Aurian

30 Raven

The Prince and his followers broke camp at sundown, pausing only for a quick bite of food before setting off again across the desert. Though the moon had not yet risen, there was plenty of light. The gem sands burned and twinkled in a multiplicity of crystal hues, holding the sunset glow long after it had left the sky. Wisps of sand, drifted gently across the ground by the errant night breeze, crossed their path like roaming wildfire beneath the stars. Aurian was strangely silent and preoccupied, and Anvar, riding by her side, was marveling at the surety with which Yazour seemed to find his way in this featureless land. Moved by boredom and curiosity, he rode forward to ask him how it was done.

Anvar caught the flash of Yazour’s smile beneath his veils. “Ah,” he said. “It is the magic of my people. The desert is bred into our blood, over endless generations ...” He laughed. “My friend, I’m teasing. There are ways, to be sure—the lie of the land, the drift of the dunes in the prevailing wind—but mostly I navigate by the stars!”

Anvar grimaced. “I never thought of that! I suppose it’s because the stars are so different here.”

Yazour’s eyebrows rose. “The stars are different? How strange! Tell me, Anvar, are all things different in your northern home? What is it like there?”

Anvar smiled, liking this young man, and wondered where to start. But he never got to reply, for at that moment, his horse gave a scream of pain and lurched over, stumbling and floundering in the soft gem dust. Anvar was thrown abruptly forward, struggling to keep his balance and his hold on the reins. Yazour cursed viciously and grabbed at his bridle, steadying the plunging mare and bringing her to a halt as Anvar slid down. The animal was trembling, the tip of one hind hoof barely touching the ground.

“Blood of the Reaper! It’s lame!” Yazour was examining the flinching hoof. The horror on his face went far beyond the exingencies of the situation.

“What’s wrong?” Harihn’s voice came harshly from above their heads as he pulled up his stallion beside them.

Yazour looked grim. “Anvar’s mount has been hurt.”

Harihn shrugged. “A pity,” he said coolly. “You know what to do, in that case.”

“But Your Highness—”

“See to it, Yazour!”

The warrior sighed. “My sorrow, Anvar,” he said softly. “If there were only some other way—”

“What do you mean?” Anvar was alarmed by the way Yazour was looking at him. As though he were already dead . . .

“It is the Desert Law.” Harihn’s voice was cold and remorseless. “We have no spare horses—the last went to those friends your Aurian insisted on bringing. Because we carry so little water, we cannot allow you to delay our progress to the next oasis. The Desert Law states that you must be left behind.”

“What did you say?” No one had seen Aurian approach. Her hand was on the hilt of her sword. She pushed back her veils, and her eyes glinted with a fey, steely light as she advanced on Harihn. “If you think I’ll let you leave Anvar here to die, then think again, Prince.”

“Lady, stay out of this. There can be no exceptions to the Law!” Harihn beckoned, and a ring of soldiers materialized around the Mage, their crossbows cocked and poised. “Will you fight my entire army for the sake of one man?” the Prince asked softly. Aurian’s cold eyes blazed. “Don’t make the mistake of threatening me,” she growled. Shia, at her side, punctuated her words with a menacing snarl. The Mage pointed a finger at the Prince. “I could strike you down before those bolts had time to reach me. Would you care to reconsider?”

“Lower those weapons!” Yazour snapped. The troops, schooled to a man, obeyed their captain instantly.

“How dare you!” Harihn spat.

“He has more sense than you,” Aurian said, dismounting.

“I’m sure we can solve this problem without violence, Harihn. Anvar, let me see your horse.”

Anvar held the horse while the Mage, frowning with concentration, knelt to examine the injured hoof. “Hmm,” she murmured softly, “nothing to see—but what’s this?”

