Harp of Winds

16 A Shadow on the Roof

As Yazour slowly recovered from his wounds, his lessons in the speech of the Xandim continued. It was not so difficult as he had expected, for he already knew a little of the language—had been taught it, as all Xiang’s officers had, to equip him for his scouting expeditions to raid the Xandim studs. There were certain similar roots shared by the two tongues, which made the learning easier. Besides that, the two men had only each other for company, they had nothing else to do but talk—and each of them was bursting with curiosity as to what the other was doing in this bleak and lonely place.

After several frustrating days, Yazour managed, in halting Xandim that relied heavily on both mime and pictures scratched with a charred stick from the fire on the smooth stone floor of the cavern, to explain that he and his companions were fugitives fleeing the wrath of the Khazalim King—and that their captor who occupied the tower was Xiang’s son. On hearing this news, Schiannath grew excited, and broke into a torrential spate of Xandim that left Yazour completely at a loss. After a good deal of repetition, and many attempts to get his strange companion to slow down a little, the warrior finally understood that Schiannath too was an outlaw in exile from his people, though the nature of the Horse-lord’s crime remained unclear.

Yazour suspected that Schiannath was being deliberately vague on this point, and it gave him some uneasy moments, until he remembered that this man had rescued him, fed him, and tended his wounds. After all, Yazour reflected, I never told him why we were forced to flee the Khisu. Schiannath may be thinking just as badly of me—yet still he shows me unstinting care! It was a sobering thought.

Once the outlaw had discovered that Yazour was an exile like himself, Schiannath’s manner thawed toward Yazour a great deal, and despite his own hostility, the young warrior found himself responding in kind. Though the ghost of his slain father would occasionally rise in his mind to berate him for befriending an enemy, making him sullen and taciturn for a time, the levelheaded Yazour could not help but realize that this former foe had proved a better friend than Harihn’s soldiers, those erstwhile companions who had dealt him the wounds that Schiannath was doing his best to heal. For Yazour’s recovery was not straightforward. Sometimes, when his wounds flared into fever, Schiannath would mix soothing poultices and cool his burning face with icy water; sometimes when the bruise on his forehead throbbed, the Xandim would give him infusions of herbs to still the pain. And at these times, Yazour’s confusion became so great that the young warrior felt as though his head—or maybe his heart—was threatening to break apart.

Yet the deepest part of Yazour’s anguish was not for himself but for the companions he had left behind in the tower when he fled. What had happened to Aurian and Anvar? What of Bohan, and Eliizar and Nereni? What had become of Shia, all alone in this wintry waste? And worst of all, why was he stranded here on his back, helpless as an upturned turtle, when he should be out there helping them?

As the days progressed, the warrior’s frustration festered within him. His outer hurts were mending slowly, but the wounds to his spirit grew ever worse. Yazour grew terse and fractious, lacking the words and the inclination to explain to Schiannath that his anger was turned upon himself. The fragile bond of trust that had been growing between himself and the Xandim was strained to breaking point, and Yazour even resented Schiannath’s hurt and bewildered expression as he tried to answer his companion’s unspoken needs, and was rebuffed again and again.

Matters finally came to a head between the two men on a wild and bitter night, while the latest in a long succession of vicious blizzards was venting its spleen on the surrounding mountains. Schiannath lay sleeping near his beloved mare, but Yazour was tossing in the grip of a grim and stubborn wakefulness that refused to yield and let him rest. All his thoughts were of his lost companions; he was tormented by bloodcurdling visions of his friends being tortured and broken within the tower, of Aurian being used and manhandled by the Prince.

All at once, it was too much for the warrior’s guilty spirit to bear. “Reaper take me—I can lie here no longer!” he muttered. “I must overcome this weakness, and make myself strong enough to rise!” The timing was ideal—Schiannath was sleeping deeply. If Yazour was quiet, he could get himself up and moving before the Xandim became aware of what he was doing and tried to stop him.

Yazour sat up, catching his breath against the stab of pain from the arrow wound in his shoulder. But it was better, he promised himself—a mere few days ago, he would not have been able to move that arm at all! As he waited for the pain to subside to a background throbbing, Yazour looked around the cave, seeking something to support the weight of his injured leg. His sword had been his original thought—but Schiannath had prudently hidden all the weapons away beyond his reach. His plan seemed doomed to failure—but the young warrior had no intentions of giving up so easily. The wall of the cave was sufficiently rough and broken to provide him with handholds . . . Yazour reached out with his unwounded arm, took a firm grip on a solid-looking projection—and began to pull himself slowly up.

