Harp of Winds

3 Raven’s Fall

Within the pine-scented shelter of the fallen tree, Aurian rested against a pillow of packs and folded blankets. Shia dozed beside her, her lacerated feet covered in salve and swathed in rags. She purred in her sleep as she lay with her head in Aurian’s lap. Anvar was curled on the Mage’s other side, his dazzling blue eyes closed in the profound sleep of pure exhaustion. His fine, dark-blond hair, lightened and sun-streaked now from their trip through the desert, had fallen across his face, moving lightly in time with his breathing. He deserved his rest, Aurian thought. He had saved their lives when Eliseth attacked, and for a half-trained Mage, he had acquitted himself admirably.

Aurian’s thoughts shrank from the fact that Anvar’s devotion was based on feelings far deeper than friendship. The memory of Forral was still too strong. Yet she had chosen to stay with Anvar, rather than follow the shade of her murdered lover into death . . . Aurian shook her head as if to jolt away the pang of guilt that accompanied the thought, but there was affection in her gaze as she gently brushed the errant strands of hair from Anvar’s face, and pulled up the blanket that had slipped from his shoulders.

Aurian’s unborn child moved restlessly, disturbed by his mother’s unease, and the Mage reached out with her thoughts to reassure Forral’s son.

“Do you never rest?” Shia’s mental voice was tart, but Aurian heard an underlying note of concern. The cat regarded her gravely with an unblinking yellow gaze. “Aurian—why must you burden yourself so? The cub has a claim on you, true; but that other who concerns you is dead, and beyond your help.” As Aurian flinched from her blunt words, Shia’s tone softened, carrying an echo of what the Mage had come to recognize as a smile. “As for Anvar—you need not worry about him. The strength in him is growing all the time. He will wait.”

“I never asked him to wait for me!” Aurian objected.

Shia’s projected thoughts held the equivalent of a shrug. “He will wait—whether you ask him or not.”

Aurian dozed again, and was awakened by the delectable aromas of roasting meat. Anvar was already up and about, helping Nereni finish the preparations for her feast. The little woman had been working all afternoon, having sent Bohan and Eliizar out into the forest to find tubers to bake in the ashes of her fire, and berries and greens to go with the venison she had prepared. Yazour, having seen what was coming, had promptly volunteered to go fishing. He returned near suppertime, whistling and empty-handed, to a scolding from Nereni. “What could I do?” he protested innocently. “They were simply not biting.”

Aurian exchanged a grin with Anvar at the success of the warrior’s ploy. How good it was to have their group all safely back together again! Then suddenly it hit her. Something had been nagging at her—and now she realized what exhaustion and the joy of the reunion had put out of her mind. “Where on earth is Raven?” she asked.

“Raven keeps wandering off to hunt in the forest,” Nereni replied. “She brings back birds and such, but I worry so! What if she should meet a wild beast?”

“You worry too much,” Eliizar told his wife. “If a wolf or a bear should come, she has only to fly away]”

“That’s true,” Aurian agreed—but nonetheless, she wondered at Raven’s solitary behavior.

Raven perched awkwardly among the spiny branches of a fir, watching twilight steal through the dark and tangled trees. In the north, the high peaks were still gilded with the fiery light of sunset, and the winged girl scowled at the sight. Accustomed to the long days of her mountain home, she could never get used to the fact that the light faded so early from these wretched lowlands,

The winged girl blinked back tears of frustration. It was not her kind of hunting—skulking in a smother of trees. She missed the vast arena of the open skies; her joy was in the speed and skill of the chase. Back in Aerillia, her lost home, she had hunted for sport, releasing her feathered prey to sing and soar in peace, She had never known, then, what it was to be hunted herself—to live as an exile without shelter; to be ruled by the demands of an empty belly. Now she knew—only too well.

Raven cursed Blacktalon, who had forced her to flee in terror from her rightful place as Princess of the Winged Folk. He had to be stopped—and by the Sky-God Yinze, she meant to do it. If her companions of the desert had failed her, at least she’d found one who would not. At the thought of Harihn, she suppressed a shiver of guilt. Skyfolk mated for life, and her people would revile what she had done—with a human. But he’d been so good to her ... At the thought of him, her grim mood softened. She would show the others! Aurian, who would not listen to her plea for help—and Anvar, of whom she’d had better hopes . . .