As Anvar watched, her hands began to glow with a faint, violet-blue nimbus that extended over the foot of his mare. The Mage’s concentration was so intense that it seemed to spread outward, affecting all the watchers. No one stirred, or made the slightest sound. Just as the tension reached unbearable proportions, there was a grating sound and something slid out of the soft, sensitive sole of the hoof and into the Mage’s hand. “There,” Aurian crooned to the mare. “That’s better. Now to fix the damage . . .” The aura flared, then vanished. Aurian straightened, mopping her brow, as the horse set its hoof to the ground, lightly at first, then with increasing confidence.

A murmur went through the assembled soldiers. Aurian was examining something in her hand, her face suffused with rage. She held it out for Yazour’s inspection. On her palm lay a small sliver of metal. “The point of a dagger, if I’m not mistaken,” she said grimly. “It had been driven into the hoof, and every time the horse stepped on it—The poor creature must have been in agony! Whoever did it knew that with his horse disabled, Anvar would be left here to die. This was no accident —it was attempted murder!”

Yazour’s face was livid. “My apologies, Anvar, that this was allowed to happen. I swear the culprit will be found—and punished. Are you all right, Lady?”

“I’m fine.” Aurian was swaying on her feet.

“Let me help you.” Yazour assisted the Mage back onto her horse, and she turned to Anvar, her expression troubled.

“Stay close,” she told him. “Until we know who did this, we can’t take any chances. I’ll get Bohan to act as bodyguard.” She whirled her horse expertly on its hind legs, throwing up a luminous cloud of the scintillating dust, and was gone, calling for the eunuch as she went.

Harihn laughed scornfully. “Bodyguard, indeed! You need a wet nurse, Anvar. You should have remained a slave—or a eunuch! No man spends his life hiding behind a woman’s skirts!”

“Why, you . . .” Anvar leapt toward Harihn, ready to tear him from the saddle and rearrange his too handsome face. He was brought up short by Yazour hauling on his arm.

“No, Anvar!” Yaaeur said urgently. “He wants you to attack him! If you threaten the Prince, his soldiers will seize you, and not even your Lady herself could help you then.”

Anvar forced himself to breathe deeply, though he was trembling with rage. He looked Harihn straight in the eye. “Another time,” he growled. Then turning his back on the Prince, he mounted his horse.

Harihn’s comments rankled. Anvar rode beside Bohan, isolated behind a barrier of rage. As his horse’s stride ate up the miles, so his anger fed upon itself. It was too much. It was too bloody much! Would he never be master of his own fate? First a servant, then a slave, and now, it seemed, less than nothing! And because he had finally acknowledged his debt to Aurian, it was humiliating that he should be forced to depend on her so much. For the Gods’ sake, he had promised Vannor that he would look after her\ What a joke that had turned out to be! His furious thoughts chased in circles, as he rode through the night.

“Anvar?”

So preoccupied was he that Anvar had missed Yazour’s call to halt for the day. He looked up to see Aurian, slumped in the saddle, pulling back her veil from a face that was chalk-white, He knew that, due to her pregnancy, her magic was taking a greater and greater toll on her strength, and her weariness was due to the Healing of his horse. Gray guilt joined the red haze of anger in his mind. “Lady, let me help you.” Dismounting quickly, he went to her side. At least I can fulfill a servant’s tasks, he thought bitterly.

“It’s all right.” Aurian slid to the ground, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Anvar gritted his teeth and seized her horse’s reins. “I’ll take care of this. You go and rest.”

“I can manage.” She tried to take the reins, but he snatched them angrily away.

“I said I’ll do it!”

“What on earth’s the matter?” The Mage had taken a step backward, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“Nothing! I’m the bloody servant, aren’t I? So I’ll take care of the horse! It’s all that people seem to think I’m fit for.”

The Mage stared at him, her lips set in a^thin line, and beckoned Bohan across. “Bohan, would you see to the horses, please? I need to talk to Anvar.”

The eunuch led the animals away. Aurian walked off with Shia at her heels, plainly expecting Anvar to follow. For some reason, that infuriated him even more.

Harihn’s men had just finished setting up their tent. Aurian led Anvar inside. “Now,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Anvar exploded. “Where shall I start?”

