Harp of Winds

21 Night of the Wolf

As the moon waxed and waned again, Schiannath had found it impossible to stay away from Aurian, much to Yazour’s dismay. Although the outlaw should have been watching the tower from a safe distance, he would often creep closer in the dead of night and scale the crumbling walls to talk with the Mage again. Though Schiannath denied the visits, Yazour always knew when one had taken place. The outlaw would return to the cave, bright-eyed and excited, and lie wakeful in his blankets when he should have been resting before resuming his watch.

Folly! Yazour found such rash behavior difficult to countenance. Schiannath was placing himself, the Mage, and their entire plan in jeopardy! Yet, until he was back on his feet again, the warrior could do nothing to intervene. What concerned him most was the fact that Schiannath was lying about his actions. As far as Yazour was concerned, such secrecy boded ill. All he could do in return was to indulge in a secret of his own—whenever the outlaw was absent, he would exercise and work the muscles of his injured leg, always testing, always pushing himself to the limits of pain. He had carved a forked and sturdy bough from the firewood pile into a makeshift crutch, and already he could manage to shuffle slowly around the cave. But to his increasing frustration, the long road through the pass to the tower remained beyond him—until he finally found the answer on a rare, still, moonlit night, when the snow was all diamond dazzle, and the lonely cries of hunting wolves swooped between the glimmering peaks.

Schiannath was going to the tower again. Though he had denied it as always, his face a picture of innocence, Yazour had sensed his concealed excitement as he hurried away, and the warrior had been hard-pressed to keep himself from violence. Oh, the fool. The utter fool! Climbing the tower was one thing beneath the black shroud of a clouded sky—but tonight! Everything that moved against this bright backdrop would be visible for miles around! Just what was Schiannath’s fascination with Aurian? The outlaw refused to say—but Yazour could not believe that the Mage would be encouraging such arrant folly. Unfortunately, without giving Schiannath away, she would be unable to prevent his coming. Yazour cursed the outlaw roundly. Somehow, Schiannath had to be stopped! Turning, he groped beneath his blankets for his crutch.

Tonight, Iscalda was both irritable and worried. Schiannath had been leaving her behind when he went to watch the tower, taking the spare mount instead, and—oh, humiliation!—tethering her within the cave lest she try to follow him. He was afraid of risking her, she knew. An increasing number of wolves were now hunting in the vicinity, drawn, in these desperately hungry times, by the scent of the tower garrison’s food. Schiannath was also afraid that the Black Ghost was still somewhere in the area, though Iscalda, had she been able to speak, could have told him the great cat was long gone.

Men and their folly! The white mare snorted. And what was he up to with this woman in the tower, the one who claimed to be some sort of Windeye? Iscalda had her doubts about that. It seemed too good to be true! She did not dare let herself hope that one day she might be returned to her human shape, yet Schiannath plainly believed it—and as his excitement had increased with the passing days, so had Iscalda’s disquiet. Was he truly so fascinated with this Windeye because of her powers? Or had it something to do with the woman herself? Was she truly a Windeye? Had she bespelled him? Why else would the idiot have risked going to her tonight, when there was no darkness to hide him?

To distract herself, Iscalda turned her attention to Yazour. The Xandim were mistaken in their belief that when one of their race was trapped in their equine form, they became mindless beasts—she knew that now. True, the animal instincts took over when danger threatened, such as the attack of the great cat. The only-thing in her mind then had been flight. But by and large, Iscalda’s thoughts remained her own. It was simply that in this form, she had no way of communicating; and besides, it was easier on poor Schiannath to think of her as a beast. At least he only had himself to worry about, without tearing himself apart over her anguish.