It was a sore point, but Raven forced the thought away as her growling belly reminded her to concentrate on the hunt. Waiting with wary patience, she weighed a stone in her hand as she tried to peer through the layer of ground mist that accompanied the forest dusk. There was a rustle in the bushes, followed by a harsh cry ... Raven hurled her stone. In a blur of wings the pheasant broke cover and she launched after it with the clean swift grace of a hawk. Swooping on the bird, she grabbed it in an explosion of feathers and, with a practiced jerk, broke its neck in midair.

“Well caught, my Jewell” The voice came low but clear, from a gap in the trees below. Raven’s blood sang in her veins. Harihn had come at last! Glowing with excitement, she turned in a breathtaking sideslip to angle down through the narrow slot between the tangled boughs. It had been days since she’d seen Harihn, and it had been so lonely without him! Her wings stirring the mist in gossamer swirls, Raven, panting from the exhilaration of the chase, swept down to meet her lover.

Harihn emerged cursing from the bushes and ran his hands through his tangled hair, dislodging leaves and bits of twig. This clearing was so well hidden that only the winged girl could reach it with Dusk had fallen sooner than he had expected, and he’d been forced to blunder his way from his camp in near-darkness. By the Reaper, this had better be worth it, he thought.

“Harihn?” There was a rustle above his head, and a creak of branches—then Raven landed beside him. The prince of the Khazalim hesitated, torn as always between awareness of her oddly alien beauty and revulsion at the thought of coupling with a creature that was not human. Then the Voice was in his mind, spurring him on impatiently, “Get on with it, she suspects!”

Harihn moaned, fighting the quick surge of his blood as his treacherous body succumbed to his rising desire. It was always the same, ever since he had begun her seduction at the prompting of the Voice that had probed his mind on the day he had entered the forest. Sometimes, he wondered if he’d been right to trust the Voice—but it had offered him what he wanted: power to gain his father’s throne, and revenge on Anvar for corrupting the loyalty of Aurian, who could have brought him power, and so much more.

“Come, what’s wrong with you? Take her, if it’s what she wants!.” the Voice snapped. “We need her cooperation!”

To Harihn’s horror, he felt himself taking an unintentional step forward; his limbs moving of their own volition as the intruder took control.

Raven looked at her lover, hesitating. Harihn seemed strange tonight. His curling black hair was bedewed with silver droplets, turning him gray before his time. He looked as though he had aged, she thought. His gentle features were hard-etched; as though an older, harsher face had been laid over his own. His eyes blazed into her own, and for the first time, she felt a pang of fear.

“It’s time,” Harihn grated. Just that—no smile, or kiss, or word of welcome. Before Raven could move he grabbed her, one foot hooking her ankle, tripping her to the ground, trapping her with his weight. Feathers flew like black snow as her wings caught in the bushes. He tore at her tunic, stopping her protests with bruising kisses, his hands mauling her breasts. His knee was between her legs, thrusting them roughly apart.

“Harihn—no!” Raven gasped.

Cursing her, he drew back his hand, and her cheeks flamed as he slapped her into silence. Tears leaked down her temples, ran cold into the tangled cloud of her hair.

Hard and urgent, he thrust himself inside her, and Raven hissed with pain. “No!” she shrieked, hurling curses in the Skyfolk tongue. Her nails, like talons, raked him, snatching at his eyes.

Harihn flinched aside, deep gashes scarring his cheeks. “Savage!” he spat. His blood dripped hot on her face as he kissed her again, more gently. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “We were so long apart, and you are so beautiful ...”

His hand squeezed between their bodies, slipped between her legs—Raven whimpered with pleasure and arched against him. “I hate you,” she gasped. “I hate you,” she chanted over and over, to the quickening rhythm of their thrusting. “Ill kill you! Oh!” Her talons gouged him as they climaxed, ripping his robe and scoring the skin of his back. They rolled apart stickily; filthy, bleeding, and bruised; gasping for breath. Harihn blinked, as though emerging from a dream. Raven watched through her eyelashes as he reached out to brush away the sweaty tangles of hair that clung to her cheeks. He kissed her bruised face, his breath tickling her damp skin. “Poor child—can you forgive me?” he murmured.

