Harp of Winds

5 Soul of the Stone

There was no denying that Nereni’s feast was a good one. As usual, she had worked wonders with the materials at hand. The succulent venison was flavored with herbs. There was a stew with a tantalizing aroma that, to everyone’s astonishment, turned out to be wild goat cooked with mosses and the bulbs of certain flowers. Bohan had come back from foraging, his round face blotched and swollen with stings, clutching a parcel of honeycomb wrapped in leaves. He had also brought several impressively large trout with him, earning Yazour a hard look from Eliizar’s wife, “So they weren’t biting, eh?” she accused the young warrior.

Luckily for Yazour, Raven returned at that precise moment, her wings stirring up clouds of smoke and ash from the fire and raising twin whirls of dust and pine needles as she landed. Nereni’s wail of anguish for the ruination of the food was cut short when she saw the state in which the winged girl, her special pet, had returned. “Raven! Reaper save us, what happened?”

She rushed to assist the Princess, who thrust her gently aside, and turned to the Mages with a smile. “By Yinze, I am glad to see you!” she said simply.

“Raven, what happened? Did you fly into a tree?”

The winged girl faced the penetrating gaze of the Mage, and warned herself to be on her guard. On the way back, she had cleaned herself as best she could in a forest stream, but Raven had known that there would be consternation at her bruised and tattered appearance. How fortunate it was that Aurian’s words had given her the very cue she needed!

“How perceptive you are,” she replied, with a rueful grin. “When Nereni warned me about flying after dark, I should have listened! Game was scarce—” She held up her solitary, mangled pheasant. “I misjudged the swiftness of nightfall—then flew, as you guessed, right into a tree!”

As Raven had hoped, any further explanations were cut short by Nereni’s fussing with hot water and salves, and fresh clothing. The winged girl smiled inwardly at her own subterfuge. You have no idea how glad I am at your return, Aurian, she thought, over the cheerful babble of greetings—for now I can put my own plans into motion! As the companions ate, the talk turned inevitably to the future, and Eliizar began to enlarge on his plans to build a more elaborate camp in a better site that Yazour had discovered. Aurian was listening carefully. Anvar knew that now she had rested and eaten, the restless mind would already be planning the next step in her journey,

“You have some good ideas,” Aurian told Eliizar,

“Though I hate the delay, we must make preparations before heading up the mountains. The horses must be rested for one thing—we’re short of mounts since Anvar and I lost ours in the sandstorm. And apart from finding some way to make warmer clothing, we must lay in a stock of food—”

“Surely there is no rush, Aurian,” Nereni interrupted. “How can we travel further until your child is born?”

“What?” Aurian stared at her in dismay. Anvar, watching, held his breath.

“Did you not think of that?” Nereni looked shocked. “Aurian, how can you set out now? Do you want the little mite to be delivered in the midst of a snowdrift?” She lowered her voice persuasively. “It’s less than three moons now—surely you can wait, for the sake of the child?”

Aurian turned very pale, and Anvar, watching her as he always did, felt his heart go out to her. Nereni’s words about the risk to her child had struck her deeply, Gods, they had only just survived the desert, and now this. Must we always be so driven? he thought. He understood her urgent need to take the fight to the Archmage, but the child was her last link with Forral, Anvar looked around the firelit circle, Yazour and Eliizar were nodding in agreement with Nereni, Only Bohan, always faithful to his beloved Aurian, looked unhappy and torn. Only Bohan—and himself. Aurian, as though reading his mind, turned troubled eyes to him. “Miathan knows where we are,” she said. He heard the uncertainty in her voice, “He may attack us here ...”

“He may, it’s true.” Remembering their last confrontation with the Archmage, Anvar found it difficult to keep a level voice. “But so far we’ve managed, and it’s a question of weighing the risks. If you attempt those mountains now, you’ll certainly endanger the child.” He bit his lip and looked away, struggling with his own conscience. “I want to advise you to wait, but with every day that passes, Miathan’s advantage grows. I’ll help you in any way I can, Aurian, but in the end, this must be your decision. You know I’ll support you, whatever you decide.”

From his vantage point beyond the Well of Souls, Forral was grinding his teeth with frustration. That stupid lad was going about this the wrong way “Why don’t you help her?” he muttered. “If only I had been there, I would have ...”

