Sword of Flames

25 The Caldron

The headland looked very different in the sunshine, Aurian thought. She stood there watching, as she had done every day since Parric left, for a sight of distant sails. After a while, Shia came up to join her. “You know this is folly,” the great cat remarked. “You must give them time to get here, my friend. Why not come back down and join us in the settlement? Wolf is missing you, and even Anvar has got tired of watching.”

Aurian sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” she admitted grudgingly. “I just hate this endless waiting. I want to get back to the north…”

“And you are worried about Ithalasa,” Shia added with her usual perception. “But all was well with him when he returned to tell you that he had delivered your companions safely. And by standing here to do your worrying, you do him no service. So far, he has kept his mission secret, but if another of the Leviathan should be passing, and pick up your thoughts…”

“All right, all right,” Aurian muttered resignedly. “Let’s go back to the settlement.”

As she turned away from the headland, the air was rent by the thunder of wings, and a cry of greeting came from the skies above her. The Mage looked up, startled, for the two Skyfolk were no longer numbered among her companions. After Schiannath had become Herdlord, she had sent the winged couriers back to Raven with her blessings and thanks. Crossing the ocean to an unfamiliar land had been too much to ask of them, and sensing their reluctance, she had sadly let them go. They had already done enough for her, though she could have used their assistance where she was going. So who could this be? Aurian shaded her eyes with her hand to peer up into the bright sky. Had Raven sent a message?

Then, to Aurian’s astonishment, Cygnus was landing beside her in a blur of white wings.

“Greetings Mage. I come from the Queen,” the winged man told her, “with an offer to accompany you to the north, if you will have me.”

“Why, I would be delighted to have you join us,” Aurian told him, much cheered by the sudden appearance of the winged man. Maybe everything is going right for a change, she thought.

She still thought so two days later, when three lean Nightrunner vessels appeared on the horizon, their sails glowing bravely in the fading sunset light. Aurian, who had been sharing her vigil with Anvar, watched their slow approach in a fever of anticipation, thinking that soon they would be carrying herself, her companions, and the Xandim, back to the north. To complete her pleasure in the moment, she became aware of the thoughts of Chiamh, reaching out across the ocean in greeting.

As the ships finally dropped anchor in the gathering twilight, she ran down with Anvar to meet the Windeye, who introduced them to Yanis, the Nightrunner leader.

“I’m truly glad to see you,” Aurian told Chiamh sincerely, releasing him from a hug. “But you didn’t have to trail all the way back again to fetch us.”

“I did,” said Chiamh smiling. “I was missing you Magefolk—and someone was needed to guide the ships. Parric and Sangra said they had had enough of the sea to last them a lifetime—you understand, of course, that I’ve left out all their curse words,” he added with a rueful grin. “But there is someone else here who wanted to come to meet you…”

He beckoned, and Aurian turned to see Vannor’s daughter, rowing across from the adjacent ship with a young blond Nightrunner.

“Ho—Zanna!” The Mage ran down the beach to meet the boat, marveling as she did so at how much more mature and independent the young girl seemed since they last had met in the Solstice market in Nexis. “So you did manage to escape,” she went on with barely a pause for breath, as she helped pull the boat up onto the shingle. “That was well-done indeedl My, but I’m relieved to see you. I’ve been worrying about you and Vannor ever since that night you sent me the message. And what happened to that crystal of yours?”

“I’m sorry, Lady—I lost it somewhere in the sewers.”

Aurian put out a swift hand to steady her, as Zanna, trying to speak and clamber out of the boat at the same time, came close to taking an unexpected swim.

“Steady, love,” Anvar interrupted, laughing. “Give the poor girl a chance to get ashore.”

The Mage clasped the young girl’s hand warmly. “Sorry, Zanna. That was my fault. I’m just too impatient—I can’t wait to hear about your adventures.”