Raven, in the aftermath of the passion that had seized her at the last, simply nodded. He had changed, just in time—as if, for a while, he’d been someone else—and the real Harihn had returned to save her from humiliation. She was thankful for that. Little did he know, the Princess thought, that she was forced to forgive him. Skyfolk mated for life, and now she was committed.

A shiver ran through her, but Raven was not a princess for nothing. She touched the scratches on Harihn’s face, with a little curling smile of smugness as he flinched. “I paid you back,” she told him, and the shadow cleared from his eyes.

“Vixen!” he muttered.

“It serves you right!” It was one of Nereni’s phrases, and at the reminder, Raven shot bolt upright. “Yinze on a treetop! Nereni expected me long ago!”

Harihn’s smile switched off. Like the sun passing through a cloud it reappeared—but more sinister, now. As it had been at the start, when he had taken her so violently . . . Raven flexed her talons, but Harihn made no move toward her.

“I have a surprise for you, Princess,” he told her. “The Mages have come safe from the desert, and Nereni plans to celebrate with a feast.”

“A feast?” Raven cried. “While my kingdom goes to wrack and ruin, and not one of them will lift a finger to help me-”

“Hush.” Harihn kissed her into silence. By the Reaper, what a credulous fool she was! “You have no need of them, my jewel, for our time is ripe. You know I have a powerful ally. If we help him capture Aurian and Anvar, he will give you whatever assistance you need to recover your kingdom.”

“I hope so. I’ve had precious little help from the others.” The winged girl’s voice betrayed her bitterness, and in the darkness, Harihn smiled. It was so easy to manipulate her! “Persuade your companions to head into the mountains and make for the Tower of Incondor, the ancient watch post of your people,” he told her. “If they reach it before Aurian regains her powers, they can easily be ambushed by my folk.”

Raven thought of Nereni, and hesitated. “Harihn—you promise they won’t be harmed?”

“My dearest one, you have my word.” The darkness hid the lie in Harihn’s face. Nereni’s husband had betrayed him—as had that renegade Yazour, and the eunuch Bohan. They all deserved to perish, and Nereni with them. Harihn smiled at the thought. Unable to resist the idea of taking her again, he stroked her hair and bent to capture her lips once more.

Later, as he groped his way back to his camp, Harihn was still smiling, while Raven struck out for home, flying high over the trees as the mountains faded into night.

Within a short time, the Prince had stirred his camp into a frenzy of activity. “My remaining warriors leave tonight for the north, where I will join them shortly,” he told his household folk. “In my absence, you must stay here and amass supplies for us. Winged folk will come to take what you have gathered.” His people, startled by this sudden change of plans, eyed their prince warily, whispering behind his back. He had never been the same since he had entered this forest, and sometimes they had even caught him talking to himself, when he thought he was unobserved. And as for his association with the winged creatures—that went far beyond the pale of decency!

Harihn’s behavior had been growing ever more bizarre. Soon after their arrival in the forest, he had sent most of his warriors, their horses laden with supplies, away north with a winged warrior as a guide, leaving his folk with only a token guard—and now he planned to abandon them completely! But they were Khazalim, schooled in subservience to authority; and Harihn was their prince. He had promised to return for them, and with that they must be content. Harihn’s people sighed—but they obeyed.

The Xandim had never been a race that attached importance to roofs and walls. It had been fortunate, Chiamh thought, that folk so lacking in the skills of construction had round a ready-made stronghold. No one knew who had built it; the Windeye’s Grandam had attributed it to the ancient race of Powerful Ones, from across the sea. Chiamh doubted that—though its creators must have wielded incredible power, for the fastness had survived the depredations of time, and not surprisingly. It would take more than passing centuries to humble such a solid construct.

