “There’s no such thing as ghosts—they don’t exist!” Nevertheless, a tactical retreat at this point seemed a very good idea. After all, she told herself, Lark just might wake and be afraid to find himself alone… Linnet needed only to find a souvenir, some distinctive item, to prove to her friends that she had actually been there.

Linnet stooped, peering narrow-eyed into the gathering gloaming, and wished she’d had the sense to bring a torch. Then, as she scrabbled among the cold, rough, sharp-edged stones, a blood-chilling sound came tingling to her ears: a low, bubbling moan that reverberated through the rocks below her feet and rose to an eerie, wailing crescendo. With a breathless squeak of terror, the fledgling spread her wings to flee—and went sprawling to her hands and knees as her left foot slipped between two loose chunks of masonry and twisted, unbalancing her and pulling her down. And though Linnet, oblivious in her panic to the pain, tugged with the strength of terror, the foot remained obstinately jammed. She was trapped.

Linnet bit her lip to stop herself from crying aloud—a fleeting glimmer of common sense told her that the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself. The wailing came again, softer this time, as though whatever creature was making the anguished sound had gone beyond the limits of its strength. Linnet wet herself. The warm, spreading dampness was an utter humiliation, noted in some deep, buried place at the back of her mind—the part of her brain that dealt with normal, everyday occurrences. But the terrified core of her had taken control. The fledgling wrenched again at her unyielding foot, too scared even to cry out as another white-hot lance of pain pierced tier leg. All at once, time seemed to slow as her mind began to work with the speed of desperation. Linnet analyzed her predicament in a lucid flash or inspiration born of extremity. She saw that the two great chunks of stone trapping her foot were too heavy for her childish strength to shift, but they were bedded on a base of loose rubble. If she could dig that out, she might unbalance one of the blocks and free herself…

Sobbing with fear, Linnet clawed frantically at the loose, surrounding stone until her fingers bled, hoping to shift the balance of the larger blocks. Then, as she cleared a space, her stinging, abraded fingers met with something warm, soft, and yielding. Something that moved. Into the fledgling’s mind came the faintest whisper of a harsh, old voice: “Help me… You can hear me—help me. …”

One of the palace revelers, having slipped briefly outside to clear the wine fumes from his head, heard a scream of terror ripping through the night. The unnerving sound came from the vicinity of the temple. Gray with shock, he swooped back inside on shaky wings to raise the alarm.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Aurian, kneeling in the shallow pit from which the rubble had been flung hurriedly aside, laid a fleeting hand on Shia’s broad head. “So this is your old friend Hreeza that you thought was dead!” She laid her hands on the cold, battered body that lay before her and shook her head in amazement. “Well, she’s incredibly lucky to be alive—that’s all I can say!”

“That remains to be seen.” Shia, with Khanu peering anxiously over her shoulder, poked Hreeza’s body with an anxious muzzle. “Will she survive, do you think?”

Aurian caught the underlying thread of anxiety in the great cat’s tone. The caring was different, she mused. Shia, though speaking in extremity, and in tones of deepest concern, had never spoken of the Mage or Anvar or any of their party in that same way. But this time, the casualty was one of her own folk. Aurian wished she had a comforting answer, but she could never bring herself to lie to Shia. Their relationship went too deep.

Aurian probed Hreeza with her Healer’s senses, but the response of the old cat was not encouraging. Nonetheless, she tried to remain positive. “If the stubborn old fighter has such a stranglehold on life, I’d say she has every chance, so long as we act quickly.” The Mage shook her head in amazement and dismay. “Broken bones—the lot!” she muttered. “She must have been unconscious for over a day or you’d have heard her, Shia. I would guess that the child must have disturbed her and brought her out of it in some manner. Somehow, in the depths of her being, she must have realized it was her only chance of rescue—but that one last, desperate struggle to seek help was almost enough to finish her.”