Iscalda wished she could communicate to Schiannath her trust in this young Khazalim warrior that he had rescued. This was one occasion when her animal instincts had proved a blessing. Horses knew a good man from bad, a friend from foe, and this one, she knew beyond all doubt, possessed great goodness of heart, despite the fact that he had been born a foe of the Xandim. Iscalda had been observing him closely. He interested her more and more. She had kept an approving eye on his progress as he willed himself back to mobility, for she knew that he too was worried by Schiannath’s behavior—and that he had been horrified by the outlaw’s plans to scale the tower on this moonlit night. The white mare watched intently as the young warrior came staggering across the cave, still propped by his crutch. The leg was beginning to bear him now, but from the twisted expression on his face and the sweat that sheened his pallid skin, she could see that the pain was still intense. If he wanted to follow Schiannath, he would have little chance of even getting down from the cave, let alone traveling through the pass.

It was then that Iscalda had her idea. Why not? She also wanted to follow Schiannath—and Yazour could untie her halter. They could help one another! Yet the white mare shuddered at the sudden realization of what she was proposing to do. It was a rare thing for a Xandim, in human shape, to ride another in horse-form. It was a matter of the greatest intimacy, and only ever done in times of need, such as when one of the parties had been injured—or when the two concerned shared the closest of relationships. To let a stranger—a human-mount her! It was unthinkable! Yet was Yazour truly a stranger, after all this time they had spent together, mewed up within the cavern? Did she not find herself liking the young warrior? And was this not a time of direst need? Iscalda braced herself, I can do this, she thought, I can do it for Schiannath. Yazour was tottering toward her, plainly heading for the cave mouth. Iscalda whinnied to catch the young warrior’s attention, and dipped her knees, so that he might mount.

She heard Yazour’s surprised exclamation and wondered what he had said, for he had spoken in his own language. At a guess, he might be cursing Schiannath for a liar—for the Xandim had told him she was a one-man horse, and warned him, at his peril, not to approach her. Then she felt his touch on her neck, and shivered, struggling with the overwhelming instinct to fight or flee. Yazour spoke to her softly, urgently; and though she could not understand him, Iscalda concentrated with all her might on his soothing voice.

Yet when she felt the warrior’s weight on her back, only the halter restrained her. Iscalda shied violently, only to be brought up sharply by the painful tug of the rope. The crutch, which Yazour carried with him, banged against her flanks and she felt his weight lurch forward, as he ducked to avoid the low roof of the cave, and she heard him curse sharply. Then he spoke again, low and gently. His hand smoothed the damp arch of her muscled neck. Trembling, the white mare submitted.

After a time, she felt Yazour relaxing, and at last, he trusted her enough to untie her halter. Anger flashed through Iscalda, as he looped the length of rope around and fastened it to the noseband at the other side, to form a crude rein. Did he not trust her? Yet she had seen the horses of the Khazalim at the tower, and remembered that these humans draped all kinds of pads and straps and buckles over their poor mounts. Very well, Yazour, Iscalda thought. Keep the wretched rope if it makes you feel better—but if you start pulling at my head, I’ll pitch you off onto your own! With that, she took a tentative step, adjusting to the unfamiliar presence on her back, Yazour seemed as nervous as herself—and she would need to be careful, she knew, because he could not grip with his injured leg. Blinking, the white mare emerged into the dazzling moonlight with her new rider, and began to make her way toward the tower.

Aurian had finally fallen into an uneasy doze. Sleep was hard to come by, these days—her child, nearing the time of his birth now, had been growing ever more restless. The babe had turned now, and Aurian had been bothered, this last day or two, by a nagging backache and twinges of cramp. Did this mean that the child was due at last? With no experience of childbirth, Aurian had no idea. Stubbornly, she had refused to confide in Nereni, for she was out of patience with the little woman’s ceaseless fussing. The Mage knew that this was mainly due to concern for Eliizar and Bohan, but it didn’t help. Aurian had worries enough of her own to cope with, for she knew now that the margin of safety, for herself and Anvar, not to mention her son, was severely limited.