Reaper’s mercy! I had no idea it would hurt like this! Yazour clung to the stone as the chamber whirled dizzily around him. Sweat flooded his face and dripped stinging into his eyes. The weak muscles of his wounded thigh were a knot of screaming agony. “Curse you for a whining weakling,” he goaded himself. “Call yourself a warrior? You, the only hope of your poor friends!.” Clenching his teeth, he let go his handhold, and tried to shuffle forward.

One step . . . Two . . . The wounded leg gave way as though the bones had turned to water. The world tilted crazily—turned upside down before Yazour could catch his balance. He was sprawling on the floor of the cave, one hand in the scattered embers of the fire. He snatched it back with a shriek of shock and pain, but his clothes were burning in a score of places. The horses screamed in panic, pulling at their tethers, then Schiannath was there, wild-eyed and furious, shouting profanities in the Xandim tongue. He pulled the warrior out of danger, and flung the contents of his waterskin over both Yazour and his smoldering bedding. The fire went out in a choking cloud of smoke and ash, and the cave was plunged into darkness.

The warrior heard the click of flint on iron. A tiny flame bloomed like a flower on the end of a torch, and blossomed to illuminate the smudged and waxen face of Schiannath. The Xandim wedged the torch in a crack in the rock and scrambled over to Yazour, slipping a little on the slick and muddy floor.

“Fool! You were not ready!” Schiannath propped the trembling warrior in his arms. “Are you much hurt?”

Yazour turned his head away from the Xandim, and sobbed as though his heart were breaking.

It took Schiannath a long time to restore order to the wreckage in the cavern. Yazour, wrapped in dry wolfskins, and sipping one of the Xandim’s pain-ease infusions, could do nothing to help him. The young warrior, burning with humiliation, had reached the depths of wretchedness. What use was he, crippled like this! He had even become a plague and a burden to the man who’d saved his life! He avoided Schiannath’s eyes, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. Looking around, Yazour saw that the floor had been mopped clean, and the mended fire burned brightly. A new pot of snow was melting nearby, next to a bubbling pot of broth left over from their last meal. Schiannath, drawn and weary, sat beside him, holding out a cup of the savory, steaming liquid.

“Come,” the Xandim said softly. “Talk. What is this great need, that you must walk too soon?”

Yazour took a deep breath. “My friends in the tower,” he said. “They may be hurt, or even dead. I must know . . .”

Schiannath nodded gravely. “I understand your torment. I should have thought of this sooner—but why did you not speak before? Set your mind at rest, Yazour. I will go myself, tomorrow night, and bring you news of your friends.”

“Here now—let me take that,” said Jharav.

With relief, Nereni surrendered the heavy basket, woven from withies that this same man, who was now captain of the troops in Yazour’s place, had gathered for her from the outskirts of the coppice. Of all Harihn’s guards, Jharav had been the most kind and helpful, keeping herself and Aurian well supplied with firewood and melting bowl after bowl of snow to let them bathe. Nereni felt sure, now, that his conscience must be troubling him. At first, she had despised Jharav as deeply as she did the rest of Harihn’s men, but as the days of her imprisonment had passed, her resentment of the stocky, grizzled soldier had been wearing away until she no longer saw him in the same light as the rest of the prince’s troop. Jharav was a decent man—and Nereni suspected that he had thrown his weight behind Aurian’s persistent campaign to let her tend to Eliizar and the others. Some four days ago, Harihn had finally given in, and Nereni’s heart had been eased, a little, by the daily contact with her husband. She felt that she owed Jharav a debt of thanks. Jharav lifted the basket as though it were filled with feathers, and looked at her handiwork with an approving eye.

“This is a fine piece of work,” he told her. “Your husband must be most appreciative of your skills!”

“My husband will be more appreciative of the stew if he gets the chance to eat it hot!” Nereni snapped. Kindness was one thing, but this amounted to flirtation! The little woman was breathless with indignation. Why, this man had a wife at home!

Jharav chuckled. “Consider me chastened, Lady.” He sounded completely unrepentant. Taking her elbow, he helped her to descend the slick and narrow stairway that twisted down into the tower’s roots.

The iron-bound door creaked slowly open, and a pale, ragged figure burrowed out of the pile of furs in the corner like a sand rat emerging from its hole. “Eliizar!” Nereni flew across the filthy floor to embrace her husband. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat as she felt the bony ridges of his ribs beneath his tattered shirt. “But he’s recovering now,” she told herself firmly. “Each day, since they let me visit him, his wounds are getting better.”