Zanna could scarcely allow herself to believe that she was setting foot on foreign soil at last, having completed her first proper sea voyage in a Nightrunner ship. Ever since the southern coastline had come into view as a thin, dark line on the horizon, she had been growing more and more excited—and meeting the Mage again, and being treated as a companion and equal, had completed the joy of her day. “This is Tarnal, Lady Aurian,” she introduced her companion. “He’s a Nightrunner captain—and a very good friend.”

The Mage looked from one to the other. “So I see,” she replied cryptically. “I’m delighted to meet you, Tarnal.”

Luckily, at that moment, Yanis rescued Zanna from her embarrassment. “Have the captains your permission to come ashore, Lady? If we’re to sail at dawn, we don’t have much time to get organized.”

“You’re right,” Aurian agreed. “If you’ll come with me to the settlement, I’ll introduce you to Schiannath, the Xandim Herdlord.” In turning, she paused and laid her hand on the Nightrunner’s arm. “Yanis, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help,” she said softly.

Zanna, watching, saw the young man glow with pride.

There were further wonders in store for Zanna when she reached the low-walled, windswept fishing settlement, and met the handsome Xandim Herdlord and his flaxen-haired sister. The winged man, however, exceeded anything that her imagination might have conjured. Cygnus seemed woven from the stuff of legends. When she first saw the slight, fine-boned young man with the white wings, she clutched Tarnal’s hand tightly, convinced that she must be dreaming. Her mind reeled with incomprehension at the sight of the wolf cub who, the Mage assured her, was Aurian’s own son, cursed by the hated Archmage. But what awed her most was the sight of the two formidable great cats who sat, erect and curious, by Aurian’s side. To actually converse with Shia, with the Mage acting as interpreter, was the most incredible experience of her life.

The ships were to sail on the dawn tide, but no one got any sleep that night. The communal room of the fisherfolk dwelling was filled with talk, as Yanis and his captains conversed with the local Xandim—Zanna had a feeling that the Nightrunner was extending his markets, and that he would soon be back—and the Mages told their own tales, and asked anxiously for news from the north.

This brought Zanna to the moment she had been dreading. So far, Aurian was still unaware of what had happened to Vannor—but the girl knew how close the friendship had been between the Mage and her father. She was aware that the Lady would be extremely upset by the story of Vannor’s maiming, and wanted to break the news to her in private.

“Lady?” Zanna interrupted Aurian’s conversation with Yanis, not caring how rude she sounded. “Will you walk outside with me for a moment? There’s something I have to tell you—alone.” She saw Yanis open his mouth, about to protest, but Tarnal quickly laid a warning hand on the Nightrunner leader’s arm. The Mage exchanged a swift, startled glance with Anvar, then nodded and, to Zanna’s great relief, followed her outside.

During the last hour or so, Aurian had noticed that Zanna seemed to be gravely troubled by something. Curious, and not a little alarmed, she walked with the girl a little way beyond the dwellings, followed at a distance by the ever-watchful Shia. The Mage smiled to herself at her friend’s protective zeal, and hoped that Zanna would not be too alarmed by their uninvited companion.

Zanna, however, seemed too perturbed even to notice the cat. As they walked together in the moonlight toward the point, the girl told Aurian, brutally and without embellishment, exactly what the Weather-Mage had done to Vannor.

As the hammer blows of Zanna’s words fell on her ears, and she visualized—all too clearly—her old friend’s pain and suffering, the world seemed to stand still for the Mage in a single, agonizing instant of grief and rage. When she came back to herself, her hands were shaking and clenched tightly into fists. Noticing that Zanna was cowering away from her, Aurian forced herself to relax. She knew, that as a wielder of the Artifacts, her rage must be terrifying to behold, and didn’t want to scare the girl.

“It’s all right, Zanna.” The Mage spoke softly. “Once more, Eliseth has added to what she owes. But the time of reckoning is approaching fast.”

“Good.” There was a spark of fire behind the young girl’s eyes. “I’m glad to hear it—and I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Aurian smiled, and put her arm around Zanna’s shoulders. “Your father was lucky to have you there to help him through such a horrifying experience. How is he faring now?”