Even as she spoke, Aurian was summoning her Healing powers, augmented by the might of the Staff, to pull the old cat back from the brink of death. Swiftly she worked at knitting fragile bones and restoring sundered tissue, losing herself in the complexity of the task—yet half-aware, after a time, that Anvar was by her side, his hand on the Staff, steadily feeding her with energy to supplement her own, so that she would not be too depleted at the end of her work. Chiamh knelt by the great cat’s head, using his own spells to force air in and out of Hreeza’s lungs, keeping her breathing while Aurian worked. The winged physicians Elster and Cygnus hovered behind the Mage, peering rapt with fascination over her shoulders and marveling at her Healing powers.

Aurian’s repair work was basic, and carried out as swiftly as possible to minimize the threats of cold and shock to her fragile old patient. After a time, she rose swiftly to her feet. “Very well,” she said briskly, “that’ll hold her for now, but we must get her quickly to warmth and shelter without disturbing the remainder of her injuries or jeopardizing these delicate new repairs.” Aurian turned to her fellow Mage. “Anvar, I’d like you to back me up as you’ve been doing—but in place of a steady feed of energy, I need all the power you can give me in a single, massive surge. I want to take Hreeza out of time for a few minutes and use my mother’s old apport spell to send her safely to our quarters.”

Anvar’s eyes widened. “What, simultaneously? Isn’t that a little drastic?”

Aurian shook her head. “Not really. It’ll be tiring for both of us, though—I’m still out of practice, having recovered my powers so recently—and I want to leave some energy in reserve to finish Hreeza’s Healing. That’s why I need your help.”

Once more, Anvar placed his hands on the Staff. “You can always count on my help,” he told her—and for an instant their eyes met in a warm, unspoken communion.

“Get on with it—please,” Shia growled, and the Mages, sensing her anxiety, turned quickly back to their patient.

The time spell was simple enough, and Aurian sent a brief prayer of thanks to the spirit of her old friend Finbarr, who had taught her that particular piece of magic while she was still a girl. Once Hreeza was safely immobilized, Aurian prepared herself for the apport spell. She grasped the Staff firmly, feeling Anvar’s hands, warm and steady, touching her own as she opened herself to the power of the Artifact. Concentrating hard, she wrapped the web of her power around the old cat, cradling Hreeza in a sheath of magic that shimmered with the Staffs unearthly green light. Then, visualizing the desired destination—her own tower rooms—Aurian gathered her will and pushed.

In a flash of emerald radiance, Hreeza vanished. Air rushed in with a thunderclap to fill the space the cat had occupied, and the watching Skyfolk leapt back with startled oaths and cries, rubbing the dazzle from their streaming eyes. Aurian sagged against Anvar, feeling, despite his assistance, as though she had carried Hreeza every inch of the way on her own back. That was the trouble with apport spells, the Mage reflected ruefully. They might move objects quickly and easily, but their range was very limited, and they took every bit as much energy as the more conventional methods.

Chiamh, the Xandim Windeye, was leaning limply against a pile of broken masonry, his eyes unfocused and blank with their sheen of silver, and Aurian realized that he was using his particular talent of riding the wind to check whether the old cat had reached her destination. Even as Aurian watched, he shook himself abruptly and straightened as the reflective glimmer drained from his eyes to restore them to their usual warm amber. “She got there safely,” he informed the Mage in awestruck tones. “Light of the Goddess, Lady, what a spell! Can you move yourself like that, also?”

Aurian smiled and shook her head. “Can you pick yourself up by your own boots?” she countered, and turned back to Anvar. “Come on, let’s go and finish healing Hreeza.” She was about to beckon her winged bearers, when, frowning in sudden recollection, she looked around. “By the way, what happened to the little girl who found her? In all the excitement we forgot to thank her…”

“I would leave that for now, if I were you.” Anvar gestured over his shoulder, and Aurian, gathering her wits after the draining apport spell, became aware of a commotion taking place in the shadows some distance away. A scolding voice and a flurry of slaps followed by a rising wail told the Mage that the winged child’s mother had passed the point of relief and had reached the stage of exasperation. Aurian winced sympathetically. “Poor mite,” she murmured.

“Wait until it’s your turn,” Shia interjected slyly. “You have all these joys of motherhood still to come.”