“Why not start with what made you so angry?” Her calm manner only made things worse, when he wanted a good blazing fight to work off his anger. “All right!” he yelled. “If you want to know, I’m sick of being rescued by you! I’m not stupid, or feeble, or incompetent. I’m a man as good as any other, but you make me less than a man.”

“But Anvar,” Aurian protested, “what could I do? I couldn’t let you die in the slave camp. I had to use my powers again today to stop Harihn abandoning you. Would you rather—”

“That’s just it!” Anvar jumped on her words. “Your powers! Your accursed Magefolk powers! Well, let me tell you. Lady—I had powers, too! There’s Mage blood in my veins, but Miathan stole my powers and turned me into a servant!”

Anvar was so carried away by his wrath that he didn’t see Aurian’s stunned expression. He failed to notice that for the first time, Miathan’s silencing spell had failed. At the thought of the Archmage, the rage and resentment that he had been forced to suppress for so long erupted beyond controlling. All Anvar could see was Miathan—Miathan, smug and gloating—and around his wrinkled neck hung the crystal that contained his powers, while he groveled on the floor in agony. It was so real—so real!

Dear Gods—it was real! Anvar’s vision streaked and blurred, as though he were standing still while the world flashed past, too fast for his eyes to register. From far away, he seemed to hear Aurian’s voice. “Anvar, no!” Then the world whirled and settled, and he found himself in a dimly lit room— with Miathan before him, asleep in bed, his eyes bound with a white cloth, and around his neck, twinkling softly in the lamplight, the crystal. Unable to help himself, Anvar reached out for the beautiful thing ... And there was a blinding flash of multicolored brilliance—a fierce, hot joyful force engulfed his body—he was in the crystal—the crystal was in him—the crystal was him!

Miathan gave a shriek of rage—of pain—of tearing lose. Anvar fled; the world flashed past him again in a blur of dizzy color; but the Archmage, not old, not blind now but powerful and strong, was pursuing like a great, black dragon formed from men’s deepest terrors. The force of his rage was hot on Anvar’s heels as he fled—where? How could he find his way back? Miathan drew nearer . . . nearer . . . Then suddenly a great glowing force like a spear of light shot past Anvar. It ploughed into the Archmage, knocking him back, down, away . . .

“Follow!” Anvar heard Aurian’s voice and followed her gleaming light with relief, until, with a soundless explosion and a wrenching jolt, he found himself sprawled on the floor of the tent.

Aurian lay nearby. Her eyes flicked open—and skewered him to the spot. Anvar braced himself to meet her gaze. Anger he found there, and confusion, and worst of all, a sick, sinking fear for his safety that was entwined with the memory of an older, greater grief. It was as though her eyes were forest pools, and he could see her thoughts moving like elusive fish beneath the surface.

“What have you done?” Aurian whispered. “How could you do it?”

Anvar could not repi^s. He felt oddly elsewhere, as though a fathomless space surrounded him in place of the close silken walls of the tent. A space into which he might so easily fall. The floor seemed to ripple and melt beneath him, and he seized the Mage’s hand in panic.

Aurian sat up, peering at him intently. “Close your eyes,” she said, her tones suddenly crisp and businesslike. “Concentrate on your body. You came back too quickly, and you aren’t quite with yourself. Feel your body, Anvar. Feel your heart beating, the solid ground beneath you, the heat of the tent on your skin ...” She leaned forward until her face was close to his own.

Anvar looked into the green depths of her eyes, saw the long, curling sweep of her lashes, the clean arch of her brows, the proud, chiseled sculpting of her high cheekbones and jutting nose. Gem dust glittered like a starfall in the slumbering fire of her hair, and he had a sudden, vivid memory of her standing on the Tower stairs on a long-ago Solstice morn, her head crowned with snowflake diamonds.

“Think of your body—not mine!” Aurian said tartly.

Anvar blushed. He had not considered that she might see his thoughts as clearly as he could see hers. “It’s all right, I feel better now.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Good,” she snapped, “because you’ve some explaining to do.”