Set in a deep embayment in the cliff, the fastness was a solid, massive keep extending out of the towering curtains of stone that were part of the Wyndveil. The building formed a hollow square around a courtyard, with the main living areas backing on to the cliff. Though the fortress seemed impressively large, its size was deceptive, for the building had been extended back into the cliff itself, with mile on mile of corridors and chambers hollowed out of the mountain. In times of need, the fastness was large enough to accommodate the entire Xandim race—but its size was not its most staggering feature. The entire edifice, both inside and out—had been formed from a single stone!

The green slope below the fortress was scattered with other, lesser buildings. With their outlines softened by growths of green, cushiony moss and gold and silver lichens, they looked from the outside like rough-sculpted rocks that had fallen from the cliff above. Their appearance, however, was deceptive. Chiamh’s investigations had proved that the structures were not boulders at all. They extended underground and seemed, like the fastness, to be outgrowths of the mountain bedrock. Each of them had a small, square door, and a hole in its top to admit light and allow smoke from the hearth to escape. Still more astonishing were the interiors, for the walls and floor were raised and ridged to form beds, shelves, and benches. Like the fastness, their origin was a mystery, but the Xandim accepted these structures as part of the landscape. Unless the weather was extreme, they rarely bothered with these ready-made homes.

The Xandim were a hardy, active outdoor folk who preferred the freedom of temporary shelters in the sweeping foothills or the open plains to fixed settlements and walls of stone. As humans they hunted, fished, gathered, and traded—when in equine shape, their food grew in abundance around them. They had a basic written language of signs, but rarely bothered with such niceties. Instead they told stories, the taller the better, and sang many songs. Their history was simply passed down by word of mouth, much to Chiamh’s frustration. He was certain that most of it was muddled, and much was missing.

The Windeye arrived, soaked, bruised, and gasping for breath, at the massive, arching gate of the fortress. The building gave him a feeling or unease, as though unseen eyes watched him from under its eaves. He looked nervously up at its looming structure. The unusual silver veining in the rough brown stone gleamed softly in the afterglow of dusk, and in the deceptive ghostlight, the towers and windows, balconies and buttresses of the building’s fascia seemed to suggest, to Chiamh’s imperfect vision, the dignified lineaments of a craggy old face. For the first time, he wondered why he had never thought of viewing the fastness with his Othersight. The Goddess only knew what such a seeing might reveal—but there was no time now for such frivolous experiments.

First, he needed news of the outland prisoners. Had they arrived yet? His visions were accurate as to context, but they could be confusing and uncertain where time was concerned. And although he was the Windeye, Chiamh lacked sufficient standing with the Herdlord to enter the dungeons. The rescue of the strangers must be contrived after their trial, when they could be reached.

Besides, the Windeye wanted to know more about them, before he committed himself further. Luckily, there was a way to find out what he needed—so long as the strangers were already there.

It was time for the change of sentries—an informal business at best, for the independent Xandim took badly to formality and regimentation. Chiamh sighed. What a time to arrive, when he would have twice as many guards to deal with! As he approached the sentries, Chiamh recognized the ranking officer as Galdras, a muscle-bound idiot whose head was thicker than the stone of the fastness, and his heart sank. Lacking intelligence and imagination, Galdras found great sport in mocking the nearsighted Windeye. But the guards had already seen him, and he had no option but to go on. Doing his best to assume the dignity of his station, the Windeye straightened his shoulders and walked up to the group of warriors who stood gossiping at the gate.

As Chiamh had expected, the mockery started before he had even reached the top of the steps.

“Come out of your hole, have you, little mole?” Galdras jeered, earning a laugh from his companions. Chiamh clenched his teeth. “Let me pass,” he said softly, “I have urgent business within.”

“Oh! The Windeye has urgent business within! What is it, Chiamh—have you come for your laundry, by any chance?”

Chiamh ignored the sniggers as the guards mocked his appearance, filthy and tattered after his headlong, tumbling rush down the mountain. Cursing the blush that heated his cheeks, the Windeye lifted his chin and marched determinedly inside—and fell flat on his face on the threshold, his legs entangled in the butt of a spear.

“Oops—sorry, Great One,” Galdras snickered. His eyes grew wide with feigned terror. “Please don’t turn me into a horrible beast!”

The Windeye picked himself up, rubbing the knee he’d cracked on the edge of the stone steps as the guards howled with laughter. Chiamh’s face burned. His only thought was of escape, before his tormentors baited him further.