“At first he lost his confidence, and was afraid of being crippled and useless,” Zanna admitted, “but he’s getting better all the time.”

“And how did he react to the news of Sara?” Aurian asked quietly.

Zanna shrugged. “Badly, at first—but all in all, he took the blow better than I would have expected. I would not have come away and left him—except that Parric is helping him far better than I can, at the moment.” She looked up at the Mage with a rueful grin. “In fact, it’ll probably take us about two days to sober them up!”

Aurian laughed. “That sounds more like the Vannor I remember. Come on—let’s go back to the others. It’s only a couple of hours until we sail.”

When at last the ships embarked in the soft blue light of dawn, Anvar stood with Aurian in the bows of Yanis’s vessel. They were talking softly, for many of their fellow voyagers had already taken the opportunity to snatch some sleep. “I know that courtesy demanded that we travel with Yanis,” Aurian was saying as she looked out across the waters at their companion ships, “but I wish we could have gone with Tarnal.”

“Why?” Anvar was surprised. “What’s wrong with Yanis?”

“Nothing—he’s a fine young man…” Aurian had the grace to look abashed. “It’s just that I was curious to see how Zanna and Tarnal were getting along. I like him—and I’m very fond of Zanna. She deserves to be happy.”

Anvar chuckled. “I think that situation definitely doesn’t require your meddling, my love. It looked to me as though they were getting along just fine!”

“It looked that way to me, too,” Aurian mused. “Did you notice—”

“I noticed you noticing him,” Anvar couldn’t resist teasing her.

The Mage lifted her chin and glared at him. “Well—and why not? Tarnal is worth noticing. He reminds me of you, a little—only he’s handsomer, of course!”

“You wretch!”

“That’ll teach you!”

Simultaneously they broke into peals of laughter, and hushed each other hastily, muffling their mirth with a kiss.

“Do you remember the last time we voyaged like this, together?” said Anvar. “Little did we think, when we fled Nexis, that we were heading for the southern lands, where such incredible things would happen to us.”

“I never guessed then that I’d end up falling in love with you—or that we’d meet such wonderful friends.” Aurian looked at the Windeye, who was peering nearsightedly over the stern at the receding Xandim coastline, and at Shia and Khanu, who were curled up asleep on a tarpaulin nearby with Wolf and his foster parents. The Mage noticed, with some amusement, that despite her reassurances, the Nightrunner sailors were giving that particular area a wide berth. “I hope we get the chance to come back some day,” she went on,

“especially to see Hreeza—but right now, I’m looking forward to going home.”

“It’s still not over yet,” Anvar reminded her with a frown.

“No,” agreed Aurian, “but at least it feels as if we’re making progress. And once we find the Sword, who knows what will happen?”

Her words, though spoken in all innocence, sent a premonitory prickle of dread sheeting across Anvar’s skin.

Eliseth shrieked curses, and threw the crystal across the room. “She’s back! I don’t believe it!” But there was no room for doubt. She had seen it in the crystal with her own eyes—and with increasing practice, her scrying was becoming very accurate nowadays. The Weather-Mage began to pace back and forth across her chamber, thinking furiously. It had been humiliating enough when Vannor and his daughter had escaped her. Her face now bore the ravages of an extra ten years—the mark of Miathan’s rage. She intended to pay him back for that—but now that Aurian had returned, her time was running out.

Eliseth had lost all faith in Miathan’s effectiveness as an Archmage. More than once, he’d had a perfect chance to end Aurian’s life, but had always refused. And look what had happened. The accursed renegade and her half-blooded abomination of a paramour were practically knocking on the very door of the Mages’ Tower!