These days, the Mage was increasingly out of patience: with her pregnancy, her inability to come up with a useful plan, with Nereni’s fretting about her husband and Yazour—and with that idiot Schiannath, who would insist on visiting her, breaking her necessary rest to talk through the night, though she had stressed the danger time after time, and forbidden him to no avail.

Tonight, though, when she had looked out at the glimmering moonscape from the parapet on the tower roof, Aurian had been certain that he would not come. Perhaps because for once she feared no disturbance, she had fallen asleep at last. And simply could not believe it when she was awakened by a familiar scratching on the trapdoor. With a curse, the Mage turned over awkwardly in her blankets, and struggled to her feet. “Has he lost his mind?” she demanded.

“Don’t open it!” Nereni hissed, from her corner. “Let him take his chances, if they discover him!” She neither liked nor trusted Schiannath—a Xandim; an enemy. The Mage knew she feared reprisals if Aurian was caught with him, and was concerned lest Eliizar suffer,

“Oh, don’t be daft,” Aurian said wearily, “Schiannath is our contact with Yazour, and our only chance of outside help. It won’t do us any good if he’s captured. I just wish I could knock some sense into his head! Do me a favor, Nereni, and listen at the door for me while I get rid of him.” With a struggle, she hauled herself awkwardly up the creaking ladder, and fumbled with the latch of the trapdoor, feeling Schiannath’s firm, strong grasp around her wrist as he helped her onto the roof.

With the skies so clear, it was bitingly cold outside, and the gray stones of the tower glistened with a network of rime. The Mage could hear the eerie cries of the wolfpack, coming closer and closer.

“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Aurian snapped in a furious whisper, pulling Schiannath into the shadow of the chimney stack. “Tonight, of all nights! If the Winged Folk come, you’ll be visible for miles!”

“But Lady, the Skyfolk only fly during the day—you told me so yourself!” His disarming smile flashed white in the moonlight.

“I said they don’t fly in the dark, you jackass! It’s as light as day tonight—and I know that Harihn is short of supplies What in the name of the Gods possessed you, Schiannath?” Aurian could cheerfully have strangled him. Already she knew what his reply would be, and she was right.

“Lady, you are my only hope of restoring my sister Iscalda!” His fingers bit tightly into her wrist, “Your time is so near now! You will not let me rescue you, yet how can I stay away, never knowing if you are safe ...”

“I’d be a bloody sight safer if you would stop pestering me, and watch for my signal from a safe distance!” the Mage replied through gritted teeth, “Schiannath, get out of here, and don’t come back until it’s—”

“Aurian—someone comes!” Nereni’s voice was an urgent whisper,

Aurian cursed, and tore her hand free from the Xandim’s grasp, “Stay quiet until they’ve gone!” she hissed at Schiannath, and scrambled toward the ladder. Clumsy with haste, she felt her foot slip on a worn rung, and landed with a jarring stumble, barely catching herself upright with a hand on the splintery wood of die ladder. Somewhere within, she felt a catch of pain—but its import was lost in the wave of horror that overwhelmed her as she turned toward the door.

Miathan was coming! She knew the sound of those ominous footfalls on the stairs; and though her powers were gone, she could feel, even through the closed door, the pulse of his mind, ablaze with a deadly wrath. Outside, the wolves were gathering, their shrill, lonely plaints sounding all around the tower while the footsteps came closer. The door flew open. On the threshold, wearing Harihn’s body like an ill-fitting cloak, stood the Archmage. Harihn’s handsome features were pulled down into harsh, grim planes and hollows. His dark eyes were overlaid with a furious, fervid glitter. “Out!” He snapped the word at Nereni. White-faced, and with a terrified glance at Aurian, the little woman scurried to obey. Kicking the door shut behind him, Miathan turned slowly to face the Mage.

“How did Anvar escape me?” His voice contained such a depth of deadly fury that Aurian trembled, even as her heart leapt for joy. Anvar had escaped! Her plan must have worked! Breathing deeply, she tried to calm and marshal her roiling thoughts, but she could not, could not keep her joy from showing on her face.

