Harp of Winds

11 Words of the Goddess

After what seemed like hours spent in an agony of torment and despair, Aurian heard the dragging scrape of wood on stone as the door of her prison was thrust open on its solitary hinge. She ignored the sound. What more could they do to her? Anvar was lost to her, taken she knew not where, and Miathan had cursed her child. She shuddered, fighting nausea, wondering what manner of monster she had carried beneath her heart. Trapped in wretchedness, her battered spirit shrank from facing her bitter defeat. Let them enter, whoever they were! Let Miathan do what he would with her—for he could do little worse than he had already done. How had she ever dared hope to defeat him? Breaking into her misery, Aurian heard a horrified cry, and a stream of half-articulate curses aimed at the Prince, his followers, his relations and ancestors. Nereni! It was Nereni, using profanities that normally would have made the little woman blanch and cover her ears. Aurian felt her lips twitch in a smile, and was suddenly ashamed. If timid Nereni could summon this much fire and fight, how dared she, Aurian, a Mage and a warrior, give way to despair? Aurian felt cold steel against her wrists as Nereni cut the thongs that bound her, and stifled a curse as the blood returned to her hands in a scalding rush. With an effort, she opened swollen eyes.

Nereni’s face was ravaged with weeping, but her eyes burned with indignant rage as she gathered the Mage into her arms. “Aurian! What have they done to you? And you with child!” Enraged beyond thought of her own plight, Nereni turned on the soldiers who had accompanied her. “You—fetch some water! Bring wood for a fire! And get someone up here to mend that trapdoor! We may be prisoners, but we need not freeze to death—or starve, either! You, you son of a pig! Find some food for this poor lady!”

One of the soldiers laughed. “We don’t take orders from a fat old hag!” he jeered.

Nereni drew herself up to her full, insignificant height. To Aurian’s utter astonishment, she advanced on the soldier, bristling. “But you take orders from the Prince, who told you that this lady was to be cared for. Now get your lazy backside through that door and fetch me what I need, before I inform His Highness of your disobedience!”

The soldier turned suddenly white, and scurried off to do her bidding. “And while you’re at it,” Nereni bawled after him, “get someone up here to clean this pigsty!”

After that, things happened quickly. The corpses of the Winged Folk were dragged away, and soldiers came to wash the worn stone floor. Someone brought wood, and soon the air was filled with cheerful crackling as the growing blaze in the hearth began to take the chill from the room. One of the men brought a sack of provisions and utensils, which was snatched from his hands by Nereni.

When their guards had gone, Aurian stripped off her torn robe with a shiver of revulsion, wrapping herself in blankets from the packs that had been returned to them. Nereni gave her a cloth soaked in cold water to hold against her battered face, then began to busy herself at the fire. Under the kindly fussing of her friend, Aurian felt the dreadful tension of her despair beginning to dissolve. As icy water numbed the ache of her bruises, she searched within for the shreds of her courage, weaving them together into a cloak of adamantine will. Never again would she come so close to giving in! Had it not been for Nereni ...

Aurian’s chin came up in the old stubborn gesture. She would not give in to despair. She wanted her wits about her, ready to exploit any weakness in Miathan’s plans. There must be a way to save herself and Anvar. Ah Gods, and her child! As if to remind her of its presence and its plight, Forral’s son moved within her, and Aurian felt her heart go out to him in a flood of love and sorrow. After all he had gone through . . . “Don’t worry,” she whispered fiercely. “No matter what form Miathan put upon you, you’re mine and I love you! I won’t let that bastard kill you!”

At the sound of her voice, Nereni turned from the fire and handed the Mage a steaming cup of liafa. “You look better now,” she said softly. “Aurian—did he ... When I saw you lying there, I thought ...” She bit her lip.

“No,” Aurian said wearily, “I’m all right—so far. He won’t risk bringing the babe early. But afterward ...” She sipped the stimulating drink, wincing as its heat stung her bruised mouth. Her hands trembled so that it took both of them to steady the cup. As a distraction from the memory of Miathan’s unclean touch, she asked for news of the others. Nereni scowled. “Your so-called friend the cat fought her way out and ran, and that coward Yazour took the opportunity to follow her.” Her voice was edged with anger.

“Don’t blame Shia—I told her to go,” Aurian replied firmly. “The Staff of Earth is our one hope of defeating Miathan, and someone had to take it to safety. And don’t blame Yazour for taking the chance to escape. Outnumbered as we were, it was the only thing to do. But are Eliizar and Bohan all right?” Aurian knew this was the real core of Nereni’s anguish, and waited anxiously for her reply.