“Do you intend to let them get away with that?”

Chiamh whirled, seeking the voice that had whispered in his ear. The guards were convulsed with laughter—surely it had not been one of them? The voice had sounded much deeper—older, somehow, than their sneering tones. Galdras had noticed his hesitation. “Yes?” The word was an open challenge. “Did you want something, Chiamh? Directions to the bathing rooms, perhaps?” Putting his nose in the air, he held it between his fingers, and his appreciative audience laughed all the harder.

“Face them, you fool. If you walk away from this, they will torment you for the rest of your days!”

Goddess, thought Chiamh, only the mad hear voices! He tried to flee into the fastness, but as his foot touched the threshold—

“GET BACK THERE AND DEAL WITH THIS!”

It was no whisper this time—the roar nearly knocked him off his feet. Surely the guards had heard—but no. They were still holding their noses and making stupid jokes. Suddenly Chiamh had had enough. Wherever the voice had come from, it was right! Though the storm had faltered, the wind was still gusting round the corner of the building—there was more than enough for his needs. Chiamh’s vision glazed and then cleared as he summoned his Othersight. Seizing a great double handful of the shimmering wind, he twisted it into the form of a hideous, slavering demon—and flung it into the faces of the jeering guards.

Galdras fell to his knees screaming. Some men drew their weapons, their faces slack with fear, while others tried to flee—but were trapped in the corner of the great stone bastion at the side of the door. Chiamh laughed. Before the howls of the guards could draw the attention of those within the fortress, he gathered the vision back to himself—and flinging his hands wide, freed and scattered the winds, dispersing the demon.

The guards picked themselves up slowly, their faces an ugly mix of anger, resentment, and humiliation. By the stench, more than one had soiled himself. The Windeye chuckled. “Perhaps you should direct yourselves to the bathing rooms,” he said brightly, and went inside.

The Othersight left Chiamh as he entered the fastness—and with it went his heady sense of triumph. His revenge had been sweet and well merited, but its aftermath left him with a sinking sense of shame. I was not given my powers to abuse them, he thought, remembering the fear and hate on the faces of the guards. I may have taught them not to mock me, but I made no friends today

“Nonsense, Little Seer. They were not your friends, am never would have been. They feared your powers and so they mocked you—but today you taught them to respect you, which is all to the good!”

“Who are you?” Chiamh cried, drawing curious glances from passers-by within the corridors of the fastness. There was no reply—already he had learned not expect one. “I’ll get to the bottom of this,” he mutter “if it’s the last thing I do!” But this was not the time indulge his curiosity. First, and more importantly, Windeye had to find the prisoners! Chiamh looked around the entrance chamber of fortress, and shuddered. Goddess, how he hated the place! His body was damp with the clammy sweat of fear. As always, he was aware of the tremendous mass a stone surrounding him, which left him feeling stifled and crushed. As he stumbled along half blind, he felt lost and insecure—for bereft of the winds in this enclosed stone tomb, Chiamh was forced to depend on his wretched imperfect eyesight.

In happier times, the torchlit corridors of the fastness would be almost deserted. Even the Herdlord spent little time within, and most of the Xandim progressed from, birth to death without ever setting foot in the place. The edifice was guarded by warriors who took it in turns, for no one wanted to be stuck here permanently, and that was all. Now, however, the sinister winter that locked the land had altered the place beyond recognition, the Xandim had brought their most vulnerable kin—young, the sick, and the aged—to shelter within stout protective walls.

Children were everywhere, their noise almost deafening in the constricted passages as they played underfoot in the corridors, hurtling past Chiamh like screeching projectiles. Grandsires and grandams, dragging bags and bundles of belongings that turned the passages into a maze of obstacles, raised their voices in querulous protest against the youngsters, and did nothing but augment the din.