Just then Bohan entered, his eyes screwed up against the growing glare outside. He carried their food and water, his expression reproaching them for their forgetfulness.

“Bohan, what would we do without you?” Aurian said. The eunuch’s face was alight with pleasure as he left.

“Eat,” Aurian urged Anvar. “Traveling out of your body uses a lot of energy,”

Anvar found he was trembling, and took a hasty bite out of a strip of dried meat. “Is that what I did?”

Aurian sighed. “Yes, Anvar,” she said with labored patience. “That is what you did. Now in the name of all the Gods, will you please tell me what’s going on?”

At the reminder of his narrow escape from the Archmage, Anvar froze, “He—he couldn’t follow us, could he?”

“No.” Aurian spoke reassuringly. “I hit him too hard. It’ll take him a while to find his body again. I wish I could have finished him, but when we are out of our bodies, we’re on another level of reality. A Mage can be trapped there if his body is destroyed in his absence, but he can’t be killed. Anyway, forget Miathan. Let’s talk about you.”

In a voice that shook with emotion, Anvar told her of Ria’s death, which had resulted in the discovery of his powers. He went on to describe what Miathan had done to him, and ended with his escape from the kitchens and his meeting with Aurian at the Garrison.

The Mage was staring at him openmouthed. “That’s monstrous!” Aurian struck the floor with her fist. She looked utterly shaken. “How could Miathan have done such a thing! If only I’d known. If only you could have told me!”

Anvar shrugged. “I probably wouldn’t have. I didn’t trust you then. I thought you were like the others, and in league with Miathan. I know better now.” He swallowed hard.

“I’d like to know how you broke Miathan’s spell.” Aurian was suddenly all practicality again. “And also, what happened when you—went off like that!”

“I can answer the second part.” And he told her what he had done.

“You took your powers back?” Aurian looked thundecj struck. “No wonder Miathan was furious!” She snapped fingers. “Furious! Of course! Anvar, I’ve just worked out hoi you did it. In order for a spell like the one that Miathan laid you to work, you had to believe you would suffer if you said anything. Today you were so angry that it blinded you to the consequences—and your rage gave you the impetus you needed to break free!”

Anvar was appalled. “Do you mean,” he said slowly, “that I brought that suffering on myself all those years?”

“Of course not. Your acceptance was only part of the spell. If you had still been within Miathan’s vicinity, I doubt you would ever have won free. But he is far away, and his power must have been weakened by my attack on him. That and your anger gave you the opening, and your powers drew you back to them.” She fell silent, staring at him as though he were a stranger. “I still can’t believe it, Anvar. You, a Mage.”

“Does it make that much difference?” It came out sharper than he’d intended—and Anvar realized that he was afraid, mortally afraid, that she would react as Miathan had done, and see him as some kind of monster.

“No!” Aurian’s denial was swift and indignant—then she looked away. “Yes,” she sighed. “I—I can’t believe it, Anvar— you . . . His son . . .”

“Don’t ever say that!” Anvar snarled. “I’m not Miathan’s son, and never will be! My mother was one of the Mortals he despised. You know what he did to me—to you and Forral. Do you think I could ever be like him?”

Aurian glanced away from him, shamefaced. “Fool that I am!” she said at last. “You’re right—oh Gods, you’re right! You could never be capable of Miathan’s evil. You were as much a victim as Forral and I.” She held out her hand to him. Can you ever forgive me, Anvar?”

Weak with relief, Anvar took her proffered hand. “My own dear Lady! I don’t ever want to become a Mage like Miathan, but I’m not afraid to become a Mage like you. On the contrary, I hope I will. That is, if you’d teach me?”

“Me?” Her eyes sparkled with delight.

“Well, I must admit, I’m a bit stuck for choice . . .”

“Why, you-—” Aurian burst out indignantly—and Anvar grinned. Aurian broke into peals of mirth. “Wretch!” she jrowled. “I can see that this will take some getting used to. I fwould be proud to teach you, my friend, if you’re sure you really want me.”

