Harp of Winds

24 Lady of the Mists

The Windeye patted Aurian clumsily on the shoulder, and she welcomed his gesture of sympathy. “You say your companion, the other Bright Power, is in Aerillia?” he asked her. The Mage nodded, unable, despite her worry, to keep from smiling wryly at his description of Anvar. She’d taken an instant liking to this round-faced, shy young Seer with the delightful smile.

“You said earlier that you might be able to help me. How?” she asked.

“I will use my Othersight to ride the winds to Aerillia,” the Windeye told her. “There, with luck, I should be able to locate your companion.”

Aurian watched, amazed, as silver flooded Chiamh’s eyes. Leaning on the parapet, he relaxed, all expression leaving his face, and the Mage realized that his consciousness had left his body. Suddenly, she was seized by an idea. Breathing deeply, she relaxed her own body and slipped easily out of her mundane form.

Chiamh was still hovering above the tower: a golden swirl of incandescent light. She saw his astonished flicker as he noted her presence. “Can you hear me?” Aurian asked him. In their physical forms, she had not thought to try mental communication with the Windeye, and for a moment, entertained some doubt about the extent of his powers.

“Lady, yes!” His mental voice rang out, clear and joyous. “How beautiful you look: a being of light, just as I first saw you in my vision.”

In her anxiety, the Mage had little time for compliments, however pleasant, but she could not bring herself to be angry with the Seer. “I wondered, Chiamh—could you take me with you when you ride the winds to Aerillia?” she asked him.

“Let us try!” As if he were extending his hand, the Windeye held out a glimmering, luminescent tentacle, and Aurian stretched out a similar strand of her own being to touch it. The two lights met in a flash of warm brilliance, and suddenly, the Mage could see the world as Chiamh saw it with his Othersight. She gasped with amazement to see the mountains, like translucent, glittering prisms, and the winds as turbulent rivers of glowing silver.

“Are you ready?” Chiamh’s voice rang proudly in her mind, and Aurian knew that he had sensed and appreciated her delight.

“I’m ready,” she replied.

“Then hold on tight!” The Windeye stretched out another glowing limb and snatched at a strand of silvery wind. The next minute, they were being borne aloft over the mountains at an incredible pace, riding on a stream of light.

“This is wonderful,” Aurian cried exultantly. Attuned lo Chiamh’s thoughts while they touched, she could also feel his joy in the wild and exhilarating ride.

“I never knew it could be like this,” he replied. “Always, before, I have voyaged alone, and it was lonely and not a little alarming. But this . . . Lady, what a gift you have given me. I will never fear my powers again!”

Aurian was glad that she had helped him, for he too had given her an amazing gift by taking her on this journey. It was one of the most incredible experiences of her life, only marred by the shadow of concern, always at the back of her mind, for the fate of Anvar and Shia.

“Here is Aerillia, far below us,” the Windeye said at last. To her astonishment, Aurian saw what seemed to be a cluster of brilliant sparks far below her, and recognized them, with a start, as the myriad life energies of the Winged Folk who dwelt atop the soaring peak.

As the Windeye swooped down closer, Aurian strained to make out details of the peaktop city. Now, the weird, prismatic effect of Chiamh’s augmented vision was a decided disadvantage. “Is there any way I can get my normal sight back?” she asked him.

“Surely.” Chiamh’s mental tone was tinged with regret for the end of their journey. “You are here now—at least, your inner self is here. Simply let go, and you will see normally. I will stay close at hand, to take you back when you wish to go.”

Thanking the Windeye, Aurian withdrew the attenuated tentacle of light, severing her connection with Chiamh’s inner form. Looking down, she gasped. On the highest pinnacle of the mountain was the shattered shell of a peat black building, with Winged Folk wheeling all around it in panic. It certainly looked as though Anvar had regained the Staff! But why in the world would he not answer her?

Lowering her inner form toward the ground, Aurian tried calling for Shia, instead, and at last she got an answer.

“Where the blazes are you?” the Mage demanded, brusque in her anxiety, “What happened? Where is Anvar?”