“Nereni—are you well?” Eliizar held her out at arm’s length, peering anxiously into her face.

Though she really wanted to bury her head in his shoulder and weep, Nereni forced herself to be brave for him. “I am well, my dear.” From somewhere, she found a smile. “And Aurian is also well, and growing bigger by the day!”

She knew what he would ask next, and dreaded the question. Why must he torture himself so? she wondered

“Is there any news of Yazour?” the swordsman asked softly. Nereni shook her head, not trusting her voice at the sight of the hurt on his face. He had loved Yazour like a son. By the Reaper, it tore Nereni’s heart to see him so unmanned by grief !

“Come,” she said firmly. She took his arm and led him back to his nest of furs. “Come, Eliizar, eat some stew.”

As Nereni checked Eliizar’s wound, a long shallow slice across the muscles of his belly, and applied salve and fresh bandages, she thanked the Reaper for the furs. She reflected, as she pulled bowls and spoons and the covered pot of stew from her basket, that undoubtedly these pelts had saved the lives of the two men in the damp and freezing dungeon. The Winged Folk had brought them two or three days after the companions had been captured, when she had complained to the Prince that the tower room was too cold for Aurian. But when the dark, luxuriant furs had arrived, Nereni’s blood had turned to ice, and she wished, on the Reaper’s mercy, that she had never spoken. These were the pelts of great cats just like Shia! Quickly she tried to keep the Mage from seeing them, but she was too late. Aurian had flown into a rage so terrible that Nereni had expected her to go into early labor on the spot. She had flown at Harihn with such violence that though she had been armed with nothing but her bare hands, it had taken several of his guards to restrain her—and not before she had inflicted some telling injuries on them.

At the sight of those accursed pelts, something had broken within the Mage. Since that dreadful first night of their capture, she had remained as cool and firm as a bastion of stone, and Nereni had drawn inspiration from her courage. But after the furs had come, the little woman had been kept awake all night long by the storm of Aurian’s bitter, heartbroken weeping.

Nereni blamed herself. She had gathered every single fur and brought them down here to Eliizar and Bohan, and the incident had never been referred to again. The following day, Aurian had been pale, but stern of face and calm as ever. But now, when Nereni looked at her, she saw an extra shadow of pain behind the Mage’s eyes—and knew that she herself had put it there.

Once she was satisfied that Eliizar had mastered his emotions and was eating, she dished out another bowl of stew and took it over to where the eunuch huddled miserably beneath his own pile of furs. He had not been able to come to her—those unspeakable brutes, afraid of his tremendous strength, had fettered him to a ring in the wall with long but heavy chains. He had remained unscathed from the fighting, barring the many bruises where they had beaten him down at last, but his wrists, as thick as Nereni’s arm above the elbow, had been chafed and scored by the heavy manacles, where he had tried desperately to pull himself free. Due to the damp and dirty conditions in the dungeon, they were now a putrid mass of festering sores,

Bohan’s plump face was gray now, and hollow-cheeked. Though he still had his enormous frame, he had lost so much weight that his wasted flesh seemed to hang from his bones like a beggar’s suit of rags. Though the eunuch’s hurts had been less serious than those of Eliizar, he looked in a far worse state. Nereni knew why—she had seen this same thing happen to prisoners within the arena. Chained and helpless, feeling that he had failed his beloved Aurian, Bohan had simply lost the will to live.

Thanking the Reaper that the Mage had been spared from seeing her friend in this appalling state, Nereni let him have his stew first—how could she refuse him, poor man? While he ate, she comforted him with news and messages from Aurian, which seemed to cheer him a little. Then, gritting her teeth, she bent herself to the nauseating task of cleaning his sores.

It hurt him dreadfully, Nereni saw the pain in the rigid set of the eunuch’s face and the roll of his eyes; yet he sat there suffering patiently, and neither flinched nor moved until she had finished. What must it be like, Nereni wondered, to be in such pain and be denied the release of crying out? Nonetheless, she forced herself to be thorough. By the time she had finished, and was bandaging the lacerated wrists as best she could beneath the manacles, both she and Bohan were shaking.

Nereni looked coldly at Jharav, who had been standing on guard by the door all this time, watching without saying a word. “You are cruel, to fetter him See this,” she snapped. “How will he ever heal, with these iron bands that chafe and infect his hurts?”