“They put Eliizar in the dungeon, with Bohan,” Nereni said shakily. “He was wounded, but they would not let me go to him.” She shuddered. “They threw me down, intending rape, but the Prince stopped them. He knew I would kill myself, for shame, and he wants me alive, to take care of you. That is why his guards dare not harm me. Some Winged Folk flew away with Anvar, and—”

“What did you say?” The cup shattered on the hearth, splashing liafa into the hissing flames. Aurian grasped Nereni’s arms, until the older woman gasped with pain. “Winged Folk took Anvar? Do you know where?”

“Aurian ...” Nereni cried out in protest, but the Mage did not loosen her grip.

“Where did they take him, Nereni?”

“I’m not sure,” Nereni whimpered. “They spoke in the tongue of the Winged Folk—but I heard them mention Aerillia. Then they put Anvar in a net and flew off with him. Aurian, you’re hurting me!” She burst into tears.

“Nereni, I’m sorry!” Aurian gathered the weeping woman into her arms. “You’ve been so brave—I don’t know what I would have done without you. But I’m so afraid for Anvar, and I didn’t know where they had taken him.”

“I know,” Nereni sniffed. “I feel the same about Eliizar, wounded and locked up in that terrible place. If only they would let me see him!”

“Don’t worry—we’ll work on it,” Aurian comforted her friend. “If Miathan would leave Harihn alone sometimes ...” She paused, wondering how to explain that the Prince was not what he seemed. “You see,” she began, “Harihn is not..”

“Himself?” Nereni brightened a little at Aurian’s look of surprise. “I know,” she went on. “Why do you think my folk have such a fear of sorcery? Tales of possession are common in our legends. When he saved me from his men, Harihn seemed himself—then his face changed beyond recognition, and another, evil soul looked out from his eyes.” The tremor of her voice betrayed her calm manner. “Has the Prince sold his soul to a demon?”

Aurian shook her head. “I told about the Archmage Miathan, who turned his power to evil. Well, he’s in league with Blacktalon, but he is also using the Prince’s body. Miathan couldn’t achieve such possession without Harihn’s consent, so I suspect he offered the Prince his father’s throne. An ally in the south would benefit his own plans for conquest. But Harihn has no idea of the depth of Miathan’s deceit. He is only a puppet now, dancing to the Archmage’s every whim. I’ve no sympathy for Harihn—it serves him right—but your people will suffer, as we all will, if we can’t find a way out of this.”

“But how can we?” Nereni cried. “He holds Eliizar and Bohan captive, and he will kill them if we try to escape!”

“I don’t know,” Aurian admitted. “That is, I don’t know yet. He’s holding Anvar hostage too, but thanks to you, I have an idea of his whereabouts now. Don’t worry, Nereni. If we don’t panic, we’ll think of something.”

While she comforted her friend, Aurian was analyzing the situation, as Forral had taught her. Her plight was desperate. She was helpless until her powers returned with the birth of her child—but would she have time to act before Miathan killed the babe? And if there was no way to free Anvar, so far away in Aerillia, how could she move against the Archmage? Aurian’s head began to ache. She was bruised, shocked, and utterly bereft, afraid to the core of her being—yet still she pushed herself to stay calm, to think, to plan. It was vital that she come up with a plan.

“Aurian!” The voice in the Mage’s mind was tinged with desperation, as though its sender had been trying to gain her attention for some time. Joy shot through Aurian, so intense that it brought a lump to her throat. Shia! I’d forgotten about you!”

“So I noticed,” Shia said dryly. “I’ve been trying to penetrate that mess you call your thoughts for ages!”

“But I told you to get out of here!” Aurian protested.

“I’m well hidden—and if anyone should find me, may their gods help them!” Her voice grew soft with worry.

“Aurian—how could I leave without knowing what had happened to you?”

Briefly, the Mage told Shia what had happened. Shia spat when she heard of Raven’s treachery and subsequent betrayal. “Little fool! I never trusted her! Not for nothing have the Winged Folk been our bitterest enemies for an age and an age! But Aurian—how can you ask me to leave you in such peril? Can I do something to help?”

For a moment, Aurian dared to hope. Then she remembered Anvar, imprisoned in Aerillia, and all hope perished. Even if Shia could free her and she could elude the Archmage, Miathan must somehow be in contact with Blacktalon. If she escaped, she knew that Anvar would die long before she could come to him.

Aurian sighed. Whatever move she made, Miathan had her cornered. “No, Shia,” she told the cat. “They have Anvar as a hostage, and if you free me, he’ll die. All you can do is take the Staff and—By Ionor the Wise! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?” Aurian laughed aloud, giddy with relief. Inspiration had come to her in a blinding flash.

“WHAT?” Shia’s tone was sharp with exasperation.