“Of course I do. Of all the Magefolk, you’re the only one I’d ever choose.”

After that momentous day, their journey settled into a regular pattern. Anvar and Aurian continued to share a tent through the daylight hours with Shia, who guarded their privacy while the Mage began to teach Anvar how to use and control his power. Now that Aurian’s pregnancy was well into its fourth month, they knew their time was short. There would be a limit to the theory she could teach him when she could not demonstrate it herself. Their first task was determining where Anvar’s talents lay, and Aurian was amazed to discover that he too had powers that crossed the whole spectrum of magic, though his strengths and weaknesses-seemed to lie in different areas from her own. While her dominant talents lay in the domains of Fire and Earth—not surprising, with her parentage —Anvar found these harder to master. But he excelled at Air-magic, and Aurian suspected that when they had more water available for manipulation, he would be adept at Water-magic, too. Since these two domains naturally combined to produce Weather-magic, it seemed that Eliseth might eventually find herself with some competition. But that was for the future. Anvar was a raw beginner, and he had a long way to go.

Each day, through the daylight hours when the rest of the camp slept, Aurian would drill him mercilessly until they were both exhausted. During her time at the Garrison, Parric had taught the Mage thejjj^k of snatching valuable sleep whilst on horseback, and this too she taught to Anvar. They spent their nightly journeys riding in a light doze, secure in the knowledge that the horses would remain with their companions. It earned them a good deal of teasing from Yazour, Eliizar, and particularly Nereni, but they soon learned to play up to the ribald speculations about their activities during the rest periods. It was safer than letting out the secret of Anvar’s newfound powers.

One by one, the glittering nights and dazzling days ticked by, like bright beads strung on a thread of travel. Yazour, to his frustration, had come no nearer to finding the would-be assassin, but, perhaps due to his increased vigilance, there were no further attempts on Anvar’s life. They saw little of Hanhn. As the miles increased between the Prince and his kingdom, he grew more aloof and shorter of temper, and most of his people were content to give him a wide berth. But at least he left Aurian and Anvar alone, and they were glad, though Aurian often wished that she could talk with him, and perhaps ease his mind. She knew how it felt to be exiled, and understood that he must be regretting his decision to relinquish his throne. She often found herself wondering what the future held for him.

Anvar, however, had his own ideas about the cause of the Khisal’s fey mood. From certain veiled comments that Harihn had made, and from the way his eyes tended to linger specula-tively on Aurian, and coldly on himself, Anvar began to suspect that his news about Sara’s barrenness had caused a change of heart in the Prince. In short—he was thinking of returning to claim his throne, and he needed Aurian’s help to win it. Unaccustomed to thinking of women as having free will, he saw Anvar as the main obstacle to his plan. Though he had no actual proof, Anvar began to have a fair suspicion that Harihn had been the one who had lamed his horse. Who else could have passed Yazour’s guards unchallenged? The two Magefolk were heavily outnumbered, however, and still in need of the Khisal’s help to survive the desert crossing. Anvar kept his thoughts to himself, but as the journey continued, he remained constantly on his guard, well aware that the farther they went, the more likely Harihn was to make another attempt on his life.

Yazour guided them well, steering an unerring course along the ancient route that crossed the desert from oasis to oasis. Every two or three nights, a ragged outcrop of rocks would be seen in the distance, emerging from the mantle of gem dust, and the horses and mules would snort eagerly, picking up their pace as they scented water ahead. The Prince and his followers would camp beside a stony basin that cradled a sweet pool formed by springs originating deep within the ridge that stretched, according to Yazour, right across the desert like a knobbly spine, most of which was buried beneath the jeweled sands. Each life-giving source of water had a name, and he taught the Mages to recite them in order, something that his people learned in infancy. They encountered the first, Abala, on the third night of their trek, and this was followed by Ciphala, Biabeh, Tuvar, Yezbeh, and Ecchith, which would approximately mark the halfway point of their journey. Fair Dhiam-mara followed, then Varizh, Efchar, Zorbeh, Orbah—and finally, Aramizal.