Red fire kindled behind Miathan’s eyes, “Curse you! You knew of this!” His headlong rush carried her with him across the room. Careless of her condition in his rage, he slammed her against the wall and held her there, his fingers, tensed like claws, biting like iron into her shoulders. Once again, Aurian felt that stabbing clutch of pain within her, and gasped.

“How did Anvar escape?” Miathan’s hand lashed out, knocking her head to one side. “Tell me! How did he throw down the Temple of Incondor? What did you find on your travels that could so increase his power?”

His eyes blazed into her own—and buried within their scalding depths, Aurian saw a flicker of doubt, a shadow of fear. Miathan struck her again, and seized a handful of her hair at the nape of her neck, twisting cruelly. Aurian clenched her teeth. Though her eyes were blurred with tears of pain, she would not cry out. She laughed instead, harsh and shrill, for the tension of the moment demanded some release; and drawing back her head, she spat into his face.

“Can this be fear I see?” Aurian taunted. “The great Archmage Miathan—afraid of a lowly half-breed servant? Your one mistake lay in underestimating Anvar—which surprises me, since you fathered him yourself.” She flung her knowledge in Miathan’s face, and watched him turn white.

“Liar!” he howled. “I know the extent of Anvar’s powers! I possessed them myself long enough! What did you find on your travels, to match the power of the Caldron?”

Aurian was cornered, driven to desperation by her need to protect the secret of the Staff of Earth. “Nothing!” she shrieked. “Anvar needed nothing, save his hatred of you! And that’s all you’ll ever get from me, Archmage! Naught save hatred, and undying contempt!”

Miathan seemed to shrink before her. Since he had lost his eyes, the subtleties of his expression had become difficult to read, but the Mage was astonished to see his features drawn down in lines of anguish. “It hurts, you know,” he said softly. “You have no idea how much it hurts when you turn away from me and shudder at my touch’

The Mage was so staggered by his admission that she found her voice at last. “Good,” she snapped. “Now you know how it feels. You never cared how much you hurt me when you murdered Forral—you don’t care that you’re hurting me now, with what you’ve done to my friends and Anvar, and what you’re threatening to do to my child. Did it never occur to you that I would despise you for your foul deeds? Are you really so lost to all sanity?”

Aurian steeled herself, waiting for the storm of his wrath to break over her. It did not happen.

Sadly, Miathan shook his head. “You loved me once, when you were younger—remember that. And notwithstanding all that I have done, Aurian, I have never stopped loving you.”

Aurian’s mind was reeling, refusing to accept that in his own sick, twisted way, Miathan still loved her. Images flashed through her mind of her youth, when the Archmage had been a father, her beloved mentor. Before Forral had returned, and come between them. Was that when the good in Miathan had begun to wither? Or had the sickness started long before? The Mage ached inside for those first, good years—but that did not change her feelings now. The thought of her child and the memory of Forral’s dead face strangled any pity for Miathan. “And I have never stopped hating you,” she hissed. “Not since the day you murdered Forral. I’ll loathe you until the day I die.”

Miathan’s expression hardened once more. “We’ll see about that!” His hand came up to clench around her throat.

“Move a muscle, and I’ll choke the lying breath from you,” he hissed.

With a chilling certainty that lodged like a stone within her breast, Aurian knew she had pushed him too far. With his free hand, Miathan grasped her loose robe at the neck and jerked it until it ripped apart. Twisting her arm in a cruel grip, he yanked her away from the wall and flung her down on the thin pallet that served as her bed. Again, the pain shot through her, worse this time, making her cry out. In that helpless moment, Miathan was upon her, kneeling over her, one hand around her throat again, pinning her with all the strength of Harihn’s fit and youthful body. Aurian, choking, her heart hammering wildly, scrabbled frantically among the tangle of blankets beneath her. Her hand closed around the long, cold shape of Schiannath’s dagger and she struck at Miathan’s throat—but in that instant, another spasm of pain disabled her, sending her arching and writhing beneath his hands.