“I’m hiding,” Shia replied grimly, “with Khanu, another of my people who came to help me. We are in the passages below the temple. There is no one to explain to these winged monsters that we came to free them ...”

Cold dread swept through Aurian as she heard the hesitation in the great cat’s voice. “Why could Anvar not explain to them? Where is he?” Her mental tones began as little more than a whisper, rising to an anguished cry. “Where is Anvar? He can’t be dead! I would have felt it!”

“You are right.” Shia’s matter-of-fact voice helped to calm the distraught Mage. “I kept in contact with him while he pursued Blacktalon from the temple. The priest fled to a tower, where Anvar slew him. Then there was an earthquake—not a natural phenomenon, I’m sure ...” Shia’s mental tones betrayed her puzzlement. “When the tower collapsed, I lost contact with Anvar’s mind, but it did not feel like death ... It felt similar to that time in Dhiammara, when you were caught in that magical trap and swept away into the mountain. It was as though he simply vanished,”

“Dear gods!” Aurian was stunned. What could have become of Anvar? Was it some trap set by Miathan, to steal the Staff? But surely the Archmage was currently out of the reckoning, having been hurled so abruptly from Harihn’s body when the Prince was slain, “Listen, Shia,” she said abruptly. “I must find a way to get to Aerillia. I’m not in my body right now, but—”

“Then the child has been born?” Shia asked anxiously,

“Yes, and we’re all free now, Harihn is dead—but I’ll tell you later, I’ll find a way to reach you as quickly as I can,”

“I hope so. We are trapped down here, and soon must be discovered. Aurian, before you leave ...” Quickly, Shia told the Mage what had happened to Raven, It made grim hearing, but the Mage had too many other anxieties to waste pity on the girl who had betrayed her. Still, the information could come in very useful. The seed of an idea began to form in Aurian’s mind, “I must go now,” she told Shia hastily, “Take care, my friend, until I return,” With that, the Mage sought Chiamh once more, to return her to her body as quickly as possible.

The reunion that took place within the tower was boisterous, as Bohan rushed to embrace Aurian, tears streaming down his face, while the Mage tried to conceal her dismay at his wasted appearance, and the sores that disfigured his enormous limbs. Her heart hardened against Harihn all over again, and in that mood, she found it quite easy to deal ruthlessly with Raven.

She had Parric and Schiannath bring the winged prisoner down from the roof, and while a reluctant Nereni served hot soup and liafa to revive him, the Mage told him, without preamble, of Blacktalon’s death. Though he turned white at the news, Aurian thought she detected a glimmer of relief in his eyes, and hoped it would make it easier to gain his cooperation. In fact, she had already won his gratitude for Healing the wounds that Schiannath had inflicted, and when she offered to set him free to return to Aerillia, if he would deliver a message to Raven, he gave his promise readily.

As she stood in the doorway watching the Skyman take off into the snow-laden clouds, the Mage felt a presence behind her. Yazour was at her shoulder, plainly troubled. “Aurian, is it wise to put your trust in Raven once more?” he asked her.

Aurian shrugged. “I have no choice,” she replied. “I must get to Aerillia in person if I want to find out what happened to Anvar. Besides, what choice has she? From what Anvar told Shia about the damage that had been done to Raven’s wings, my Healing powers are the only hope she has of ever flying again. And if she wants my help, she’ll bloody well have to cooperate and send her winged warriors to bring us to Aerillia.”

“And who will you take with you?”

Aurian smiled at the warrior. “That sounds like one of Anvar’s questions—not really a question at all.”

Yazour nodded. “I will go—unless you do something drastic to stop me.”

“Yazour, I don’t have to do anything drastic. Your wounds would be enough.” Seeing the grave expression on his face, Aurian stopped teasing him. “Now that I have my powers back, however, I can Heal those for you in no time.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “I want you to come with me, Yazour. Apart from Anvar, there’s no one else I’d rather have at my side. As for the others—” She sighed. “Well, I’ll certainly take Chiamh, but I don’t know about anyone else. Not Eliizar and Nereni, for certain. After what they’ve been through I can’t part them, and I need Nereni to stay here and take care of Wolf.”