Forral hesitated. Just what would he have said to Aurian? Poor lass—how torn she must be, between the need to protect her child, and the urge to hurry north to deal with Miathan’s depredations.

Forral, as a soldier, knew all about duty. But the one thing he hadn’t bargained on was the fierce, protective love of a parent for a child—even one as yet unborn. Suddenly, the swordsman was shamefully glad that the decision was out of his hands. But what would Aurian decide? He peered into the Well once more, anxiously scanning the forest for a sight of his love.

Aurian hesitated, looking unhappy and grievously undecided. The winged girl, sensing that the moment was slipping away, knew she must act quickly. “Aurian,” She leaned over and touched the Mage to gain her attention, “It would be safer to leave as soon as we can.!!

“What do you mean?” Aurian swung around, scowling.

Raven took a deep breath. She had agreed with Harihn only to use this information if all else failed, but seemingly, she had no choice, “I discovered something today, while I was out hunting,” she told her. “Harihn and his folk are camped here too, on the northwestern edge of the forest,”

“What?” Aurian cried in dismay, “Harihn is here? How do you know that for sure? You’ve never seen him,”

“It must be the Prince,” the winged girl replied hastily, “They were wearing similar clothing to you—and who else could it be?”

Anvar cursed, “Why the bloody blazes didn’t you tell us this before? If Harihn should find us—”

“But he may not she put in hopefully.

Anvar grimaced, “I wouldn’t care to count on it, Dear Gods, what a mess! Aurian and her child will be at risk in the mountains, yet we’re all in danger if we stay here?”

This was Raven’s moment! “Anvar,” she said persuasively, “it may not be so bad as you think. There is a place in the mountains, a watchtower built by my folk long ago, to mark the far boundaries of their kingdom. From here it should be

. . .” She shrugged. “Some fifteen to twenty days’ travel on the ground, I would guess. The building is secure and sturdy. We would be safe from attack and from the elements, and there is a coppice nearby for firewood. If we could get as far as that, then surely it would be a safer place than the forest for Aurian to have her child?”

As she saw the hope that brightened Aurian’s eyes, Raven’s guilt almost choked her. Think of Harihn, she told herself. Think of your people! But to look the Mages in the eye and answer their questions calmly, knowing all the while that she was betraying them, was the hardest thing that Raven had ever done.

“What would we do about food?” Aurian asked her.

The winged girl shrugged, glad that she and Harihn had thought out these problems in advance. “There must still be some hunting in the mountains—ptarmigan, goats, winter hares and such. But for the journey, and for settling in, we must take all we can carry from this place. We can leave a cache of food here in the forest, and if we run short, or there is no game to hunt after all, I can easily fly back for more.”

“And think,” Nereni added, “how good it would be for Aurian to have sheltering walls around her when she comes to bear her child.”

Aurian nodded, “Oh, I don’t disagree. The problem is, what shall we do for mounts? Anvar and I lost ours in the desert, and if we want to take enough food to last us, we’ll need a packhorse or two besides.”

Everyone looked at one another. Just as Raven was beginning to wonder if she’d have to suggest everything herself, Yazour came to her rescue. “We could always/! he said, with a wicked twinkle in his “steal from Harihn. Not now,” he added, forestalling their protests, “The last thing we want is the Prince’s men combing the forest for missing horses! But could we not do it when we are about to leave, with Raven and Shia to scout for us?”

Aurian grinned. “Well done, Yazour!” She turned to the winged girl. “Raven, you have my heartfelt thanks.”

It was late when everyone went to bed. Because of Harihn, there were watches to be organized, though Eliizar insisted that Yazour, Bohan, and himself would undertake them, to allow Aurian and Anvar a good night’s sleep after their trials in the desert. From the next day onward, Shia and Raven would keep watch on the Khazalim, to make sure that they stayed away from the companions’ camp.

Aurian was utterly relieved when at last she was able to curl up with Anvar in one of Eliizar’s rough shelters. Even so, her mind was seething with plans, and she found it difficult to settle down to sleep. “How soon do you think we’ll be able to get away?” she asked Anvar.

He shrugged, “Who knows? Our friends have been working very hard since they got here, but there’s still a lot to be done.”