Aurian raised her eyes to the heavens. “May the gods help me, she muttered.

Cygnus turned hastily away as Aurian approached, calling for her bearers to fly her back to her tower. The young physician-priest was unwilling to show the Mage his face, lest she divine his most secret thoughts. In a blaze of bitterness and envy he had watched her Healing powers at work, knowing in his heart that he was wrong to resent such miraculous gifts, but unable to help himself. How could the gods be so unjust, the white-winged physician wondered, as his mind went back to the depredations of the dread, uncanny winter, and his own inability to help his suffering people. Why should these freakish wingless ones possess such powers while his own race, once Magefolk in their own right, remained impotent and bereft?

Across the shadows Cygnus looked at Anvar, who was clambering into a net to be transported across to his tower. As the Mage pushed a hampering fold of his cloak aside, the Skyman glimpsed the eldritch glimmer of the Harp of Winds, strapped securely to Anvar’s back. The physician clenched his teeth, seething with resentment. Why should this alien, this interloper, possess the most precious heirloom of the Winged Folk? What right had he to keep it, when it truly belonged to its creators? Perhaps, just possibly, the precious Artifact could be used to restore the lost and stolen powers of the Skyfolk … “And if I possessed the Harp,” Cygnus murmured to himself, “I might become a true Healer at last…”

Eliizar stood in the open doorway of the Tower of Incondor, blind to the beauty of the rich spring landscape that spread out before him like a colorful tapestry, and deaf to the song of the returning bird life and the cheerful calls and chatter of the warriors who brushed past him as they bustled in and out of the tower, preparing to set out for their various destinations. It seemed to the one-eyed swordmaster that he was the only one who wasn’t busy on this second day of the miraculous spring, and—with the possible exception of Parric, the leader of the Xandim band, who by his demeanor, appeared to have a weight of worries on his mind—Eliizar was certainly the only one who wasn’t cheerful.

The swordmaster sighed, feeling low in spirits and very much alone. Nereni had gone off some time before, toward a nearby stream, carrying a tottering pile of dirty laundry and singing cheerfully to herself. Bohan was sitting in a sheltered patch of sunlight in an angle of the tower wall, with the two great wolves that Aurian had selected to be foster parents to her son in her absence stretched out beside him, for all the world like shaggy gray hounds. In the eunuch’s lap, on a blanket, lay the tiny cub that was the Mage’s child. Eliizar shuddered, nauseated by the sight of the accursed creature. How could Aurian bear it? he wondered. How could she possibly love such an abomination? How could she be so calm about the whole dreadful business?

If only Yazour would return from Aerillia! Apart from the practical difficulties that Eliizar’s little group had been encountering because their translators were all away in the lands of the Skyfolk, the one-eyed warrior desperately needed to talk to someone who might understand. He had lain awake all night, wrestling with the dilemma that had beset him, and in the bleak and solitary watches of the night he had reached his decision at last—the only decision, he had decided grimly, that made any sense. Unfortunately, he knew that Aurian would be far from happy about it—and Nereni wasn’t going to like it at all. Nonetheless, the matter must be addressed, and there was no point in putting it off. Squaring his shoulders, the former swordmaster of the Khazalim Arena set off in search of his wife.

Guided by a drift of fragrant woodsmoke on the breeze and the sound of distant singing, Eliizar soon found her where the stream ran out of the thicket below the tower. A large old caldron that had hung from a hook in the tower hearth was now scrubbed free of rust and dirt and was steaming gently over a crackling fire. Blankets and various items of clothing had been spread to dry on the bushes at the thicket’s edge. Nereni was kneeling on a folded cloak at the water’s edge, beating a linen tunic against the rocks that edged the stream and singing softly to herself as she worked.

Eliizar hesitated for a moment at the edge of the coppice, screened from his wife’s view by a patched gray blanket and a curtain of fresh green leaves. It had been a long time since he had seen Nereni happy like this, and now he must be the ruin of her newfound contentment. As he stepped out reluctantly to greet her, she scrambled to her feet, the dripping tunic still clutched in her hands, her face beaming with additional joy at the sight of him. “Eliizar! I was wondering where you could be! I…” As her voice faltered, the swordmaster knew his expression must have given him away.