The blow went wide—the dagger grated on Miathan’s collarbone, and drove into his shoulder. The Archmage shrieked in agony, and his hand around her throat went limp, but Aurian was in no state to take advantage of his disablement. Doubled over and gasping, she felt warm wetness flood the blankets beneath her.

Miathan sprang to his feet with a vile curse, wrenching the knife from his shoulder, and looked down on her with hard and merciless eyes. “Now comes the moment at last,” he grated. “Believe me, Aurian, payment is only put off—and not for long!” He rushed to the door, and flung it open to bellow down the stairs. “Woman—get up here! The child is coming!”

Yazour had never guessed that it would take so long to traverse the twisting mountain pass. Seething with impatience, he tried to urge the white mare to a faster pace, but Iscalda would have none of it. Had the idea not been so absurd, it seemed as though she were being careful of his injuries as she picked her way along the snowy defile. Yazour, shivering in the unaccustomed cold away from the cave’s warm fire, tucked his hands into the tatters of his travel-worn cloak, and wondered what to do when he reached the tower. Desperate as he was to see Aurian, there was no way he could climb the crumbling outer walls with his wounded leg. And supposing Schiannath was still up there—how could he persuade the outlaw down from the roof? “I’m a fool to come at all,” the young warrior admitted to himself. Nonetheless, he made no attempt to turn back to the cave, Yazour had a feeling, implacable but strong, that he’d be needed at the tower that night.

As the warrior’s eyes made out the streak of moon-bright hillside beyond the dark walls of the pass, Iscalda’s pace began to quicken, Soon Yazour could make out the tree-clad mound, so familiar yet so strange after his long absence. He could see the blunt top of the tower thrusting itself above the scrubby woodland, but could make out no details at this distance. Then with a jolt that almost dislodged him from her back, Iscalda pricked up her ears and leapt into motion. Fleet and silent as a shadow on the snow, the mare burst out from the concealing cliffs and raced across the intervening stretch of valley floor toward the shelter of the copse that cloaked the tower’s hill.

Oh, the thrill of that wild ride beneath the dazzling moon! When it was over, Yazour came back slowly from the exhilaration of Iscalda’s speed. Branch-whipped scratches stinging on his face, his trembling fingers still locked in a swirl of the white mare’s mane, he peered out from the hoary thicket at the top of the hill and looked across the trampled clearing toward the tower door, shut tight against the cold. Aurian was in there—and Eliizar, Bohan, and Nereni! Yazour twined his fingers more tightly in Iscalda’s mane. It was all he could do to control himself like a seasoned warrior, and not draw his sword there and then to storm that guarded tower like a fool who knew no better. But the tower guards were not Yazour’s only problem. Cutting sharply across the moonlit silence, the grim howling of the wolf pack broke out once more, making Iscalda stamp restlessly, and shudder. Yazour bit down on a curse. The wolves were far too close for comfort—and where in the Reaper’s name was Schiannath?

The wolfsong must have drowned the whir of wings. Before Yazour knew what was happening, he was plunged into darkness as great winged shapes came between himself and the moon. “Reaper save us!” The words were whipped from his lips in a gust of frigid air, and Iscalda reared and backed into the shelter of the thicket as the Skyfolk banked down toward the clearing. Struggling to keep his seat on the mare’s plunging back, Yazour glanced up in time to see one of the two Winged Folk cry out sharply, and point toward the tower roof. He must have seen Schiannath!. The warrior cursed again. That idiot of an outlaw must be up there, plain in the moonlight for the enemy to see. One of the Skyfolk let go of the bundle that they bore between them and angled toward the top of the tower. His companion struggled on alone for a moment, dipping sharply, then, with an uneasy glance at the rooftop, dropped his burden, which hurtled down into the clearing’s hard-packed snow and burst open, scattering hunks of venison and other forest foodstuffs in all directions. As the winged warrior went soaring to the aid of his compatriot on the roof, Yazour could only look on helplessly, ice-cold with dismay. How could he help Schiannath now?