Aurian made an effort to stifle her giggles, hushing Nereni’s baffled protests. “Shia, listen carefully. We believe that Anvar is being held in Aerillia. Find him as quickly as you can, and get the Staff to him. He can use it to escape!”

“Is that all?” Shia’s voice was acid. “I simply cross thirty leagues of mountains alone in winter, carrying this wretched magical thing that sets my teeth on edge. Then I penetrate the inaccessible citadel of the Winged Folk without losing the Staff, give it to Anvar—supposing he really is there and that I can find him—and trust you’ve taught him enough magic to somehow get us out of there! Have I left anything out?”

“I think you’ve covered it all,” Aurian replied with a smile. “If anyone can do it, Shia, you can.”

Shia sighed. “Very well, if this is what you want—but if I go to rescue Anvar, what will become of you?”

The hopelessness of Aurian’s position returned to her like a black and choking cloud. “Shia, I don’t know. Things are bad, and likely to get much worse.”

“Then let me get you out! I know I can do it!”

Oh, it was tempting! Aurian thought of Eliizar and Bohan, in the chill, damp dungeon. She thought of Miathan’s threat to destroy her son, and the vile touch of his hands on her body. Then she thought of Anvar. If she gave in to her fears, she would have killed him. “No!” she insisted. “Get Anvar out, Shia, then Miathan will have no hold over me. He won’t harm me until my child is born, and when that happens, I’ll get my powers back.” Her words sounded hollow to herself, but Aurian stiffened her spine. “Whatever happens, I can bear it if only Anvar can be rescued.”

Shia sighed. “Very well, we’ll do it your way. But my heart quails for you, my friend—please be careful.”

“I will, I promise. And you be careful, too. I know too well the difficulty of the task I’ve set you.”

“If I can get my teeth into some of those stinking Winged Folk, it will be well worth the journey! Farewell, Aurian. I’ll rescue Anvar, I swear, and we can both come back for you!”

“Farewell, my friend,” Aurian whispered. But the cat was already gone.

In the ragged copse below the tower an ancient tree had fallen, its roots wrenched out of the ground by the weight of its snowy burden. Shia crept stealthily out of the little cave that had been formed between the roots and the rocky side of the knoll, every sense alert for signs of the enemy. She felt a surge of grim humor as she glided forth, a slip of darkness on the shadowed snow. How clever, to hide right under the noses of these stupid men! Aurian had insisted that Shia abandon her, and her heart burned at the thought—but before she left, the cat had plans of her own! The enemy picket lines, for their horses and mules, were a short distance away through the tangle of trees. Shia crept close, her mouth watering at the luscious scent. Horsemeat was her favorite food, but while traveling with Aurian, she’d been forced to restrain herself. Her tail lashed back and forth restlessly. That’s not why you’re here! Shia reminded herself. She laid the Staff down carefully under a bush, where she could easily find it again, and tensed herself to spring—then dropped flat, muffling a snarl of frustration.

Two soldiers approached the horselines, the sound of their grumbling borne toward her on the wind, loud enough for Shia to hear every word. Communicating with Aurian had given her some understanding of man-speech, and while she lurked in the bushes, awaiting her chance to strike, she listened closely, hoping to pick up some useful information.

“By the Reaper, it’s not fair!” one man whined. “Why should we freeze out here, up to our balls in snow, while others toast their backsides in front of a roaring fire?”

“Someone must care for the beasts,” the second guard pointed out. “Besides, I would rather be outside. That Priest of the Skymen made my flesh creep!”

“All Skymen make my flesh creep,” his friend agreed.

“Why did the Prince take up with them? And if he wanted to ambush the northern witch, why not just stick a sword in her and be done with it? Then we would be in the Xandim lands by now, instead of freezing to death in this accursed wilderness! If you ask me, Harihn has lost his wits! He’s never been the same since we left the desert.”

His friend hushed him hastily. “Watch your tongue, Dalzor! If you’re caught talking treason, they’ll have your head! Anyway, we should be unloading these beasts and settling them. What if the captain comes and we’ve not yet started? It’s too cursed cold to lose skin to a flogging”

He began at the far end of the line, fumbling at buckles with frozen fingers and dumping the packs on the ground. Still grumbling, his friend began to work his way toward the other end of the line—and Shia. The animals were restless, their coats damp with fear-sweat as they scented the cat nearby.

“What’s got into the beasts?” Dalzor muttered. As he approached the nearest horse, it swung around, snorting, and barged into him, knocking him flat in the trampled snow. Cursing, he struggled to regain his feet on the slushy surface—but it was too late.