“And in the meantime, we must leave someone free to keep an eye on Harihn and his folk, to make sure they don’t come wandering in our direction,” Aurian agreed

Anvar nodded. “It’s a big forest, apparently, and Raven says they’re camped near the northern edge. Presumably they plan to head north, so they probably won’t come back this way . . .” He paused, frowning, “Something is bothering me about this. Why are they still at all? They were well ahead of us, and they took all the gear that was stored in Dhiammara, so they must already be equipped for crossing the mountains, Why are they delaying?”

Aurian felt an unpleasant prickling between her shoulder blades, “Anvar, could they be waiting for us? I mean, Yazour

with horses, so they must known that we could get out of Dhiammara all . . .”

Anvar shook his head, “Surely, if it was an ambush, they would have scouts posted throughout the forest? And what better time to attack, than when we first came out of the desert? The others were distracted by our arrival, and we were certainly in no condition to defend ourselves!”

“To be honest, I’m not in much better condition now!” Aurian yawned. “I’m so tired I just can’t think straight!”

“You poor old thing!” Anvar teased her.

“Poor old thing, indeed!” Aurian growled, but she was chuckling as she lay down beside him.

Forral, watching, sighed. Though he knew he was being foolish, and tried to be generous in spirit toward his lost love, there were times when her growing closeness with Anvar seemed a bitter betrayal. The longing in the swordsman’s heart was an all-encompassing ache. “It should have been me . . .” His hand crept toward the surface of the pool . . .

“Enough.” Forral shuddered as the chill nontouch of Death clamped down upon his shoulders, hauling him away from the Well. “You have seen enough,” said the Specter. “Did I not warn you it would cause you pain? Come, now. You know that Aurian will be safe for a time in the forest. Be content, and leave the living to their own concerns.”

Hot words of protest formed on Forral’s lips, until he remembered his last sight of Aurian, curled up at Anvar’s side. He had told himself that he was only concerned for her safety—but Death was right. He knew she was safe now, and this further watching amounted to spying on her—which wasn’t doing either of them any good. Forral, grieving for the years together that he and Aurian had lost, suffered himself to be led away.

Aurian, who had been finding it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open, fell asleep at last. Perhaps it was the aftermath of the battle in the desert, or the natural consequence of such an emotional day. Perhaps it was the relative coolness of the forest, or Nereni’s highly spiced stew, that made the Mage dream of Eliseth that night. Perhaps it was more than that.

Aurian dreamed that the Weather-Mage stood on the top of the Mages’ Tower in Nexis, arms outstretched to the midnight skies, calling down the storm from boiling clouds that gathered above the city. In one hand she bore a long, glittering spear of ice. Snow swirled around her, mingling with the streaming skeins of her silver hair as she climbed up to stand on the low parapet that circled the top of the tower, the cold perfection of her face alight with exaltation. With a shrill, wild cry she leapt—out, out and up, as the ice-wings of the storm bore her aloft. And south she came. South across the ocean, south across the lands of the Xandim, riding toward the mountains on winter’s wings . . . Aurian awoke suddenly, shivering, her heart racing. “Stupid!” she told herself briskly. “It was only a dream! Nothing but a dream. Eliseth is dead . . . Isn’t she?”

Lost beyond his body in the depths of the fastness, Chiamh panicked, fleeing blindly through the labyrinth of fissures that ventilated the building. What would happen to his body if he couldn’t find his way back? Would it die? What if they found it, and thought he had died, and—

“Come now! Such a premise is utterly ridiculous.”

The first time he had heard the mysterious voice, it had almost scared him out of his wits—but this time it was very different. Chiamh had never been so glad in all his life, to hear another living creature. “Who are you? Where are you? Can you help me to get out of here?” he pleaded.

“Had you been concentrating, you would not need my aid.” the voice scolded. “However, since you seem to be the only one of your puny race who can hear me, I must assist you—but let this teach you to be more careful in the future! Watch the air, little Windeye—and follow my light!”

Chastened, Chiamh collected his wits, concentrating on the silvery strands of moving air. He followed them until he came to a dividing of the ways—and gasped as one of the strands split away from the others. Glowing with warm, golden light, the errant strand plunged sharply into a crack on the right. The Windeye followed, as it twisted this way and that through the network of fissures—until at last, with a squirm and a bound, Chiamh’s roving spirit tumbled out into the familiar dusty clutter of his own chambers.