Schiannath, once Aurian had left him, crouched tensely by the trapdoor, listening intently, lest the moment should come when he must go to Aurian’s aid. Frozen with horror, he heard voices in an unknown language, and the sounds of a violent struggle. With all of his attention on the room below, he never heard the sound of approaching wings. The outlaw was just reaching out to throw the trapdoor aside, when there was a blast of cold air and something hard and heavy hit him from behind, hurling him to the ground. Wiry arms clutched at him, and from the corner of his eye, he caught the cold glitter of a blade

Gasping as a taloned hand tightened around his throat, Schiannath rolled, trying to dislodge his foe. Throwing wide one arm, he knocked away the assailant’s other hand that was driving the dagger toward his breast. Though instinctively he wanted to claw at the Skyman’s throttling hold, he reached back instead, over his shoulder, and drove his fingers into the enemy’s eyes. With a shriek the winged warrior loosed his grip, and Schiannath scrambled round to lash out at him, but as he spun his feet slipped on the frost-slick rooftop and his blow went awry. The Skyman, however, was reeling, his hands clasped over his eyes, his fallen dagger spitting sparks of moonlight. Schiannath recovered his balance, snatched up the knife, and lunged, With another tearing shriek, the winged man tottered backward and vanished over the low parapet, leaving a black smear of blood behind to mar the icy stones, Schiannath rushed to look down over the edge—and realized his mistake too late as a dark shadow fell across him, blotting out the moon’s pristine rays. The Skyman had not been alone!

Aurian knew only pain, a crimson sea in which she twisted and struggled, striving desperately not to drown. A wave of agony would take her, lift her screaming, and finally cast her gasping on the shore—only to be picked up and snatched back by another wave of pain, and lifted into torment once more. Her only link to reality, it seemed, was the slender thread of Nereni’s calm voice, soothing her and chanting advice—and the burning gaze of the Archmage, whose presence loomed above her like a black and ominous thundercloud over the crimson sea. Once, during a brief interlude from pain, Aurian’s misted vision caught the chilling gleam of a dagger, ready in his hand for when her child should come.

But birthing, for Magefolk, was never easy—and this babe did not want to come. The child’s mind had caught Aurian’s terror, and with all the stubbornness of his Mageborn heritage, he struggled against his fate.

“Aurian—for the Reaper’s sake—push!” Nereni’s voice was swept away by the tide as the Mage was swept up by another great wave of pain. She was snatched back by slaps that stung her face, and caught a bleared glimpse of Nereni, tousle-haired, white-faced, and frantic. “Aurian, you must help him. Help him to be born, or you both will die!”

“No.” Aurian turned her face away from Nereni. “Not for this. Not for Miathan. I won’t.” The Mage’s mind fled her body, fled the sea of pain, fled through an endless gray waste seeking Forral. Always, he had helped and comforted her. “Forral,” she shouted desperately. “Forral . . .”

From somewhere ahead, she seemed to hear the echo of a reply. Aurian strained toward the distant sound—but suddenly her way was blocked by a vast black shadow.

“You may not seek him here. It is forbidden.” With a chill, she recognized the bleak and dusty voice of Death,

“Let me come to him,” Aurian cried, struggling vainly against the cloud of icy blackness that constrained her.

“Aurian—go back.” Death’s voice was inexorable—but not unkind, “Now is not your time, nor that of the child you carry. Go back, brave one—return and bear your child.” With that, he cast her effortlessly forth, and Aurian went spinning down into blackness.