Shia was on him in a flash, the hot ecstasy of enemy blood filling her mouth as her teeth sank deep into his throat. Then she was among the horses and mules, snarling and lashing out with her claws. The frantic creatures screamed and reared, panic lending them the strength to pull their tethers from the ground. They scattered, some heading back down the valley, but most of them, Shia noticed, fleeing straight through the pass. She’d feed on horseflesh yet! The other guard was running, yelling for help. An uproar broke out within the Tower, and the snow on the hill was washed with a gleam of dirty yellow light as the door swung open. Dashing back to seize the Staff, Shia sped down the pass like an arrow, congratulating herself as she went. She had let them unload most of the food, for she had no wish to starve her friends, but her attack had effectively trapped the enemy in the tower! Had Shia been human, she would have been grinning from ear to ear. The Prince and his men were stuck in this bleak, hostile spot—and when Shia returned with Anvar, she would know exactly where to find them!

For all his determination to leave, Schiannath had lingered near the tower, unable to let go of this mystery. Why were the Khazalim fighting their own? And what, in the name of the Goddess, had the misbegotten Winged Folk to do with it? Since it was obvious by now that the fleeing man was not going to be pursued, the outlaw continued to lurk behind his boulders, his eyes fixed on the tower. The sound of fighting had ceased, and after a time, he saw Winged Folk leave, bearing a long bundle between them supported in nets. They headed northwest, toward Aerillia. So—they were taking a prisoner with them! Schiannath shook his head. Fugitives from the Khazalim? Fugitives from the Skyfolk? Just what was going on here?

“Forget it, Schiannath,” he murmured to himself. “You have more important things to think about. Like survival—and the provisions the Khazalim have left on those mules!”

The commotion in the horselines took Schiannath by surprise. He had been biding his time, waiting until the last of the Skyfolk departed, and the tower settled down to an uneasy peace. He suspected that the Khazalim—curse their name—would need some time to restore order within, before someone remembered to unload the horses. He had been just about to make his move, when the wretched guards appeared, jabbering in their uncouth tongue, and began to unload the horses. Schiannath swore bitterly. The chance of a lifetime, and he had ruined it! What was wrong with him? All that food—and it had almost been his!

The outlaw’s mouth watered. Damned if he would let it go so easily! The guards moved apart as they worked, the nearer coming closer to Schiannath’s hiding place—and the scrubby thicket at the foot of the hill. If he could cross the intervening space and get under cover while the man was distracted by the horses, who seemed strangely uneasy . . . Schiannath awaited his moment. Leaving Iscalda, he darted forward, keeping low, and dived into the bushes. The thicket exploded. Branches sprang back into his face as a huge black shape burst from beneath them. Roars and snarls mixed with the screams of horses assaulted his ears. The outlaw picked himself up, his heart hammering. Whatever it was, it had gone—out there. Schiannath groped feverishly for his bow, and discovered that it had been lost in the snow. Goddess! How could he survive without it in the wilderness? But his immediate survival was at stake now. Drawing his’ sword, he crept to the edge of the thicket—and stopped, transfixed in horror.

The guard lay dead in a spreading pool of blood, his throat and half his face torn away. Among the horses, wreaking havoc with teeth and claws, was the flame eyed shape of a demon! Schiannath sucked breath through his teeth in a hoarse whistle. One of the fearsome Black Ghosts from the northern mountains! And he’d lost his bow! Even as Schiannath watched, the cat leapt toward him. He flung himself backward, knowing he was already dead—but the creature ignored him, pounced on something that lay nearby, and fled toward the pass, Schiannath’s blood congealed, Iscalda! He scrambled to his feet, hardly daring to look—but the mare had gone. Unable to face the monster, she had fled down the pass—in the same direction as the cat was heading. Oh Goddess, save her! Now that the dread beast had gone, men were venturing out of the tower—but would they dare the pass while the cat might still be there? Schiannath doubted it. He didn’t relish the idea himself, but he had no choice. Some of the horses still milled in the lines, crazed with fear but unable to break free. The outlaw dashed to the nearest animals—a horse and a mule that still bore its pack. He leapt astride the horse, severing its tether and that of the mule with a sweep of his knife. The horse plunged wildly, but no ordinary horse could throw one of the Xandim. Clouting the maddened animal with the end of the rope, he sent it racing towards the mouth of the pass, praying that he would be in time to save Iscalda from the deadly cat.

Schiannath bent low over the horse’s neck, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to find tracks in the trampled snow. The sky was thick with curdled gray clouds, and though dawn was brightening the sky above, the cliffs on either side blocked out the early light. The floor of the pass was still in darkness, and shadows defeated his anxious sight. The outlaw strained his ears for any sounds of pursuit above the double set of hoofbeats and their bewildering echoes that reverberated from the surrounding stone. There was nothing. Fear of the cat had kept the Khazalim from following—for a time. With the frightened mule dragging behind him, Schiannath urged his mount to a faster pace, following the tortuous curves of the stony pass—until he heard a sound that turned him chill with dread. Somewhere ahead, a horse was screaming, raw and shrill, in an agony of terror.