The news that foreigners had been caught in Xandim lands had spread like wildfire, arousing great curiosity. In addition to those who sheltered within the fastness, many others had come in the hope of seeing the strangers, and to witness the trial that would take place on the morrow. Through overheard snatches of talk, Chiamh discovered that the outlanders had already been brought here, and imprisoned in the dungeons to await the Herdlord’s justice. It was with a tremendous sense of relief that Chiamh finally reached his chambers, after several false and confusing turns. He stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the musty odor. His rooms had not been cleaned since his last visit, several moons ago. His feet smeared trails in the dust that coated the floor, and the Windeye sneezed, and sighed. This would never have happened to his Grandam. Her chambers had been in the outer part of the keep, where there were windows to let in sweet breezes and the cheerful light of day. He, Chiamh, was forced to content himself with this obscure rat hole deep within the bowels of the cliff, but ... The Windeye allowed himself a smile. At least this chamber was conveniently close to the dungeons—and right now, that was exactly what he needed. Once he contacted the prisoners, he might find out at last their connection with the Bright Powers—and also, he hoped, some clue as to the part of Schiannath the Outcast in what was to come.

The Windeye remembered with shame his part in the exile of the warrior and his sister. When Schiannath’s challenge had failed, he had been cast out, according to tradition—but Iscalda, devoted to her brother, had insisted on joining him. Chiamh had been forced to use his powers to erase both their names from the wind—and (supposedly) from the memory of the tribe. The Herdlord had added a cruel twist to the punishment of Iscalda, his betrothed who had abandoned him out of loyalty to her brother. There was an ancient spell, passed from Windeye to Windeye, that could prevent the change from horse back to human, trapping the victim in its equine body. The Herdlord, wild with rage at her defiance, had insisted that this binding be placed on Iscalda.

Chiamh tore his thoughts from the memory. Though the deed had been forced upon him by the Herdlord, what he had done still filled him with shame. But dwelling on it would not bring him any nearer his goal of finding the prisoners! Chiamh walked over to the wall and ran his hands over the stone, seeking a crack in the smooth surface. Though the building was made from a single, seamless rock, these chinks were everywhere. The Windeye suspected that the fastness was ventilated through these tiny gaps that honeycombed the stonework. His nearsighted vision was little use to him, but over the years, his hands had developed an uncanny sensitivity to the air currents that were the tools of his power—he only had to find the slightest draft—

Once again, the Windeye felt the familiar melting coolness as his Othersight took over. This time, so intent was he on his work that he never thought to be afraid. Ah, now he had it! He could see the draft—a tiny, curling slip of silver . , , Chiamh poured the mystic aware-of his Othersight into the moving thread of air, and began to follow it, his consciousness leaving his body to slip like an eel through the tiny chink in the stone, following the stream of air through a labyrinth of minuscule passages.

Chiamh crept slowly forward, feeling his way blindly through tiny fissures in the rock. He followed the minute changes in the flow, moving always toward the noisome and damp. At last, after several false that led him to chambers and cells, his patience was rewarded. He felt a tingling sensation, as the air around him vibrated with the odd burr of voices

in a foreign tongue. Triumphant, the Windeye slipped his consciousness through a chink in the rock—and found himself in the deepest part of the dungeons, confronting the outlanders of his Vision.

Back and forth, back and forth, Meiriel paced the narrow limits of her cell. There was no light—they had put her here, condemned her to the torture of endless darkness in this subterranean tomb with its door that was locked and barred with magic. Them, Eliseth and Bragar. The Healer clenched her fists until the nails cut into her palm, and a bubbling snarl came from deep within her throat. They held the power now—they and the blind, twisted creature that had murdered Finbarr.

Meiriel’s lips stretched back in a feral snarl. “I know you, Miathan,” she hissed. “You cannot deceive me I see everything, down here in the dark. I see you writhe in the agony of those black charred pits in your head—the blacker pits in your soul! I see the child in Aurian’s womb—the monster you created—the demon that I must destroy . . .

During a wild and eventful lifetime, the Cavalrymaster had discovered that all prisons look very much alike. Parric, no stranger to the cells of the Garrison in his younger days, might have been transported back in time by the damp stone walls; the smoldering, smoking torch; the verminous, fetid straw in the comer. But thanks be to the Gods, they were all together! Had he been imprisoned alone, and left to contemplate the fate of his companions, he might have given way to his fear. As it was, he could look at the others for the first time in days, though the sight was not reassuring. Sangra’s face was blotched with dirt and bruises; she looked resolute but grim in the dim light. Elewin, his eyes dark circled, was coughing blood. And Meiriel—Gods, if only she would stop that endless pacing! She was muttering about death and darkness, her expression fell and fey with madness. Now, Parric was angry. More than that, he was furious and frustrated. He forgot his own peril—he only saw his companions, and how they suffered.