Biting his lip, Yazour cast desperately around in his mind for a way to save Schiannath from the attacking Winged Folk. Wounded as he was, how could he reach the top of the tower? Then the night was split by a shrill, wailing cry from the rooftop, and a dark, crumpled shape came twisting down through the air to smash into the snow. The young warrior, his heart in his mouth, collapsed over Iscalda’s neck, limp with relief to see an explosion of dark feathers as the body hit the ground—and then Yazour stiffened, as the howl went on and on. Looping up through the woodland around the side of the spur, the wolf pack burst into the clearing, drawn and maddened by the scent of blood. The warrior’s first panicked thought was for the mare, but the starving wolves had sufficient to occupy them. The stream of shaggy bodies divided, some pausing to tear at the Skyman’s bloody corpse, while others went for the contents of the Winged Folk’s bundle—the chunks of venison that lay strewn across the snow. Yazour saw a thread of light as the tower door opened a crack, then shut hastily once more. The warrior grinned to himself. So, the guards had no taste for fighting the wolf pack? Now that gave him an—

Yazour’s grin vanished abruptly as a scream ripped out from the tower above, Aurian! Forgetting Schiannath, Yazour drove his heels into the white mare’s sides and forced her out of the spiny undergrowth and across the clearing at full gallop, riding down any of the wolves who stood in his path. With the maddened pack snapping at his heels, Yazour rode the mare at full speed into the tower door. The brittle old timbers splintered beneath Iscalda’s weight and she leapt inside, springing lightly over the shattered planks, Yazour lying low along her neck to avoid the lintel. Behind her, the wolves came pouring into the tower, attacking any human in sight. Drawing his sword, the warrior waded into the startled guards, cleaving a path toward the staircase. But due to his wounded leg, he could not leave Iscalda’s back, and the mare was hampered by a knot of attacking soldiers. The wolves, however, were more mobile, Yazour, fighting for his life, caught a glimpse of great gray shapes leaping up the staircase, and bit down on a curse. The wolves would reach Aurian before him!

Down, down, Aurian plummeted, screaming, to fall back into the sea of pain. She was brought back to herself by loud and terrified cries from below, which were drowned by the snarls and howls of wolves. At that moment, her agony peaked—she was drowning at the crest of the crimson wave—then abruptly the great sea drained away, leaving her spent and gasping, the only crimson now the blood that pulsed behind her closed eyelids. Distantly, Nereni’s voice cried: “A boy!” And then Aurian heard the woman’s terrified scream, and Miathan cursing.

The Mage wrenched her eyes open to see a stream of lean gray shapes come hurtling through the door. Then for an instant, the world wrenched itself apart in a blinding flash of dark-bright power, as though reality itself had been hurled upward like a child’s handful of jackstraws, to come down again and settle in a brand-new pattern.

The terrified wolves hesitated in the doorway. Nereni screamed again, and dropped the child into the furs as though it had burned her. Miathan, distracted for an instant by the animals, turned back to the hapless babe, unseen among the bedding, and as he lifted his dagger ...

Aurian realized that she was free at last. Reacting quickly, she reached for her powers, lost for so long, and summoned the wolf pack. Newly freed from its fetters, her magic blazed up within her like a fount of glorious fire. At her bidding, the great gray shape of the foremost wolf leapt forth, striking Harihn’s possessed body and hurling him to the floor. The dagger went flying in a glittering arc as the wolves closed in. Aurian had time for one last glimpse of Harihn’s face, stark terror in his eyes, his soul his own once more. With a snarl of rage, Miathan’s bodiless form fled the chamber, as the wolf ripped out Harihn’s throat in a fountain of blood. Downstairs, Aurian could hear the dwindling screams as the remainder of the wolf pack finished her guards. Nereni was cowering in a corner, sobbing and hiding her face. Aurian, trembling with reaction and sickened to her soul by the carnage, hauled herself upright, driven by one last desperate imperative—to see whether Forral’s child had survived its horrific birth. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned the furs gently aside—and what she saw there tore a scream of agonized despair from her very soul.

Aurian’s mind refused to accept .the reality of what lay before her. Her sight blurred and darkened as she crumpled, and her spirit fled wailing into the blackness.