Following the choked, despairing sounds, the outlaw found Iscalda in a narrow defile that branched off from the pass. The shrieks of the mare echoed between the high walls; her flanks were streaked dark with the sweat of terror; her eyes rolled, white-rimmed, as she reared and backed away from the snarling terror that stalked her.

Controlling his own plunging mount with difficulty, Schiannath fumbled for his bow. Gone! Too late, he remembered losing it when the cat had scattered the horses. The feline’s ears flicked back—it was aware of him! Schiannath lashed his mount, trying to force it onward against its will, steeling himself to take the terrible risk of riding this awesome creature down. The horse reared and wrenched itself away, afraid to approach the cat but goaded to a frenzy by his blows. The mule went into hysterics, bucking and spinning on the end of its rope until the two creatures were tightly tangled. the outlaw barely had time to free his legs, before the world flipped over as his horse went thudding down. He rolled clear, and landed on hands and knees, looking into the blazing eyes of the great cat.

“Festering ordure!” The curse was a whisper in his dry throat. The outlaw inched a shaking hand toward his sword, as the cat gave a low warning growl. With a gasp, Schiannath froze. The cat growled again, more softly this time, and began to paw at something—a limp, dark shape that had lain, unnoticed, in the shadow of the rock. So the beast had other prey! Remembering the warrior who had fled the tower, Schiannath felt a shameful surge of relief. If the cat had enough to eat, perhaps it would let him go ... Was there a chance that he could sacrifice his fallen Khazalim mount and find a way to get Iscalda out of here?

The gigantic feline, still standing over the fallen warrior, gave a shrill yowl that sounded, to Schiannath’s tight-strung senses, almost like impatience. Reaching down into the snow, it picked up something in its jaws—a stick, or some kind of twisted root, that glowed with a dazzling, pulsating emerald light, Once more, the flaming eyes seared into his own. Emerald and gold combined in a dizzying whirl, and Schiannath was falling, falling into the light ...

The outlaw opened his eyes. One side of his face was a dull, numb ache where it had been pressed into the snow, his head throbbed, and his body was wracked with shivers. The cat, thank the Goddess, was nowhere in sight. Loyal Iscalda stood over him, her nostrils flaring at the stench of blood. The other horse lay where it had fallen, its legs tangled in the pack mule’s tether, but the mule itself had vanished. All that remained was a trailing smear of blood, a rut in the snow where the body had been dragged away—and the animal’s pack, left on the ground nearby!

“It’s very stringy. I would have much preferred the horse!”

Schiannath leapt to his feet and drew his sword—but the voice had come from within his mind, not without!

“Even you would have tasted better than a skinny old mule—but I spared you for a reason. Take good care of the stranger, human, for your life depends on it!.”

Shia spat out the Staff with a grimace, and tore off another mouthful of the mule’s blood-warm flesh to take the taste away. The discovery that she could use the artifact to communicate with this stupid human had been timely and fortunate—but oh, the magic in the wretched thing made her teeth ache! The thought of having to carry it for days on end made her shudder.

The cat peered out from her hiding place—a narrow bay in the cliff where frost had cracked out a great chunk of rock. The stone had fallen outward and shattered, the pile of fragments forming a lair tucked into the base of the escarpment. What was that human doing now? Oh, wonderful—talking to his horse! Shia flexed her claws and snarled with frustration. Stop wasting time on that brainless beast and help Yazour! she thought. She was bracing herself to pick up the Staff and tell him so, when he left the horse and knelt beside the stricken warrior. Ah, good. Once she had seen him staunch Yazour’s wounds and wrap him in a blanket, Shia turned her attention back to the mule, which was not nearly as stringy as she had claimed. Shia would need the sustenance. Now that Yazour would be cared for, she could concentrate on her own journey.

Wild with rage, Harihn dashed up the tower stairs. Ignoring the guards at the top, he flung the door open so hard that it rattled and shook on its hinges, “Accursed sorceress!! he shrieked, “What have you done to my horses?”

Aurian’s blanket-draped form rose from the hearth with surprising grace. Tall and regal, she faced the Prince, “Why, Harihn,” she said “I see you’re back in residence.”

He winced as her barb shot home, and she saw it and smiled. “Can we offer you some liafa, perhaps?”