The Mage heard Yazour’s sharply indrawn breath. “Lady, you may have trouble there,” he said.

“Tell me.” Aurian appreciated the warning. Since her return, she had been puzzled, and not a little hurt, by the reticence of Eliizar and his wife. Though he had clearly been genuinely pleased to see her, the former Swordmaster said little, and seemed to shrink away from her touch, while Nereni had managed to avoid the Mage by pretending to busy herself with the supplies that their guards had left behind.

With a light touch on her arm, Yazour drew Aurian to one side to look back through the doorway into the firelit tower room. “Have patience with them, Lady. They are troubled by the wolfling.” He indicated the sleeping cub, now snuggled in a blanket and cradled in the arms of the beaming eunuch, who was delighted with the tiny creature. A slight frown creased the young warrior’s forehead. “I must admit, Aurian, when you told me—” He broke off his words and the Mage felt a shiver pass through his lithe frame.

“It’ll be all right, Yazour,” Aurian reassured him. “Once I get the Staff back from Anvar, it should be possible to revoke Miathan’s curse.”

“I hope so.” Yazour looked sadly at the wolf cub, and put an arm around the Mage’s shoulders. “Poor Aurian! After all your long waiting, and losing your powers, to be faced with this, instead of the child you longed for . . .”

In the face of his sympathy, Aurian felt a tightness in her throat. “There’s nothing wrong with Wolf!” she said fiercely. Yazour recoiled in surprise at her vehemence, and she shot him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “How could I expect you to understand? And worse still, how can I reassure Eliizar and Nereni with their fear of magic?”

That was only one of Aurian’s problems. Before the Skyfolk returned, as she prayed they would, to bear her to Aerillia, she had to somehow reassure the Swordmaster and his wife, find some form of sustenance for her child in her absence, and make some provision for Harihn’s surviving guards, who, thanks to the Cavalrymaster and his peculiar army, were now locked safely away in the dungeon below. And where would Parric and the Xandim fit into her plans? With a wry smile, Aurian remembered Forral’s advice from long ago:

“Take things one step at a time, and deal with the first thing first. Then you’ll find, more often than not, that the rest will fall into place.”

Unconsciously, the Mage resumed the burden of command that had slipped from her while she had lost her powers.

“Right!” she said decisively. “Yazour, I want you to go now, and talk to Harihn’s troops. You commanded them once—they should still trust you. According to Parric, it’s more than even he can do, as Herdlord, to persuade the Xandim to give sanctuary to their foes, but all is not lost. Many of the Prince’s soldiers left loved ones behind in the forest, and it’s a rich and sheltered land between the desert and the mountains. Say that we’ll set them free when we depart, and tell them to return to the forest and settle there.” For an instant, her face lit up in a mischievous grin, “Who knows—we may eventually be responsible for founding a whole new kingdom!”

“Lady, thank you!” Relief was plain on Yazour’s face. Aurian knew he had been worrying about those of his people who had remained in Harihn’s service. With alacrity, he left her, heading for the dungeons.

As for her son . . . Aurian walked out alone into the thicket that surrounded the tower, and sent forth her will to summon the wolves once more.

The pack had not strayed far from the tower, and were back with the Mage in a very short time. After a brief conference with the dominant pair, Aurian found another couple (for wolves, like hawks, had a life bond and stayed together) who would be willing to leave their brethren and tolerate humans, in order to help her rear her son. Though the wolves were between litters, Aurian’s Healing powers soon made it possible for the female to produce the milk that the tiny cub needed. Leaving the pack leaders with her heartfelt thanks, Aurian returned to the tower, with Wolfs new foster parents gliding like silent shadows at her heels.