Weak with relief, the Windeye returned to the familiar security of his body. As he rubbed his cold, cramped limbs with shaking hands, he realized that he had not thanked his mysterious benefactor, “Are you still there?” he asked tentatively, somewhat embarrassed to be speaking aloud to empty air.

“I am everywhere within these walls—and you need not speak aloud. Use your mind, as you have been doing.”

“I—I want to thank you for rescuing me,” Chiamh stammered. “I don’t know how you knew the way, but—”

“How could I not know the way?” the voice retorted. “Though when mortals start crawling around inside my body—”

“Inside what?” Chiamh gasped.

The voice burst into great peals of laughter. “Do your people lack all lore and legend, that they know not what they inhabit? Has the world forgotten the Moldai so soon? I am Basileus, little Windeye—the living soul of this fastness: Time ran slow for the Moldai; time ran fast. Time, in the sense that Mortals understood it, did not exist at all for these ancient creatures of living stone. The passing of a day was as the blink of an eye to them, but the days ran into one another in a changeless eternity. The roots-of the Moldai ran deep into the heart of the earth; their heads, decked all in caps of dazzling snow and veiled in skeins of cloud, were crowned with the very stars. Oldest of the Old were the Moldai, the Firstborn; as old as the very bones of the world. In the birth pangs of the world they had come into being and they did not die—save the parts of their bodies that were hacked away by lesser, heedless creatures.

“I can scarcely believe it!” Wishing that he had some specific point to look at when speaking to this peculiar entity, Chiarnh addressed the room at large. “Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine talking to a building.”

“I am not a building!. Buildings, as you call them, are hacked and murdered chunks of our flesh piled upon each other by Mankind!. I and my brethren are living entities—and we take on these shapes of our own accord!”

The ire of Basileus was awesome. The walls of Chiamh’s chamber shuddered, and the torches flickered in a sudden swirling draft. Fine dust pattered down from the ceiling. The Windeye hastened to apologize—he had already discovered that his new companion was inclined to be touchy.

It was truly a day of surprises! First, the Vision that had led to his discovery of the Bright Ones, then the arrival of the foreigners—and now this! Chiamh’s mind was reeling. On his return from the dungeons, he had groped his wry to the kitchens for some food, for he had not eaten since the previous night, and had traveled fast and far, both physically and with his Othersight, in the intervening hours. On returning with his food, the exhausted Windeye had slept for a while, but on awakening he had been swift to resume this bizarre conversation with Basileus,

One thing about mental communication—you could eat at the same time! Chiamh stuffed bread and into his mouth.

“You mentioned brethren—are there more of you?”

“Of course! All the mountains around us are Moldai! Your lack of awareness astounds me—especially since you have actually dwelt within another part of my body!”

Into Chiamh’s head came a vision of his own spire, with the Chamber of Winds on top. The Windeye frowned. “But how can be you, if this is you?” He gestured around the room, “How can you be in two places at once?”

Basileus sighed. “Raise your hand,” he instructed. “Is that hand a part of you?”

“Well, of course it is!”

“Good. Now raise the other. See, you have two hands, each of which is distinct and apart from the other—but both of them are equally pan of you!. My consciousness resides within the entire Wyndveilpeak—and the roots of a mountain—and a Moldan—go out a long way!. It is the same principle as you and your hands. Both this place and the tower are parts of me—as, indeed, are all the smaller dwellings on the hillside.”

“Really?” The Windeye’s curiosity was truly pricked. He had wondered about those mysterious structures for so long

. . . “Why did you build them?” He asked eagerly. “Are they dwellings, as they seem? Who were they for?”

The Moldan’s response made him regret his curiosity. Chiamh cried out, holding his hands to his head, as a wave of grief washed over him; a sorrow so profound that it was more than a mortal soul could bear. “Stop,” he cried, tears streaming down his face. “I beg you—no morel”

“It must be told,” the Moldan grated. “Only by the telling, do we obtain surcease . . .” In a voice that was heavy with sorrow, he spoke of the Dwelven, the Smallfolk, the companions without whom the Moldai were wrenchingly incomplete. “They were our brethren,” he sighed, “and for them we made dwellings from our bones. We nurtured them, we who were strong and wise but rooted and fixed. They cared for us, husbanding our lands and guarding us from human hewers of stone. On reaching maturity, each one would travel out into the world, returning, if they returned, with gifts, and tales of mighty deeds, and news of far-off places.” The Moldan paused. “The arrangement worked perfectly down the ages, until the Wizards—those you call the Powers—intervened.”