“Offer me some answers!!” Harihn shouted, slamming the door on his smirking guards, “Why did you bewitch my horses?” As he saw her struggle to suppress a smile, his rage and frustration overcame him, Forgetting Miathan’s orders, he rushed at Aurian, intending to strike the smugness from her face. He discovered his mistake too late. At the last minute, her hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. There was a wrenching pain in his arm and Harihn went tumbling head over heels to hit the wall,

“You should be more careful, Prince, Miathan will be displeased if you damage his new body.” Aurian’s cool voice was like a goad. The Prince staggered to his feet, rubbing his wrist, his face contorted with rage. “You’ll suffer for this!” he shouted.

“Your new tenant would not permit it!” Aurian retorted. “I know the Archmage, to my cost! Don’t cross him, I warn you, or he’ll make you sorry—as sorry as he has made me.” Her expression twisted with bitter pain, and something like pity. “What did he offer you? Your father’s throne? And you believed him! You invited him in, you poor fool, and now he controls you. Now he has a foothold, he can invade your body at will, forcing you to do his bidding. Whether you know it or not, you’re as much a prisoner as I am!”

Harihn turned cold at her words. “You’re wrong!” he blustered. “We have an agreement! You are my prisoner, and the days of your high-handed ways are done! By the Reaper, you will learn your place! You will obey me, or ...”

“But of course, Harihn,” Aurian agreed sweetly.

The Prince, staggered by her capitulation, stared at her through narrowed eyes. “You lie,” he snapped. “Do you expect me to believe this pitiful attempt to foil my suspicions, and let you go—”

Aurian laughed in his face. “Harihn, you’re a bigger idiot than I’d thought! The Archmage holds Anvar hostage, and you have Eliizar and Bohan! Do you think I’d let Anvar be killed? Would Nereni endanger Eliizar to help me? If I sacrificed my friends, how far would I get without a horse? You can’t have it both ways! Had I planned to escape, would I have scattered your beasts?”

Harihn scowled. How this wretched woman twisted words! But though it galled him, he had to admire her courage. Could he behave so calmly, in her position? Fleetingly, he regretted the ruin of their early friendship. If only he’d had the courage to seize the throne she had offered him! Why had he flinched from using her sorcery, only to accept it from another, grimmer source? At last, Harihn admitted the truth. It would have humiliated him utterly to receive the crown from the hand of a woman. He looked up to see Aurian watching him, her expression grave and sad. “Then what do you plan to do?” he asked in a gentler voice.

She held out empty hands in a gesture more eloquent than words. “For the moment, there’s nothing I can do.”

Her words struck a chill through the Prince’s heart. “What? You intend to let the Archmage slay your child?”

“Ah;” said Aurian sadly. “I had wondered if you were still present, while Miathan possessed your body.” She shook her head. “Oh, Harihn, this situation grieves me. We were friends, once, and I haven’t forgotten how much I owe you. Why has everything gone so badly wrong?”

To his astonishment, Harihn found himself moved by her sorrow, and as his anger drained away, he was shamed by what he had done. He reached out to Aurian, his lips trying to form some kind of apology—and then he felt it. A slick, hideous probing within his skull, like icy claws sinking into his mind. With a wrench, his consciousness was shouldered aside to become an observer, detached and helpless, sunk without trace within the depths of his soul, as the Archmage returned to claim his body.

“How dare you subvert my puppet!” Miathan’s voice came snarling from the Prince’s lips. Harihn, trapped within, saw Aurian’s eyes stretch wide in dismay.

It wasn’t much of a cave. With two horses inside, plus Schiannath and the man he had rescued, it was hopelessly overcrowded, but at least it boasted good venting for smoke in the crack-starred ceiling, and a large rock just inside the entrance that could be rolled, with a wrenching effort, to partially obscure the opening. Also, no one in their right mind would think of daring the narrow, crumbling ledge that led up here. The surefooted Iscalda could negotiate the crumbling trail, but Schiannath had very nearly killed himself trying to get the wounded man and that bloody-minded bag of bones that the Khazalim called a horse up to the cave. After that, he’d had to go all the way down again, to wipe out their tracks.

The outlaw returned to the cavern, numb-witted with fatigue, and took one last look out from the entrance, set high in the cliff. To his left, the pass opened onto a ridge that dropped to a sweeping valley, with the crowded ranks of snow-clad mountains, awesome in their desolate grandeur, beyond. There, to the north, beyond that jagged barrier of stone, lay the Xandim lands. Schiannath spat into the snow and turned away. To his right lay the dark throat of the pass—and even as he looked, the harsh sound of Khazalim voices floated up to him, cutting across the snow-locked silence. He’d made it just in time! Gasping with the effort, the outlaw quickly rolled the stone across the entrance then sank to his knees, exhausted.