Unfortunately, persuading Eliizar and Nereni proved to be more difficult. Only by threatening to leave the little one here in the wilds with the wolf pack did Aurian finally succeed. Nereni’s doubts helped solve the problem of Bohan, however, Aurian did not want to take him to Aerillia with her, yet she had envisioned having difficulty in persuading him to leave her side again, and was reluctant to hurt his feelings. As it was, the eunuch had already become fiercely protective of the wolfling, and readily agreed to stay as bodyguard to the cub.

By the time she had also dealt with Parric, who was fuming because as Herdlord, he was forced to remain with the Xandim and could not come to Aerillia with her, Aurian was heartily sick of all the wrangling, and in a fever of anxiety over the fate of Anvar. To distract herself, she Healed Yazour, and did the same for Eliizar (despite his obvious reluctance), Bohan, and Elewin, who was suffering from the effects of the long, swift journey through the mountains with the Xandim, Parric had wanted to leave the old steward behind at the Fastness, but Chiamh and Sangra had persuaded him other-wise. Not all of the Xandim had come with Parric’s force, and not all were convinced of his right to the Herdlord’s title. Had Elewin been left at the Fastness, he would probably not have survived to see his friends return, As it was, he insisted, just seeing Aurian again had rejuvenated him beyond belief, Aurian knew, however, that he was deeply disappointed at not seeing Anvar, and shared her concern over the fate of the missing Mage. Nereni had prepared a meal, and while they all ate, crowded into the tower room and halfway up the stairs, the companions had a chance to catch up on what had happened to one another during their long separation. But though Aurian was glad to be reunited with her long-lost friends, her relief, when she heard the thunder of wings that presaged the returning Winged Folk, knew no bounds.

The bridge of singing stars was a scintillating lacework rainbow that leapt the dark waters of the Timeless Lake from shore to island. As Anvar had expected, the stars were as solid as stone beneath him. What he had not expected, was their response to the touch of his feet. With each step that Anvar took across the bridge, the starstones rang with their unearthly music. Each footfall struck a different chord, until he found himself stepping deliberately, here and there, with varying rhythm, creating from this magic bridge his own song: his own soul-signature.

The nearer Anvar drew to the island, the more he felt a Presence, great and powerful, brooding on the other side. The closer he came, the more his own self-song developed, and the more the Presence seemed to hear, awaken, and approve of the music he created.

The bridge grounded on the island, on a ledge of obsidian stone. With a wrenching pang as profound as grief, the Mage stepped off the arch of song. At once, the music was cut off. Silence fell like a hammer blow. Before Anvar’s horrified eyes, the bridge shimmered, shivered, and disintegrated with a gentle sigh. A shower of stars spattered hissing down into the mere, filming its surface with coils of misty steam, and leaving nothing behind but an aching absence in the depths of Anvar’s soul. Turning sadly away from the destruction, he saw a curving path that sloped up from the ledge and vanished from view around the flank of the island. The Mage sighed, and leaning heavily upon the Staff of Earth, he began to climb.

Round and round the pathway twisted, cut smooth into the craggy cliffs as though the basalt had been soft as butter. The way seemed endless. The Mage was giddy and gasping for breath by the time he reached the summit, where the path ended abruptly at the face of one last, sheer pinnacle—and the black mouth of a cave. Anvar felt the tingle of magic in his fingers, and lifted a hand that was limned, once more, in flickering blue Magelight, and illuminated his way into the cavern.

It was as well that he had the light. A few short paces within, the cave ended abruptly in a solid wall—and a gaping pit that plunged down into darkness at his feet. His heart hammering wildly, Anvar knelt gingerly at the brink. The glowing blue light reflected off the edges of a spiral of steps, cut into the rock and leading down and down into the core of the isle.

“I don’t bloody believe it!” Anvar exploded in a flash of temper to rival the worst of Aurian’s rages. Cursing viciously, he set off down the stairway, dwelling on dark and baleful thoughts about the benighted idiot who couldn’t just make a tunnel straight through the rock at the base of the island.