Harihn’s captain could not meet her eyes. “Lady, take your anger to the Prince, for this was not my doing,” he said abruptly. He bit his lip, and glanced uneasily at Eliizar. “For my part, I agree with you,” he murmured, “But if I value my life, there is nothing I can do, and you must not expect it of me.”

“Come, Nereni, he is right,” Eliizar put in harshly. “You cannot blame the man for following orders—or if you do, you must also take the blame with me, for all the atrocities that were committed in the Arena, to those poor wretches under our care.”

Nereni shuddered, and turned away.

While Nereni was visiting Eliizar and Bohan down in the cramped little dungeon that was carved into the foundations of the tower, Aurian was making the most of her absence to take some welcome air on the roof. Usually, the little woman’s protests about the state of the ladder was enough to deter the Mage from climbing up here, but she had reached the point, she felt, where one more day spent looking at the walls of that dingy, cramped little chamber would send her right over the into raving insanity,

Aurian sat, wrapped in cloak and blanket, beside the parapet of the tower, letting the crumbling wall shield her from the worst of the wind. Every once in a while, when she was tired of her thoughts, she would peer through a dip in the crenellations at the uninspiring vista below. Though no sunset had been visible through the heavy clouds, the light was fading rapidly, flattening the sweeping slopes and shadowed crags until it looked as though a gigantic sheet of dirty gray linen had been draped over the world.

It had been many days since the Mage’s capture—fifteen, sixteen, more, she thought, she could no longer be sure. Aurian had never felt so desperate and helpless—not even when she had been recovering from the wounds she had received in the Arena, and had been unable to go in search of Anvar. Even then, though she had been constrained by her wounds, at least Harihn had been searching!

The thought of the Prince fueled Aurian’s anger. That treacherous bastard! she thought. That monumental fool! I should have stuck a knife in him back then, when I had the opportunity, and taken my chances! The Mage fought against an overwhelming wave of despair. Why did he do it? she thought. Why did he betray us? I saved his life when his father would have killed him! What did I do to make him turn against me like this?

Yet deep in Aurian’s heart, buried amid her raging resentment, there lurked a shred of pity for Harihn. He had made his choice, had succumbed to Miathan’s blandishments—and now, in a way, he was as much a prisoner as she. Had it not been for her own desperate situation, and that of Anvar and her child, Aurian might almost have pitied him. As it was, however, she wanted to tear out his beating heart with her bare hands, and stuff it down his throat. The Mage wished that she knew what had happened to those of her companions who were missing; to Shia on her long and lonely journey—oh Gods, how Aurian’s heart had turned over when she had seen those accursed pelts! The thought that one of them might have belonged to her friend . . , But that was nonsense, she told herself firmly. If Shia had been slain, Harihn would never have been able to resist bragging about it! She thought of Yazour. Was he even still alive? And Anvar, imprisoned in the Citadel of Aerillia . . . The Mage crammed her knuckles into her mouth, and bit hard to keep back tears. Oh Anvar, she thought. How I miss you! And to make matters worse, though she had cudgeled her brains through every sleepless night since she’d been taken prisoner, she had been unable to come up with a suitable plan to save Anvar, her child, or herself.

The Mage froze, as the thoughts of her child intruded into her mind. Even after all this time, it still startled her, and she was both alarmed and dismayed to find that her despairing thoughts were causing him distress.

Aurian sighed. “Dearest, I’m all right…” She sent out thoughts of love and reassurance, but at the same time, her mind was racing. As the time for his birth drew nearer, her son’s thoughts were growing stronger and more articulate—and unfortunately, more perceptive to the turmoil of her own emotions.

Aurian frowned. What could she say to him? How could she explain, in terms he could understand, why her thoughts held so much pain these days? Though she knew that he had access to her emotions, she had always tried to shield her most private thoughts from the child. Had the little wretch been eavesdropping? Goodness, she thought, I have to be more careful in future,

Aurian wondered if this close mental link would continue to exist after her son was born. Less than a moon now, she thought, and I’ll be able to hold him in my arms. Me, a mother! Dear Gods, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the idea! Less than a moon now, and you won’t have the chance to hold him, she reminded herself, if you don’t stop daydreaming and come up with a plan to save him!

What was that? Aurian tensed, hearing a new sound, from somewhere close at hand, above the wind’s thin whine. A scratching and a scrabbling that could only be the scrape of leather boots against stone, followed by the spatter of falling pebbles and a muffled curse. The Mage drew in a sharp, hissing breath. Someone was climbing the outside of the tower!