Schiannath was utterly spent, but there was no time to rest. In the dim light that slipped through between the boulder and the top of the entrance, he groped his way to the back of the cave. It was well provisioned—all of his hideouts were. In the long months of his exile, Schiannath had been occupied with little else but survival. The mountains were honeycombed with caves, and the outlaw had a chain of several hideouts reaching from the Wyndveil right across the range to the tower. Each was stocked with hay and wild grains for Iscalda, harvested from the valleys in a summer long gone; firewood brought up from those same vales; nuts and wrinkled berries, and smoke-dried flesh of wild mountain sheep. Their fleecy hides, together with shaggy wolfskins from his hunting, provided warmth.

Schiannath had toiled endlessly through summer and autumn to stock his havens. The labor had served to dull his loneliness, and fatigue had taken the edge off his despair. Now, in this fell winter, the caves were his key to survival—but only today had he found the true reason behind his persistence in such seemingly pointless work. It had been the will of the Goddess.

The outlaw could think of nothing else as he piled tinder in the ring of rocks that served as his fireplace, and lit a fire with the competence of long practice. He put hay down for the horses, then turned swiftly to the unconscious warrior. As he looked at that strong-boned Khazalim face, his wonder surged up anew.

The Goddess spoke! She spoke to me! The words sang in his head as Schiannath tended the stranger’s wounds. He stripped away the man’s wet clothes and wrapped him in dry sheepskins; he snapped off the end of the crossbow bolt and drew it forth point first. But when he seared the wound with the glowing tip of his knife, the man’s eyes flew open and he began to scream. The outlaw clapped his hand over the other’s mouth and got his fingers bitten for his pains, but still he held on until the screams subsided. He doubted that the noise would carry beyond the cave, but he was relieved when the man slipped back into unconsciousness. Making the most of the chance to work unhindered, Schiannath applied a wash of healing herbs to the wound, and did the same to the slice in the warrior’s thigh. “Any higher, my friend, and they’d have gelded you!” he muttered.

As Schiannath bound the wounds, he savored the clean aroma of the herbs, which dispelled the nauseating reek of scorched flesh. The scent brought back a memory of the day he had fled the lands of the Xandim with naught but his weapons and the clothes, on his back, clinging dazed to Iscalda’s neck and bruised and bleeding from the stones they had hurled to speed him on his way. As he passed the waystone on the Wyndveil ridge that marked the borders of his land, there had been a peculiar shimmer in the air, and Chiarnh, the hated Windeye, had stepped forth. Iscalda, her human memories still intact then, had reared, screaming with fury. Schiannath had reached for his bow and fired—but his arrow went straight through Chiamh’s body to embed itself in the snow beyond. “I deeply regret my deeds this day,” the Windeye whispered, shamefaced. He sketched a blessing in the air—and vanished. Apparition though Seer had been, there was nothing ethereal about the contents of the bundle that Schiannath found beside the stone. Clothing, blankets, food, and best of all, the pouches of Chiamh’s healing herbs, labeled with instructions in the blocky Xandim glyphs—some for fevers, others for infections or pain-ease. Though Schiannath had not been able to bring himself to forgive the Windeye, he had often had cause to be thankful for Chiamh’s gift. Coming back to the present with a jerk, Schiannath laid a cloth soaked in icy water across the livid bruise on the warrior’s temple. That could be a hurt more dangerous than the other wounds, but he could only keep his patient quiet and hope for the best. For the first time in his life, Schiannath was confident that his prayers would be answered. Had the Goddess not come to him, in the animal guise of a Black Ghost of the mountains? Had She not tested him? And had She, Herself, not spoken to him, telling him to save the life of this man, who should have been his enemy? Schiannath was overcome by a thrill of religious awe. Perhaps there was a reason for his exile, and that of poor Iscalda! Oh Goddess, was there a reason after all?

Yazour opened crusted eyes, to see the face of an enemy. His stomach clenched in panic. I’ve been captured by the Xandim!. Groping for his sword, he struggled to rise—and cried aloud in agony. It felt as though someone had thrust a flaming brand into his shoulder, and another into the muscle of his thigh. The Horselord pushed him gently down with an admonishing shake of his head. “No. Do not.”

Yazour recognized the words—all Khazalim warriors who raided the Xandim lands had learned the rudiments of their tongue. He squinted against the flicker of firelight that played across fanged stone—clearly, the roof of a cavern. A cavern that reeked of horses. Where am I? he thought. Who is this man? By his clothing and weapons he was plainly Xandim, yet the stranger seemed subtly different from those of his tribe that Yazour had seen before. His skin was fair beneath its weathering, and he had wary gray eyes, crinkled at the corners; a fine, high-cheekboned face with a curved and jutting nose; and a silver-threaded mane of black curls.