“Wait until we reach Dhiammara!” Yazour smiled at the Mages. “That, to my mind, is the most spectacular sight in the desert, and well worth this hard journey to see.”

“Romantic nonsense!” scoffed Eliizar, who had traveled the desert regularly in his youth. “The fairest oasis in this waste is Aram izal—because you begin the final step of the journey, and can see the mountains of the Winged Folk rising in the distance to mark the end of the desert.”

“Winged Folk, indeed!” Yazour scoffed. “And you call me romantic! You might as well expect to see a dragon!”

“Nonetheless,” Eliizar insisted, “they exist. Their citadel is high in the inaccessible peaks, where men cannot climb.”

“How do you know it’s there, then?” Yazour countered.

“It is there,” Aurian interrupted, surprising them both. “I have it on the best authority.” She smiled, remembering her friend the Leviathan, and looked dreamily away to the north, as though trying to see across the intervening miles to the soaring lands of the Skyfolk.

Aerillia, the city of the Winged Folk, was carved out of the highest peak of the northern mountain range. The palace, an airy confection of hanging turrets and terraces, was situated on, and within, the topmost pinnacle, and Raven’s tower room commanded a breathtaking view over the entire city. She was looking out of the window now, gazing over the snowy crags below at the lights that twinkled sharply in the clear icy air. Her shoulders were slumped in dejection, causing her great wings to droop, their glossy, iridescent black tips trailing unheeded on the floor.

“Raven?”

The Princess spun round, scowling. “Go away, Mother! I refuse to marry the High Priest, and that is my final word on the matter.”

“It is not!” Grief and strain had etched new lines on Flamewing’s face, but the Queen’s voice still carried its customary ring of authority. She paced the small circular room, her red-gold wings rustling, her expression defensive and angry. “You will do as you’re bid,” she told her daughter. “You are a Princess of the Blood Royal, Raven, daughter of a Queen. You were brought up to recognize that you have responsibilities to your people and to the throne—one of them being that you must marry to advantage—”

“Whose advantage?” Raven cried. “Mine? Yours? If I marry that corrupt old monster, who will really benefit? He will, and that’s all! He can do nothing to help us, Mother. He’s deceiving you, and all our people. He has no influence with the Sky God. Have his sacrifices made any difference? All those lives—the lives of our people, which we swore to protect— wasted, and still this dread and untimely winter is upon us. And now his price for our salvation is my hand. Which coinci-dentally will put him up an unassailable position of power. GUI you not see that he’s a fraud? How can you be so dense?”

“How dare you!” The sound of the blow seemed to echo in the silence that followed.

Raven staggered, horrified, her hand pressed to her fact and tears in her great, dark eyes. Never before had Flamewing raised her hand to her beloved daughter. “Mother, please.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You know the way of our people. We mate for life. If I wed Blacktalon, I will spend the rest of my days in misery with someone I fear and loathe. Though princesses must marry suitably, never has one been asked to submit to this. I beg you, do not force me to marry him. He is evil, I know it.”

Flamewing sighed. “Child, never in our history since the Cataclysm have we suffered peril like this. Never has there been such sudden and intense cold. Nothing will grow on our terraces. All the animals are dead, or have left for warmer climes. This winter kills everything it touches. Blacktalon’s intercession is our only hope. Our people are dying, Raven! I am more sorry than I can ever say, but I have no choice. Tomorrow you will wed Blacktalon, and that’s an end to it. Now—he wishes to speak with you, and you will be civil to him. Your people need you, Raven. You were brought up as a Princess—now you must act like one!” She swept quickly out of the room, as though the sight of her daughter together with the High Priest was more than she could bear.

Blacktalon’s head was bald, and painted all over with arcane designs and magical symbols. His face was haggard and cruel, with its hooked nose and burning, fanatic’s eyes. His wing feathers were a dull and dusty black, and his robes matched their color exactly. His arrogance in the presence of a royal princess was so obnoxious that Raven wanted to strike him. “I have come to make my felicitations to my bride on the eve of her wedding,” he said, leering. “How lovely you look, my dear. I can hardly wait.” He reached out greedy hands to touch her.