If only I possessed the Caldron, Eliseth thought desperately. After his dreadful error that had resulted in the Night of the Wraiths, Miathan had always seemed afraid to use the Artifact again… If he had only learned to control it, as she would have done had the Caldron been hers… If only he had taken the trouble to spend as many hours in the dusty, freezing archives as she had done, poring over ancient, half-decipherable scrolls to research the Caldron’s powers… Abruptly, the Weather-Mage stopped pacing. Well, why not? she thought. Why shouldn’t I possess it? Have I not earned it? Would I not make better use of it? It’s wasted on that doddering old fool!

But here common sense asserted itself. That fool was not so old and feeble that he couldn’t snuff out her life like a candle, if he caught her crossing him. Eliseth resumed her pacing. After a time, her eye lit on the pile of scrolls on the table, that she had taken from the library to continue her researches in comfort. The glimmerings of a plan began to form in her mind…

Miathan looked up in surprise and annoyance as the Weather-Mage entered his chambers without knocking. What in the world was she thinking of? It was still a disgustingly early hour of the morning—in fact he had not been to bed yet, for as was his wont these days, he’d spent the night in contemplation, in the restful solitude of his garden. He had just been thinking about going to bed now—and here she was, interrupting him.

“Yes?” he demanded testily. “What the blazes do you want at this hour, Eliseth?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Archmage…” Smoldering beneath her civility, he could sense a blaze of suppressed excitement. “It’s this document,” she went on, holding out a scroll. “I found it last evening in the library—I’ve been up all night trying to decipher it. It relates to the Caldron—it should help you to control its powers, and use it in safety.”

“What?” Suddenly Miathan was wide-awake. “Let me look at that!”

“Certainly.” The Weather-Mage handed the scroll to him, but when he unrolled it, he found that it was written in a language so ancient—and with an ink so faded—that he could barely decipher a word of it. Little did he guess that Eliseth had made certain he could not.

“Don’t worry.” She slipped the document from his fingers. “I can only understand it myself because I’ve been studying Finbarr’s notes over the last months, hoping to find a way to help you.”

Very likely! Miathan thought to himself. Trying to help herself, if he knew anything about it. Yet she had brought the scroll to him…

“It says that there’s writing hidden on the side of the grail,” Eliseth was saying, “that describes the Spells of Power to control the Caldron—”

“Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me!” Miathan snorted.

“If you fetch the grail,” Eliseth prompted, “I can try to use the scroll to bring out the secret writing. Surely it’s worth a try,” she cajoled.

“Now, just a minute.” At this point, Miathan’s suspicions definitely were stirring. “Why don’t you make a translation for me,” he temporized, “and then I’ll see how well it works?”

“That’s just like you!” Eliseth flared, losing her temper completely. “You never trust me—you want to keep me out of everything! It was my hard work that found the scroll; my eyes that got strained translating the accursed thing. And now you want me just to hand it over to you without so much as a please or thank-you? Well, you can go to perdition, Miathan. If you won’t let me be a part of this, you can whistle for your scroll—and the priceless knowledge it contains.” Taking the brittle parchment in both hands, she made as if to tear it across.

“Wait—wait!” Miathan shouted hastily. What if the temperamental Weather-Mage should prove to be right after all? “All right,” he sighed. “Have it your own way.”

As the Archmage went off into the adjoining chamber, Eliseth, relieved to be out of his sight for a moment, allowed herself the luxury of a sigh of relief. Then she heard the grate of shifting furniture, followed by a soft but distinctive click, and raised her eyebrows. So the Archmage had a hidden panel in there, did he? Well, she’d investigate that later. Who knew what other secrets it might hold? Then the thought flew out of her mind as Miathan came back into the room carrying the blackened, tarnished grail.

As he placed the Artifact on the table between them, Eliseth could feel the power that thrummed through it, belying its sorry condition. Without touching it, she examined it closely. “Couldn’t you have cleaned it up a little?” she complained.

“I tried,” Miathan said with a sigh. “I’ve tried many times, but since that night it stays as black as ever.”

“Well, there’s no trace of secret writing that I can see—but, then, there wouldn’t be. Let’s see what our document says…” Eliseth turned away, as if looking for the scroll—and suddenly whirled back, her fingers extended and pointing at Miathan as she threw all her powers behind the spell that would take him out of time.