Yazour’s rescuer smiled, and offered him a cup filled to the brim with water. Yazour had already discovered that if he moved his arm, it hurt like perdition where the bolt had pierced his shoulder. He took the cup with his good hand and drank deeply, while the stranger supported his head with a gentle hand. The water was very welcome. When he had finished, the young warrior lay back in the nest of warm furs that had been wrapped around him, conscious of the terrible weakness that his wounds had caused. He wanted to ask the man a thousand questions—but before Yazour could get the first one out, he had slipped back into oblivion.

When he awakened again, a savory smell was tickling his nostrils. Yazour’s mouth watered. The stranger must have been watching him. He was there at the warrior’s side almost before he had time to open his eyes, offering a cup of broth. Once again he supported Yazour’s head while he drank, with such solicitous care that the warrior was reminded of his mother, who had cradled him with similar tenderness when he’d been ill as a child. His mother, who had taken her own life when Yazour was fifteen, after his warrior father had been killed in Xiang’s service, on a Xandim raid, by a Xandim lance.

With an oath, Yazour struggled away from the touch of the hated hand. Broth spilled down his chest as agony pierced his shoulder, and he muffled a whimper of pain with gritted teeth before falling back exhausted. He could feel a new flow of blood seeping stickily through the bandage on his shoulder. Bandage? Yazour had been too concerned with other matters to notice it before. His thigh was bound too, where a sword had caught him in his fight to escape from the tower. The warrior frowned. This enemy had rescued him, doctored his wounds, and was trying to feed him . . . Yazour’s enemy was shaking his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Do not ...” He said an unfamiliar word, and imitated Yazour’s struggle. “Not prisoner ...”

Ah, “prisoner.” That was a Xandim word the warrior understood, but he had never heard the word that followed it. The Xandim frowned, thinking, then reached out a hand to clasp Yazour’s own, smiling at him warmly. Friend? Could he mean friend? Yazour was not prepared to befriend one of the murdering Xandim who had killed his father! He pulled back with an oath, then froze, wondering, too late, if he had made a fatal error. But his rescuer simply sighed, and offered him the broth again, and this time, common sense prevailed. If Yazour wished to escape and help his companions, he must regain his strength. He snatched the cup, scowling at the stranger when he tried to offer assistance again.

This might be a foe, but by the Reaper, he could cook! Yazour was ravenous. He gulped the broth quickly, burning his tongue. Loath though he was to ask favors of a Xandim, he held the cup out for more, but the stranger shook his head.

“Bastard!” the young warrior muttered. Turning away, he pulled the furs across his face and pretended to sleep again. In reality, he wanted time in which to think.

Why? Why had this Xandim gone out of his way to save an enemy? Yazour hated the stranger’s race with all his heart, yet the son of a pig had saved his life! The warrior turned restlessly, disturbed by the direction of his thoughts, and the wound in his thigh pulled painfully. The wound that had been dealt Yazour by his own people, his former companions and friends. Reaper’s curse, what a tangle! The warrior wondered if that was why the man had rescued him. The Khazalim were enemies of the Xandim, so Yazour was a victim of the stranger’s foes . . . But no, he thought. Even had he not recognized me at first, he must have known me for a Khazalim when he brought me here—yet still he cared for me! In the name of the Reaper, why? Yazour could stand it no longer. Rolling over, he pushed the furs aside to look his benefactor in the eye. “Why?” he demanded in Xandim, wishing he knew more of the language. He gestured at the fire, the cave, his bandaged wounds.

The man smiled, and held out his hand again. “Friend,” he repeated.

Yazour was in the stranger’s power, and besides, the man had saved his life. He forced a smile, and took the proffered hand. “Friend,” he agreed. For now, at any rate, you Xandim bastard, he thought.

Schiannath’s patient was soon asleep again, but he seemed much improved, and the outlaw decided that it was safe to rest after his hours of watching. He stood up carefully, there was only one place in the cave where he could do it without knocking his head on the roof—and stretched the kinks from his limbs. Then he stirred the fire, prepared some tea from leaves and berries gathered in kinder months, and ate a scanty meal from his hoarded supplies. Iscalda whickered from her place near the cave mouth, and Schiannath went to smooth her silken neck. “Well?” he asked her. “What think you of our new companion?”

The mare snorted in a manner so uncannily timely that the outlaw was forced to muffle his laughter so as not to waken his patient. “I couldn’t put it better myself,” he told her. “A friend, indeed—that Khazalim scum!” But the Goddess had commanded him to help this man, and so Schiannath would help him—for now, at any rate.