Raven backed away hastily, drawing her dagger. “Get away from me!” she spat. “I’d rather die than marry you, you filthy old vulture!”

„ The High Priest smiled, but there was no humor in his face. “Lovely,” he said. “Such a little spitfire! How glad I am that you feel this way. It will make your conquest all the more enjoyable.”

“Don’t count on it,” Raven retorted through gritted teeth.

“Oh, but I do, my dear. Once you are mine, a few sound thrashings will soon take the edge off your temper!”

Raven gasped. “You would never dare!”

“I would hardly dare offer violence to the Princess, no.” Blacktalon shrugged. “How I chastise my mate, however, is my own affair—as you will discover. Pleasant dreams, my little bride. Sleep well—while you have the chance!”

After Blacktalon had left, Raven wasted few minutes in weeping. Time had suddenly become too precious for that, for she knew now that her only hope lay in escape. It took her about an hour of pacing back and forth behind her locked door to formulate her plans. She knew it would never occur to them that she might run away. The Winged Folk were prohibited by an ancient law from leaving their mountain kingdom. Raven had often wondered why, but no one seemed able, or willing, to tell her the answer. But if anyone should leave, they were automatically condemned to death should they ever try to return, and the prohibition was so ingrained that no one from the winged race would normally even consider the notion. The very thought of what she was about to do set Raven’s hands shaking so much that her preparations took twice as long as they should have done.

“I have no alternative,” Raven told herself firmly, as she put bread and meat from her uneaten supper into a small bag which tied to her belt, and fished her crossbow out from its hiding place under the bed. She braided her unruly cloud of fine, dark hair and dressed in her flying clothes—a black leather kilted tunic that left her limbs free for easy movement and leather sandals with thongs that cross-tied to her knees. She decided not to bother with anything else. Raven’s race was impervious to normal cold, and she hoped to move quickly away from the chill of this unnatural winter. Thrusting her dagger into her belt, she went to the window. Launching herself from the sill would cause her no problems. She had been doing it since childhood, when she had first discovered the lure of unauthorized flights. For once, she was glad that her mother had insisted that she .lake her share of the tedious burden of palace administration. She knew the position of every sentry in the city and, more important, how they might be avoided.

Another of the unpredictable blizzards had blown up, and Raven flinched at the violence of the storm outside. But though it was folly, she would have to set out now, or not at all. If she should be caught, the consequences did not bear thinking about. As she climbed onto the windowsill Raven hesitated, overcome by the magnitude of the step she was about to take. If her mother had been right after all, she was betraying her entire race. Furthermore, if she left the mountains her life would be forfeit. There could be no returning. Thoughtfully, she touched the side of her face, where the imprint of her mother’s hand still burned, and remembered the cruelty in Blacktalon’s eyes. That was enough. Taking a deep breath, Raven leapt from the sill and spread her great dark wings, catching the air beneath them to halt her plummeting fall. Swooping round the shadowed side of the pinnacle-palace like a hunting bat, she launched herself away from her home and the lands of her people.

Flying in the teeth of the blizzard was even worse than she had imagined. Visibility was poor to nonexistent in the whirling white cloud. The strong wind gusted and eddied, buffeting her mercilessly, and on several occasions, almost hurling her violently against the walls of the city’s delicately wrought towers. If she’d had time to spare for thinking, Raven might have comforted herself with the thought that her escape must certainly go undetected, but it was taking every scrap of her concentration merely to stay airborne and to avoid crashing into obstacles. Her sense of direction was hopelessly confused, and she could only pray that she was keeping a level line of flight and, more important, not going round in a circle that would eventually return her to the city—and Blacktalon,

Raven was chilled to the bone. It was an unfamiliar sensation and decidedly unpleasant, as well as frightening. Her ears and teeth ached from the wind’s bite, and her wings felt stiff and slow to respond. Even her mind was becoming sluggish and confused. How long had she been flying? Why was she all alone in this lethal storm? Where had she come from, and where was she going? How much longer could her aching wings keep her aloft?