Miathan, if he’d had suspicions, had been expecting an attack on the Caldron, not on himself, and had prepared his defenses accordingly—as Eliseth had hoped. As the Archmage froze in position, taken out of time by her spell, the grail flared with a brief white light and then went dark again. She extended a cautious hand toward the Artifact, with all her senses attuned to the slightest hint of more defensive magic—but there was nothing there now, save its own thrumming power.

As the realization of what she had done truly came home to her, Eliseth laughed aloud in triumph. “As for you,” she told the frozen Archmage, “you can go down into the catacombs and keep Finbarr company, until I decide how to dispose of you.” She knew, with a chilling certainty, that Miathan must never be unbound from the spell. Her life depended on it.

But now there was other work to be done. These next few days would be busy, for she must keep an eye out with her crystal for any sign of her enemy’s movements, while also working with the grail, to wrest its powers to her will. Eliseth smiled to herself. There might be challenges ahead of her, but she was looking forward to the next few days immensely.

Though evening had long since shadowed the ocean outside, the great cavern of the Nightrunner hideout knew neither day nor night. As always, it remained shrouded in its perennial darkness, which was only alleviated by the many lamps that glimmered at intervals around the curve of the sea-smoothed walls, or twinkled high on their poles set into the shingle. Vannor paced the beach, alone, anxious, and impatient for the ships’ return. Over the preceding hours his surliness had chased his companions away one by one, until only the stalwart and stubborn Parric had remained. Eventually, even the cavalrymaster had been deterred by his friend’s dour and un-forthcoming attitude, and had gone grumbling off in search of bottle and bed, leaving the merchant to the solitude he had been craving.

On this particular night, Vannor’s hopes and fears were more than enough company for one man. Though he had been endlessly grateful for Parric’s companionship and support over the last few days, the little man’s notions of assisting is friend had involved shadowing the former rebel leader everywhere he went, talking incessantly—and, by his own example, encouraging Vannor to drink more than was good for either of them.

“I know he’s only trying to help,” the merchant muttered to himself, “but sometimes a man needs time to be alone, to think.”

There was certainly a good deal to think about. Zanna’s increasing taste for adventure, for instance—not to mention her growing partiality toward that blond young Nightrunner. Where would it all end? Though Vannor was forced to admit to an increasing liking for the lad, this was not the kind of future he had planned for his beloved daughter! And on a far more serious note, would Zanna even have a future? Would any of them? What would Aurian have in mind when she returned?

Vannor was looking forward to their reunion with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation. On one hand, he had always been remarkably fond of the lass—yet on the other, her return was sure to bring back sorrowful memories of Forral. Parric’s tidings had given Vannor time to grow accustomed to the notion of the Mage’s new attachment to Anvar, whom he had always liked in any case, and the merchant felt a great deal of sympathy with Aurian due to his own experiences of bereavement following the death of his first, beloved wife—and the resurgence, on meeting Sara, of feelings that he had thought were lost forever. Nonetheless, it would seem strange to see her with a lover other than his old friend. Also, though her news of his own faithless wife could cause him nothing but pain, how could he resist asking her about Sara? What was worse, the merchant dreaded the prospect of the Mage’s pity, when she saw how he had been maimed.

With such thoughts to torment him, the eventual arrival of the little smuggler fleet could only bring relief to Vannor. When the sound of shouted orders and the echoing creak and splash of oars finally reached him, he turned toward the shadowy cavern sea gate, the sound of his own racing heartbeat like thunder in his ears.

One by one, the lean gray Nightrunner vessels slipped into the great pool beneath the cliffs. Vannor was utterly oblivious to the crowd who, having been alerted by the sentinel on the cliff, were streaming out through the tunnels onto the beach in order to greet the homecomers. Though Zanna was hailing him from the deck of Tarnal’s craft, he only had eyes for the nearest ship—and the tall, flame-haired figure that stood watchfully in the prow.