Anvar’s grousing was cut short as he realized that he was no longer within the isle at all. At the bottom of the steps, he found himself in the midst of a forest. A perfect forest—carved in stone! The Mage stopped dead, gaping. The illusion was flawless. Each bough, each twig, each delicate jade leaf was perfectly and intricately carved, right down to the tiniest detail. Stone birds perched here and there, caught with throats swollen in mid-song, their wings half opened as though poised to take flight. Minute stone caterpillars looped along the slender twigs. Blossoms of translucent quartz opened in shining clusters along the boughs and a cool, silvery light filtered down between the trees, its source obscured by the lacework of leaves above.

The voice, when it came, was feminine, and most unusual: not old, not young, it managed to sound lilting and melodic, yet deep, harsh, and rasping, all at the same time.

“Welcome to the wood in the heart of the stone—or the stone in the heart of the wood! Which is it?” The weird voice chuckled. “Come, young wizard! Follow your nose, for in this place, all paths lead to me!”

The sense of power in that voice was overwhelming. Though all of Anvar’s instincts were screaming at him to turn and flee, as far and as fast as possible, he knew there could be no returning. With a little shrug, he began to walk, on and on, between the endless ranks of trees.

Stone trunks, stone branches, birds and insects—all were clearly and eerily outlined in that deceptive dappled light that came from somewhere beyond the wood. The Mage felt overawed by the vastness of this place; as though he were a little child strayed into some great ruler’s pillared hall. Though the magic of this timeless place kept him from being troubled by hunger and thirst, his legs were growing weary and his feet throbbed in his boots. Anvar strove to ignore the discomfort. He must keep his mind alert and ready for the coming confrontation.

The trees came suddenly to an end. Anvar stumbled out into a vast open space—a gigantic cavern, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell, for the place was so huge that its boundaries—if boundaries there were—were lost in the farthest shadows. The ground, furred to resemble moss by tiny, prickling spikes of crystallized minerals, swelled upward in a gently curving slope from where he stood. At the summit was the most gigantic tree that Anvar had ever seen, its girth greater than the massive weather-dome at the Academy, its trunk far taller than the Mages’ Tower, soaring up and up to finally be lost in the shadows far above. And Anvar had found, at last, the source of the diffuse silver light that had illuminated the forest. Though all the space around was enfolded in the wings of shadow, the tree itself glowed richly from within, as though filled with captured moonlight.

The immensity of this ancient titan outraged Anvar’s senses. In order to maintain his reeling wits, he looked only at the lower part of the tree, concentrating on details. Stone or wood? Even as the Mage drew closer, it was impossible to tell. The fabric of the tree had that same dense gray graininess of the carven Door Between the Worlds, which had led him to the Well of Souls.

“Well perceived, O Wizard! The Portal to the Well of Souls was indeed made from a bough of this tree. But how came you to tread that perilous road? And why are you still here to remember it?”

Anvar, startled by the voice, looked up into the tree.

And there, at about the height of three men from the ground, where nothing had existed save the plain and featureless trunk, was a door—a circular door that resembled a knothole in the wood. A rough stairway, seemingly a natural part of the tree, rather than steps that had been cut there, slanted in a curve up to the portal from one of the immense roots. The stairway curved out and widened at the top, to form a ledge or platform outside the door.

The door swung slowly open. There, framed in the shimmering golden light that shone from the tree’s interior, was a ... Anvar blinked, and rubbed his eyes. The figure was an eagle—no, an ancient crone . . . No. It was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The deceptive figure was clad from head to foot in a cloak of black feathers, cowled and fringed with white. For an instant, Anvar’s vision blurred and he perceived an eagle once more, then his attention shifted and he saw a woman, with the face of the carving he had last seen in the tunnel that led to the Timeless Lake, What he had mistaken for a cowl of white feathers was her swirling mane of snowy hair. Her eyes . . . Anvar had expected them to be hawk-dark, or eagle-gold, but instead they were pale, almost colorless, matching and blending into her white face and wintry hair, They fixed upon the Mage with unnerving regard.

“Well? I asked you a question. How came you to pass Death’s portal, and survive?”