Dusk was falling fast now, In the last remaining light, Aurian saw a huff of steaming breath rise above the parapet. Hastily, she rose to her feet and edged back toward the trapdoor—then cursed herself for a fool. Whoever was trying to sneak into the tower was hardly likely to be any friend of Harihn’s, or the Archmage, For an instant, Aurian’s heart leapt in an absurd and desperate hope. Anvar! Could he have somehow escaped? “Don’t be ridiculous,” her common sense told her. “Anvar is too valuable as a hostage to have escaped without aid—and it’s too soon for Shia to have reached him!.” Aurian frowned. Could it be Yazour? Her heart leapt at the thought, but nonetheless, the Mage had no weapon to hand, and because of the need to protect her child, hand-to-hand fighting was out of the question. It would pay her to be circumspect. Silent as a ghost, Aurian slunk behind the tottering stack that housed the tower’s crumbling flues. Glad of the comforting warmth of the rough stones beneath her ice-cold hands, she peered out, round the corner, at the deserted stretch of parapet.

Aurian thanked all the Gods that her night vision, along with her Mage’s knowledge of tongues, were the only powers that had not deserted her in her pregnancy. The roof was shrouded in night’s shadow—and then suddenly a darker shadow detached itself from the gloom and dropped lightly down from the parapet. Aurian stiffened. A single glance at the man’s stealthy, skulking movements told her that he was not one of Harihn’s people. Tallish, though not as tall as herself, he had a lithe, wiry body and dark silver-shot hair that fell in curls around his shoulders and glinted in the faint snow-glimmer, for the white drifts that spread across the landscape for miles around the tower prevented the night from evergrowing completely dark.

The Mage watched with increasing curiosity, barely daring to breathe, as he crept toward the trapdoor and knelt to peer down into the chamber that was her prison. He would find it dark and empty, Aurian knew, for she had forgotten to light a torch before coming up here, and Nereni was still below with Eliizar. The man paused, his head cocked, listening for the sound of voices below. “Lady Aurian?” he called softly. “Lady, are you there?” Again, the voice called softly. “Do not fear me—I come from your friend Yazour.”

Swift and silent, the Mage left her hiding place, and approached him from behind. “I’m Aurian. Who the blazes are you?” she hissed.

The man leapt up with a startled oath, and Aurian hushed him hastily. Before he could grope for his sword, she had seized him by the elbow and dragged him into the shadowed lee of the chimney stack. Still firmly holding his arm, she used her night vision to peer closely into his face. It was not a face to inspire trust in a stranger. It was angular, bony, and unshaven, with a jutting nose and crinkled crow’s-feet at the corners of the hooded light gray eyes, which were staring wide with shock as he tried to see her in what to him was darkness.

Absurdly, Aurian found her mouth twitching in its first smile in many days. Dear Gods, she thought—no wonder he looks as though he’d seen a ghost! If someone had crept up on me like that… “I’m sorry,” she told him, surprised to hear the alien sound of yet another language coming out of her mouth, “I didn’t mean to startle you, I am Aurian,”

“Goddess be praised,” the man breathed, “My name . . .” For a moment he hesitated. “My name is Schiannath, Yazour sent me to aid you, if I can.”

“Yazour is all right?” The weight of Aurian’s worries suddenly grew lighter.

“Wounded, but recovering,” Schiannath told her gravely. “The Goddess herself told me to help him, I found him in the pass—he was being attacked by a great cat, and—-”

Aurian was suddenly seized with a delightful notion. “Did the Goddess sound, well… more irascible than you had imagined she would?” she interrupted

The man frowned, “Why, indeed she did! But how did you know? Does she talk to you also, Lady?”

“You might say that,” Aurian said wryly, She swallowed a chuckle, I wonder how Shia managed that? she thought. To the Mage’s astonishment, Schiannath dropped to his knees. “Lady, indeed you are blessed!” he said, “In my land, we revere those who are with child as the special chosen of the Goddess Iscalda. I swear myself to your protection, for this must truly be what the Goddess intended for me, when she made me save Yazour!” He hesitated. “But how may I aid you. Lady? I can scarcely fight a tower full of guards, but maybe if you were able to climb down . . .” He looked doubtfully at Aurian’s rounded shape.

“No, I can’t,” the Mage said quickly. “One of my companions is being held hostage elsewhere, and if I escape just now, he will surely die. But there is one thing you can do, Schiannath, that would help me enormously. Do you have a weapon you could lend me? A knife, maybe? Something that could easily be hidden?”