Aurian did not wait for the boats to bring her ashore. Plunging from the bows of the ship with a joyous cry, she swam ashore with powerful strokes and engulfed Vannor in a hard—and very wet—embrace. Then, laying a gentle hand on the merchant’s arm, she looked down steadily at the mangled stump, and then back up into his eyes. “We’ll make them pay for that, you and I,” she said softly. “No matter how much they try to hurt us, they can never beat us down.”

In her demeanor there was no trace of the pity that the merchant had so dreaded: only a depth of sympathy and a steely determination to set the matter right in whatever way she could. Vannor suddenly thought of the night that Forral had been slain, and remembered what Parric had told him of Miathan’s curse upon the Mage’s son. Aurian’s understanding of his plight went far beyond any useless pity. Vannor swallowed the lump in his throat, and hugged her again. “Too bloody right, they can’t!” he muttered.

The next few days were busy ones for Aurian. Now that she had returned, she wanted to put her search for the Sword in motion, and she had no time to waste. Thanks to the generosity of the Nightrunners and Remana’s careful and efficient organization of supplies, she quickly arranged for the provisioning of her little band during the crossing of the moors. With Vannor, however, she had less success. He insisted on joining her, and would not be dissuaded. “I’m fine now,” he argued. “Getting my strength back by the day, and Parric is teaching me to fight left-handed. I wouldn’t be a burden to you.” From the tacit plea in his voice, she knew that was his greatest fear, now that he had lost his hand.

As Anvar—who had been spending a good deal of time improving his acquaintance with the older man, much to their mutual pleasure—pointed out to the Mage, there was more at stake than Vannor’s safety. He needed desperately to prove himself.

“He’s more upset about Wolf, too, than he’ll ever let you know,” Anvar added quietly. “And not just because Miathan’s curse has caused you so much heartache. Vannor wants to strike a blow at the Archmage, for what he did to Forral’s son.”

Sighing, Aurian gave in. She had always put up a brave front when it came to the matter of her child—only Anvar, of all her companions, knew what it had cost her to abandon him to the care of the wolves, who were so much better fitted to be his parents while he took this nonhuman form. Vannor had been far more perceptive than she had realized—who was she to deny him his chance at revenge? She only prayed that she had made the right decision, though Parric consoled her greatly by promising never to leave the merchant’s side. After that, of course, Zanna wanted to come, too—but this time the Mage put her foot down firmly, as did the girl’s father. “What?” Aurian teased Vannor afterward. “You want to stop her from being as big a fool as yourself?”

Though Yanis, Tarnal, and a dozen other smugglers volunteered to join her, Aurian reasoned that if the Sword was truly in the Vale, her success in finding it would not depend on numbers. Her Xandim were enough for her—and, besides, if things should go wrong, it was vital that some of Miathan’s opponents should survive. Besides, she particularly wanted Tarnal to stay behind, as he was clearly the best person to console Zanna, and to forestall any brave but foolish notions on her part of following her father into danger, as she had done before.

Parric and Sangra, with their greater military experience, were anxious to know what the next stage of the campaign would be, once Aurian had claimed the Sword of Flame, but the Mage was unable to answer their repeated queries. “Until I actually have the Sword, I can’t gauge the extent of its powers,” she told them. “I would guess that we’ll unite with the rebels in the Vale, and then come up with some kind of plan for marching on Nexis.”

“Will your rebels consent to fight with us, once they have learned the secret of the Xandim?” Schiannath asked. “Or will fear and suspicion prevent them? So far, we have kept our true natures hidden from these Nightrunners—but how much longer will we be able to do that?”

“Parric and the Mages will convince them—surely.” Chiamh put in hopefully. “At least, in these lands, the folk are no strangers to magic.”

“Schiannath could be right, though.” Anvar frowned. “They may be familiar with magic, but under the Archmage’s rule, they have no reason to love it.”