Suddenly Raven’s left foot hit something hard and jagged, It was caught and wrenched, throwing her forward, off balance. She rolled helplessly head over heels in a tangle of flailing limbs and thrashing wings, bruising herself on icy rocks as she slithered to an undignified halt, upside down in a snowdrift. Too battered and shaken to do anything else, she burst into tears.

Hours later, Raven opened her eyes. For a moment fear obscured her thoughts, but she was not the daughter of a Queen for nothing. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to be calm, and took stock of her surroundings. There was little to see. Her aching body was crammed into a narrow crevice between some rocks, and a barrier of drifted snow obscured the opening. Gradually her mind returned to the previous night, and she shuddered at her narrow escape from death. She had crashed right into the mountain. Hesitantly she uncurled herself to examine her injured foot, afraid of what she might find. It was bad enough. The lacings of her sandal cut into the swollen flesh, and it was badly bruised and torn. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she melted snow in her hands to clean the abrasions.

Snow might reduce the swelling too, and she would not be helpless as long as she could fly ...

Raven gasped, remembering her fell among the rocks as she had landed. Her wings . . . There was no room to move them in the crevice. With frantic haste she began to dig her way out, scooping great chunks of deep-piled snow aside with her arms. Dimly now, she remembered crawling into the niche, instinctively seeking shelter from the storm. The way out seemed farther than she recalled, but at last the final inches of the snow wall collapsed beneath her determined assault, and she burst into the open.

Using the rocks for support Raven hauled herself up, wincing as her injured foot touched the ground. It would be of little use for a while, but her wings were her chief concern. Leaning on the rocks for balance, she extended the once glossy black spans. They were stiff, but there was no pain and seemingly little damage. She’d lost some feathers, her plumage was battered and bedraggled now, but the snow had broken the worst of her fall. “Well, there is only one way to find out!” Taking a deep breath she launched herself upward as best she could with one leg injured. She overbalanced and almost went sprawling, but to her relief, her wings took her weight and she began to beat steadily upward. Now that her main worry had been quelled, she would need to look around her and decide what to do next.

The sky was an absolute joy after looking so long at nothing but gray clouds. Raven reveled in the soft rose, the delicate green, the translucent blues and dazzling gold of the sunset. For a time she was too captivated by its beauty to look down, but when at last the colors faded from the sky, she was astounded to find them echoed on the earth beneath! For a moment her head whirled with disorientation, but when she looked directly below her, she could see the plateau from which she had taken off. Why, she had landed on the very last of the mountains. As its slopes descended, the snow cover thinned and eventually vanished, leaving dark tumbled rocks stretching down to a dark and sinister forest below. Beyond, the rippling sea of sunset hues extended as far as she could see. Raven caught her breath. She’d come south, then, and this was the legendary jeweled desert!

The winged girl returned to the plateau to rest. She tired easily after the night’s exertions, and she needed to think—and eat. Having no experience of journeying, she attacked the contents of her bag voraciously, with no thought of where her next meal might come from. As she ate, she considered her next step. Raven had left the palace with no idea of where she might go, or how she was to live.

For the first time, Raven was truly afraid. What if the folk out here were like Blacktalon or worse? But the thought of the High Priest and the fate that awaited her was enough to steel her resolve. She would have to find help, however. Raven was a pampered Princess, and she had sense enough to realize that she had no notion of how to survive alone. Besides, she told herself, if they threaten me, I can always fly away again. The question of where to go was easily decided. She could not return north. They would be hunting for her now. The thought of pursuit made her shudder. It was essential that she go immediately. South, away from the mountains of her birth. The sparkling sands seemed to provide enough light for her to travel by night. Taking a deep breath, Raven flexed her wings and launched into the air—heading south, across the glowing desert,