“Why, Eliizar, whatever ails you?” Nereni was frowning now. “How can you seem so gloomy on such a wonderful day?”

“I must speak with you.” Eliizar was hoping—praying—that she would forgive what he was about to say to her. “Nereni, our kinfolk are leaving tomorrow,” he plunged on quickly. “They are returning to the forest at the desert’s edge to build homes and make new lives for themselves, away from cruel kings and magical battles. Jharav has asked us to join them, and I—I firmly believe that we should go.”

“What?” Nereni’s expression was growing stormier by the second. “Leave Aurian? Leave Anvar? Absolutely not, Eliizar! How in the Reaper’s name could you even suggest such a dreadful thing?” As if to emphasize her words, she hurled down the tunic that she had been washing. It hit the surface of the stream with a resounding slap and began to float away on the current as the little woman rounded on her husband, her water-wrinkled fingers clenched into fists.

Eliizar took a hasty step backward. He had never seen his gentle spouse so angry. “My dearest one, only listen for a moment…” he begged.

“Only listen? Why should I sully my ears with such treacherous, ungrateful talk?” Nereni shouted. “Aurian is our friend, Eliizar! How could you even think of leaving her? Who will care for her if I do not? These Magefolk may be powerful, but practical? Why, neither one of them can so much as boil a pot of water without burning it!”

Eliizar sighed. He had known that this was going to be difficult. “They have other powers that will more than compensate,” he insisted, “and other companions who can help them far better than we, on their northward journey. Hear me out, Nereni—please. It is not our business to involve ourselves in this unnatural sorcery, and this is our last chance to leave before we become hopelessly embroiled in their fight against these other Magefolk.”

Eliizar was talking quickly, not giving his wife a chance to interrupt. “We cannot pass through the mountains alone, without aid,” he went on urgently. “We either leave now, with our own folk—our own kind, Nereni—or embark on a road that has no turning back. And what will the future hold for us, as strangers in a foreign land—a land beset by blackest sorcery?”

There was a new coldness, unnerving and unfamiliar, in Nereni’s eyes. “You’re afraid,” she said softly.

Shamefaced, unable to meet her gaze, the swordmaster dropped his face into his hands. “Yes,” he whispered. “In the face of this sorcery, I am afraid—afraid as I have never been before.”

“And so you ask me to choose now between you and Aurian—Aurian who became our friend and forgave us for putting her through the ordeal of the Arena, who freed us from the power of the tyrant Xiang—”

“Nereni, stop! This is more than I can bear!” Her words pierced Eliizar’s heart like a spear of ice, turning him cold with horror. Nereni thought he was asking her to choose? The notion had never occurred to him—it was not the way of the Khazalim. It was a man’s place to decide the comings and goings, and a woman’s place to go—or stay—as he dictated. For the first time in all their wanderings, he truly realized how greatly matters had changed between himself and Nereni. And yet…

Eliizar looked at his once timid, placid, unadventurous little wife, and saw the newfound spark and spirit in her eyes. He suddenly realized that her courage and common sense had become more pronounced—and appreciated by the other companions—as their journey had progressed. Why had he been so blind for so long? Indeed, Nereni had coped far better with many of the shocks and surprises of their adventures than had Eliizar, swordmaster and seasoned warrior!

Even as these thoughts were racing through Eliizar’s mind, he was aware that Nereni’s unrelenting gaze was fixed upon his face as she awaited an answer. He had been humbled and outdone by the courage of his wife—and it was not a pleasant feeling. The swordmaster felt his face grow hot with anger. “No, wife,” he growled. “I am not asking you to choose. I have decided that we will return to the forest with our people, and I am telling you that you are coming with me.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode away up the hill in search of Jharav, the veteran officer who was now in charge of the Khazalim contingent. Eliizar did not look back—and it was his own misfortune that he did not. The expression of anger and disgust on Nereni’s face might well have persuaded him to reconsider.