“If you let me take a force of Nightrunners to sail ,upriver, we can break into the city from the sewers,” Parric volunteered. “That way, while you attack the outer walls, we can already have men—Mortal fighters—inside the city.”

“I had hoped to avoid that kind of battle,” Aurian sighed.

“You may be right, though. If the Sword is so powerful that Anvar and I can’t overcome the Archmage without incurring the appalling magical destruction that took place during the Cataclysm, then we may be reduced to the efforts of our Mortal friends.”

Vannor, always an important and respected contributor to these discussions, looked at her long and hard. “It’s their world, too, Aurian,” he said quietly.

Aurian nodded her acceptance of his rebuke. For the moment, she was too ashamed to speak. She could only thank the gods that she had these good companions, who would always prevent her from falling into the arrogance and error that had been the curse of her forebears. She held out her hand to him in mute apology, and he grasped it with a smile.

“I know, lass—you didn’t mean it the way it came out,” he reassured her.

Though she was comforted by her old friend’s words, Aurian didn’t cease to worry. With so many uncertainties before her, and so much potentially lethal power at her disposal, how could she not?

At last—after what seemed an endless round of discussion, preparation, and fruitless debate—Aurian and her band were ready to leave the Nightrunners. The Mage said a reluctant farewell to her son, for Wolf and his foster parents were staying behind in safety, though the wolves were clearly not at home in the crowded caverns of strange humans. Remana, though somewhat taken aback by the notion of having a family of wolves under her care, had promised to try to find them a quieter place, and to keep an eye on them.

Then, at last, it was time to go.

As she rode out across the cold, dark moors, Aurian felt incredibly relieved to be moving at last. She would have been far less happy some hours later, if she could have looked back to the Nightrunner haven. In the silent hour before dawn, two gray wolves, one of them carrying a cub, emerged stealthily from the hidden entrance to the ponies’ cavern. After casting around for a time to find the scent, they loped off across the bleak expanse of heathland, following the Mage’s trail.

But other eyes, hostile eyes, saw Aurian set forth toward the Valley.

In the Mages’ Tower in Nexis, Eliseth clasped her crystal in hands that were gloved, to hide the blistered burns that had been the result of her efforts to tame the Caldron. Time and again, as she had striven to master it, the Artifact had defied her, flaring out at her in a blaze of searing magical energy that had defied all her attempts at shielding and had blackened and scarred her questing fingers. With Miathan out of the way, however, time and determination had been the allies of the Weather-Mage. Following Aurian’s deadly attack on the Archmage so long ago, that had resulted in the destruction of his eyes, Miathan’s will had been gradually weakened, worn down not only by constant pain, but by the ever-present awareness of the hatred and contempt in which she held him for encompassing Forral’s death and cursing her son. It had been Aurian’s loathing and defiance that had undermined his hold upon the one Artifact that he possessed, to the extent of making Eliseth’s task so much easier.

Now, at last, the Weather-Mage was making headway. Though her mastery of its powers was as yet uncertain, her own relentless will had overcome the Caldron’s capacity to protect itself with excessive force, and though she could feel, as it stood on the table before her, the pulsing waves of resentment and reluctance that emanated from its blackened depths, she knew, if the need were desperate enough, that she could bend it to her desires.

And now it seemed that the need was upon her. The Weather-Mage looked again into the depths of her scrying crystal, where she could distinguish the troop of shadowy shapes that rode across the moors toward the Vale. So Aurian was moving at last. No matter how deep the darkness, or distant the Vision, Eliseth would have recognized the shape of her nemesis anywhere. But why the Lady’s Valley, rather than Nexis itself? For months now, some impenetrable barrier of magic had shielded it from Eliseth’s perception. Frowning, she began to wonder. What could Aurian be seeking there? What did the renegade Mage know that she, herself, did not?

The Weather-Mage put down her crystal thoughtfully, then summoned the captain of her mercenaries to prepare his troops with all hast. Whatever Aurian was seeking in the Vale, she would find that Eliseth was there ahead of her.