In the face of the Cailleach’s impatience, Anvar scrambled together his scattered wits. He bowed low before he answered. “Madam, the answer to your question I think you know already, Did you not search through all the contents of my mind, while I was captivated by your image in the tunnel?”

“Captivated, eh?” The moonstone eyes held a gleam of approval—and something more. “As well as being perceptive, you have a clever way with words, young Wizard. And you are right, of course. Otherwise, I might have thought you had come to relieve my lonely exile.” Her brief smile was cut off before it could reach her eyes, and her expression grew cold. “As it is, I am well aware that you have come to steal the Harp from me.”

“Steal, Madam?” Anvar strove to keep his fear from showing on his face. “That is harsh. I had hoped, yes, to persuade you to give it to me. It was made by Magefolk in the mundane world, and there it truly belongs. I desperately need to take it back with me, to save my world from evil.”

“What, all by yourself? Are you some mighty hero, then, all set to save your world?” There was no disguising the mockery in her tone.

Anvar, almost stung to making some rash retort, controlled himself just in time. It would not do to forget how powerful, how dangerous, this creature truly was. “Not a hero,” he told the Cailleach. “I never wanted this—any of it—except my powers, and Aurian. Especially Aurian. But it’s better than using the Harp for destruction, is it not? It’s better than letting such a thing of wonder molder here, unloved and unused, far from the world of its creation. Even now, I hear it, calling out to me like a lost child, begging me to take it home.” As he uttered those last words, he realized that they were the truth. The thrilling starsong had not died with the bridge, but still murmured softly, somewhere in the back of his mind. But now the music carried words: half comprehended yet coming clearer all the time.

The Cailleach raised an eyebrow. “The Harp sings to you?”

But Anvar heard the tremor of doubt behind her mocking tones, saw her eyes flick away, infinitesimally, before coming back to pierce him. And yes, the Harp was singing to him, with the crystal starry music of the bridge, from the hinterland beyond his consciousness. And it told him how to answer her. “Of course it sings to me. You know it does. Who kept the waves of the lake from harming me? Who built the bridge of stars to bring me here? At first I thought that was your doing, but now I know better.” Anvar lifted his head, and looked her in the eye. His glance flicked across the Cailleach’s pitiless raptor’s gaze, and they clashed like two slender blades of steel. The Lady was the first to look away. When she looked back, she was smiling.

No trace of the crone, now. No trace of the eagle. Her face was flawless, youthful, and alluring. Beautiful. Irresistible. Anvar’s heart beat faster. “Fool,” sang the Harp, in the back of his mind. “Dupe. Beware deception ...” Just as the power of the Staff of Earth had a distinctly masculine aspect, the tone of the Harp felt indisputably feminine.

“Where are you?” the Mage called back to it, using mind-speech. “How can I find you?”

“Within. Within ...”

Anvar grinned up at the Cailleach. “Why don’t you invite me inside?” In her eyes, he surprised a flash of victory. She beckoned him up the curving staircase, and as he entered the numinous golden glow beyond the portal, he heard the door spring shut behind him like the steel jaws of a trap.

The golden light was much brighter inside. It dazzled his eyes, burned into his brain. It was like falling into the heart of the sun. Anvar staggered forward, blind, dazed, disoriented. He heard the triumphant cackle of an old hag’s laughter—or was it the harsh cry of a bird of prey? Arms twined around his neck, pulling him down; clawed nails like talons impaled his skin. An undulating body clung to him, pressing against his flesh. Moist lips fastened on his mouth, sucking at his breath, drawing the life-force from his body. Anvar struggled, fighting for breath, drowning in the tidal wave of the creature’s lust . . .

“The Staff, fool! Use the Staff, before she takes it from you!.” The song of the Harp cut shrill across his reeling consciousness. Such was its power that Anvar obeyed instinctively. He lifted his right hand, and brought the Staff of Earth crashing down upon the head of the clinging succubus.

The vampire lover vanished. The air was split asunder by a hideous shriek, as the world plunged into blackness.