“Of course!.” Schiannath pulled a long, slender dagger from his belt. As she took it from him, a thrill of excitement passed through Aurian. At last she was no longer unarmed and helpless! When her child was born, she could protect him.

“Schiannath,” she said gravely, “I can’t thank you enough for this. But where is Yazour? Are his wounds too bad to let him climb? Can you give him a message from me?”

“That much I can do.” Schiannath said eagerly. “He was desperate to come to you, to the point of endangering his healing—so I offered to come in his place, and take back news of you, if I could.”

Oh Gods! Aurian thought, I wonder how much of the Xandim language Yazour can speak? I’ll wager this poor man hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s getting himself into!

The Xandim might have been reading her mind, “It still seems a miracle,” he said. “Yazour promised me that you could speak my tongue, but he lacked the words to explain, and I regret to say that I did not believe him! Lady, the likes of you has never been among the Xandim—that much I know! How came you to be fluent in our language?”

The Mage bit her lip, remembering the Khazalim distrust of sorcerers. Were the Xandim the same? If she told him the truth, would she alienate this unexpected benefactor? “Tell the truth,” some inner instinct prompted her. “If you lie, he’s bound to know—and that will damage his trust in you just as much as the other.”

Aurian took a deep breath. “Schiannath . . . Do you remember that you swore to protect me? Does that oath hold good, no matter what I am about to say to you?”

“Lady, you ask a great deal. How can I answer you, on something I have not yet heard?” He hesitated. “Yet I gave my oath—and I do have some shreds of honor left, no matter what some may say! Besides, the Goddess spoke to me. I know she wanted me to help you, one of her chosen! Say on without fear. What dreadful secret can it be, that causes you such hesitation?”

Aurian looked him in the eye. “I know your language because I am a sorcerer.” She stopped speaking abruptly, and frowned. The word that had left her mouth bore little similarity to the Khazalim word “sorcerer,” and had a slightly different meaning. It had come out as something that she could only translate as “Windeye.” What the blazes did that mean?

Schiannath’s face brightened with comprehension-he made a strangled sound deep in his throat, and Aurian, to her dismay, saw his face light up with joy. “A Windeye! Blessed Goddess! Now I comprehend your plan! Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

To Aurian, his delight seemed out of all proportion, and the Mage’s heart sank within her. Oh no, she thought. Dear Gods, please don’t let him be another one like Raven, who needs my powers to help him! This is just too cruel!

“Wait,” she told him softly. “How much of our story has Yazour told you?”

Schiannath shook his head. “Little, in truth. He is learning my language, but as yet he lacks the words, I was hoping that you might make things clear for me. Lady.”

“Yes.” Aurian sighed. “I think I should. You have a right to know what you’re getting yourself into,” She sat down, her back propped against the warm stones of the chimney, and pulled her ragged blanket more closely around her shoulders. “Well,” she said doggedly, “this is how it goes ...”

Though the hours that stretched by until Schiannath’s return were the longest Yazour had ever spent, the Xandim’s news, on his return, more than made up for the wait. Aurian was unharmed—for the present at least—and it was plain that Schiannath had fallen under the Mage’s spell, Yazour thought wryly. The Warrior had never seen his rescuer so excited. Glad as he was, however, to hear that Aurian was safe and well, the remainder of the Xandim’s tale filled Yazour with alarm. Shia missing!. Raven a traitor! Eliizar and Bohan hurt and imprisoned! Anvar a captive of the Winged Folk! Before Schiannath had finished speaking, Yazour was looking for a way to get to his feet, and demanding his sword.

“No.” Schiannath, shaking his head, was holding him down with gentle insistence. “Aurian says we wait.”

“Wait?” Yazour was appalled. “How can I wait, when my friends are suffering! They need help! Accursed fool—you misunderstood her!” Only when he saw the blank look on Schiannath’s frowning face did the warrior realize that he had been shouting in his own language.

Schiannath’s eyes glinted. “She says we wait. When the child comes—then we fight!” His voice had taken on an edge of stone, and his fingers dug into Yazour’s shoulder with bruising force. “Before you fight, you must heal,” he added pointedly.

Reluctantly, Yazour subsided. “How will we know when the babe is born?” he asked sullenly.

“Each day I will watch. She will signal—a flame at the window. Then—we move!” His eyes were alight with excitement. Yazour sighed. More waiting! But Aurian was right. They were badly outnumbered, and if she waited for her powers to return, she would be able to fight. In the meantime, it seemed, he must school himself to patience—and try to get back on his feet as quickly as he could.