“Let me out of here!” The Cavalrymaster hammered on the unyielding door. “Curse you, let me talk to someone!” He spun, and rounded on Meiriel. “You speak their language! Tell them, you bitch! Tell them we aren’t their enemies!”

“Are you not?” The voice was soft and elusive—and it seemed to come from everywhere.

“Great Chathak!” Sangra breathed. “Is that real?”

Parric gaped. The dungeon, already chill, had turned suddenly colder. Wind blew through the cell, clearing away the noisome damp. There, in the corner, stood a young man, perfectly ordinary—except that the Cavalry-master could see, quite clearly, the guttering torch and rough stone walls of the prison—right through his body.

Parric stepped back, his scalp crawling, his mouth gone dry. A ghost? Normally the Cavalrymaster would have scoffed at such nonsense—but after living through the Night of the Wraiths in Nexis, his belief in the Unseen had altered. His bowels tightened, and chills chased across his flesh. He found himself reaching reflexively for the sword that had been taken from him by his captors.

“Who are the Bright Powers?” the apparition demanded and Parric was puzzled, for the words seemed to be in his own Northern tongue. Yet, watching the Ups of the spectral figure, it was quite clear that it was speaking another language. Parric frowned. It seemed as though the words, on leaving the lips of the ghost, were somehow twisting themselves in the air, to come to his own ears in a form he could understand. The apparition was still speaking, however, and Parric forced his attention away from the mystery in order to concentrate on what was being said,

“I must know!” the specter insisted. “Who are the Evil Ones, who ride the North Winds with winter in their train?”

“The Archmage Miathan is evil.”

Parric was relieved that Meiriel had snapped sufficiently back to reality to speak up at last. The supernatural was the province of the Magefolk—and an answer was more than he could have managed, in that moment.

The apparition frowned. “What is the Archmage Miathan?”

The Cavalrymaster was glad to leave it to Meiriel to explain the Archmage. Unfortunately, the ghost seemed scarcely satisfied by her rambling account of Miathan’s perfidy.

“Explain!” it demanded. “You have spoken of the Dark Ones, but what of the Bright Powers? Who are the Bright Ones, whom you have come to assist?”

“I don’t know about any Bright Ones, but I’ve come looking for the Lady Aurian.” Finally, Parric found his voice. He looked to Elewin for assistance, but the old man was too far gone in fever to reply. The Cavalrymaster was forced to take on the burden of the tale himself, but it wasn’t easy. He found himself prey to a growing sense of unreality as he sat in a dungeon in a foreign land, telling a ghost of his friendship with Forral, and Aurian, who was carrying Forral’ s child when the Commander was murdered by Miathan. Stumbling over his words, he told how Aurian and her servant Anvar had fled Nexis, and were thought to be here in the South. Finally, he told the ghost how he and Vannor had formed their band of rebels—and how he had left them to undertake this rash, impulsive quest to find Aurian. When he had finished, Sangra spoke. “Now we’ve answered your questions, what about answering ours? Who are you? How can you walk through walls? Why—” But the ghost had vanished,

As Chiamh made his way back to his chambers, following the fresher currents of air through the crevices in the stone, his mind was awhirl with excitement. Though he still had gained no clue as to Schiannath’s part in this business, he had finally heard most of what he wanted. The Dark Powers, the Bright Ones—at last, all had been made clear, and he knew now, more than ever, that he had to rescue these strangers from his own people. But how . . .

Lost in thought, the Windeye was not concentrating on what he was doing. Engrossed in a series of plans of increasing complexity and impracticality, it took him some time to realize that he should have returned to his chambers long ago. Chiamh came out of his reverie with a jolt—to discover that he was utterly lost in the trackless labyrinth of crevices within the body of the fastness. He had no idea where he was—and no means of returning to his body.