Chiamh pricked up his ears. The Powers again? Surely this could be no coincidence?

“In their arrogance,” Basileus continued, “the Wizards created the Staff of Earth. The temerity of those puny creatures—to tamper with the High Magic in our element/”

The building shuddered with the Moldan’s wrath, and Chiamh trembled. “What did you do?” he asked.

“What could we do? In vain we sent Dwelven emissaries to protest—the Wizards told us to mind our own concerns. Then—” A shiver passed through the stone of the fastness. “Then came the blackest day of our history. The Wizards were experimenting with the Staff, and Ghabal, the mightiest among us, discovered a way to tap its power. He used it to escape from the constraints of his stony flesh. As a giant he appeared, a human form, but the size of a mountain!.”

Basileus sighed. “The power of the Staff proved too much for him. He became crazed and violent . . . He wanted, he said, to put a barrier between the Moldai and the Wizards. In those days the north and south was a single land-mass, with no sea between—until Ghabal broke the bones of the earth, creating a rift between the two lands where once a fair and fertile kingdom lay.” The voice of the Moldan was hushed with regret. “Thousands of lives were lost as the seas rushed in, and I believe that Ghabal felt every death pang. They punished him, of course. Combining their powers, the Wizards wrenched the Staff of Earth back to their own control, and used it to master him. And they possessed the perfect prison. They had made a great artificial hill of stone in their city, and built their citadel atop, and there they imprisoned Ghabal’s tortured spirit, sealing it into lifeless stone. Then they came here, and destroyed his body beyond hope of returning.”

“Steelclaw!” Chiamh gasped, thinking of the Haunted Mountain that lay beyond the Wyndveil. No Xandim would set foot there—legend said that anyone who spent a night on Steelclaw would return insane, if they returned at all. The mountain itself was enough to discourage the bravest or most foolhardy soul—Chiamh had always known that some unthinkable disaster had befallen it. The rock had been riven and twisted, tortured and melted, almost down to its roots, leaving three jagged stumps to claw the sky. The very sight of it made the Windeye think of pain.

“Steelclaw indeed,” Basileus answered. “The remains of Ghabal, once the tallest and fairest of us all! Had the Wizards let the matter rest there . . . But in their wrath, they punished us all. They took the Dwelven—our eyes and ears in the land and the only ones, save themselves, who could hear us—beyond the sea whence they could not return. The Wizards sent them underground and laid a spell on them, that if they emerged into the light, they would perish. Without them we have languished in isolation, trapped in a waking dream. But now, we may dare to hope again—for the world is changing!. Not long ago, my mind began to awaken and reach out again—to find you, though you were not the reason. The Staff of Earth is abroad once more! I feel it coming closer!” The Moldan’s tone betrayed his excitement. “Those Wizards are up to something, or I’m a pebble! Little Windeye, know you aught of this?”

Chiamh frowned. “Perhaps,” he said. “Last night I had a Vision, and now Outlanders have appeared in our lands ...”

Quickly, he told Basileus what had been happening.

“Indeed,” the Moldan agreed, when he had finished. “These matters cannot be unconnected. And you believe your leaders will execute these strangers?”

“For certain—that is our law.”

“In that case, we must act swiftly to save them . . .”

“Could you help me get them out?” Chiamh asked eagerly. “Could you open a passage out of the dungeon, maybe?”

“Alas,” Basileus sighed, “it would take far too long to create such a passage—and it would be of no avail. The prisoners have been taken elsewhere ...”

“What?” Chiamh shrieked. “But their execution is not until tomorrow!”

“You have lost track of the hours, little Windeye! You were long within my body finding the dungeons, and longer coming back. And when you returned you slept before we spoke. By your lights, it is already tomorrow! To save the captives, you must move swiftly—if it is not already too late!”