Harp of Winds

7 The Roof of the World

The peaks beyond the forest turned from rose to blazing gold in the sunrise, Raven came banking low over the campsite, skillfully avoiding the trees. From her vantage point aloft, she could see a great deal of early-morning activity, Yazour and Eliizar were skinning two deer by the stream, watched by Shia, who, no doubt, had played an enthusiastic part in the hunting of the animals, Bohan was coming through the trees from another direction with the rabbits he had snared dangling limply from one huge hand, while Nereni, cooking breakfast by the fire, looked up and waved to her. The winged girl noticed, with a twinge of annoyance, that Aurian and Anvar were missing—again. Raven landed, the whirls of wind from her wings making the fire spark and glow. She exchanged warm greetings with Nereni, and handed over her catch—two pheasants and a wild duck that she had caught napping farther up the course of the stream. “Where are the Magefolk?” she asked.

“Fishing, perhaps, or rounding up the horses.” Nereni gave her a cup of steaming broth in exchange for the birds. “By the Reaper, I’m glad we leave tomorrow! The sooner I have walls around me again, the better it will please me!”

“And I,” Raven muttered, thinking of Harihn. How she had missed him, since he had left for the Tower! For the better part of a month she had labored like a drudge, helping the others prepare for the grueling journey into the mountains. As well as ostensibly keeping an eye on Harihn’s encampment, she had helped to build the rough shelters of woven boughs that were dotted around the clearing, caught birds for Nereni to cook, and scouted for the hunters to locate deer, wild pigs, and other game among the trees. Her scratched and roughened hands bore testimony to the fact that she had hauled wood and water as though she had never been a Princess, and she had still found time on top of these tasks to help Nereni with her endless sewing.

After the baking heat of the desert, the cold of the mountains had presented a problem, for the robes they had been wearing were too thin for these colder lands, and the clothing stored in Dhiammara to equip the Khisu’s raids to the north had been taken by Harihn. The companions had been lucky, however. At the forest’s edge, Bohan had found the desert tents that the Prince’s party had abandoned. Nereni, who had guarded her case of needles like a royal treasure all the way across the desert, was making new clothes for everyone from the silken cloth, sewing it in double layers quilted with wool from wild goats, the fur of rabbits snared by Bohan, and soft warm down from Raven’s birds. It was tedious and painstaking work, which took up most of Nereni’s time, and as much as the winged girl could spare. The others helped as they could, with Bohan, to everyone’s astonishment, producing miracles of deft and delicate stitchery with fingers so thick that they obscured the needle. Aurian had proved to be useless at sewing, and though she was now in no condition to help with the heavier work around the encampment, she had, to Raven’s disgust, still managed to find ways to get out of the detested chore.

The hunters, including Shia, had been bringing in all the game they could find. Some they ate, glad of it after the privations of the desert, but most they smoked and dried for the journey. Even the horses had been busy, foraging for tender new grass. The improvement in their condition was visible by the day, while the days had flowed past as swiftly as the forest’s running streams—until at long last, just as Raven’s frustration had reached breaking point, the Mages had decided that it was time to leave.

“Surely we must have enough now.” Aurian looked at the pile of speckled trout that glittered on the streambank, and straightened her aching back with a grimace.

“It’s better than sewing, though, isn’t it?” Anvar teased.

Aurian grimaced. “Anything is better than sewing!”

“Anything is better than your sewing!” Anvar chuckled. “Apart from its appalling effect on your temper, I had visions of your clothes falling to pieces on us halfway up a mountain!”

“And you could do better?” Aurian retorted.

“Not I! We Magefolk may have many talents, but needlework seems not to be one of them, somehow.”

Aurian had managed to escape the dreaded sewing by—taking up fishing, and so it was that Anvar had mastered the art of trout-tickling at last; not in the sea, but in the icy forest streams, with Aurian as his tutor. Forral had taught her the skill long ago, in Eilin’s lake, and Aurian’s heart was wrenched again and again by the memory of her younger self, a skinny, tangle-haired urchin, elbow-deep in the still lake waters as she copied the swordsman’s every move, her eyes filled with adoration, her face alight with excitement. Ah, those had been happy days! Now she was grown, and had drunk the bitter cup of grief and hardship to its very dregs. Another head, blond instead of brown, nestled close to hers as she peered into the amber forest streams, with Anvar’s brilliant blue eyes straying from the waters again and again, to peer longingly into her face.

Anvar, seated on the streambank, was cleaning the fish with quick, deft skill. “Are you coming with us tonight?” he asked her conversationally, as she bundled their catch into one of Nereni’s woven baskets.

Aurian knew that the question, casual though it sounded, was anything but, and could easily provoke another of the squabbles that were all too frequent between them nowadays. Since they had escaped the desert, Anvar’s protectiveness was beginning to grate on her—however, Aurian knew there were limits now, to what she could do.

“What?” she asked him in scandalized tones. “You want me to go out stealing horses? In the forest, in the middle of the night, in my condition?” She grinned at the quick flash of relief in his face. “Got you!”

“Wretch!” He flung a fish at her, and Aurian clawed the slippery creature out of the air just before it hit her.

“Do you mind?” she protested. “We have to eat that!”

“In fact,” she said, returning to their original conversation, “I intend to be in bed and asleep by the time you leave tonight, so don’t make a noise when you go.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it!” scoffed Anvar. “Really, though, do you mean it, Aurian? You don’t mind?”

The Mage looked at him gravely. “Anvar, I mind it more than I can say. But what use would I be? I can’t move quickly, I’d find it hard to fight these days . . . But what if it’s a trap? Have you thought of that? For the life of me, I can’t see why Harihn’s folk have stayed here so long! And I’m amazed they haven’t found us!”

Anvar shook his head. “How can it be a trap?” he argued. “They don’t know we’re going to steal their horses, and with Shia and Raven guarding our camp, none of them could have come near enough to spy on us! If you ask me, I don’t think the Prince is there at all”

“What?” This was news to Aurian.

“Well, think about it. Raven had no idea of their numbers, but when Shia scouted, she said that half of them were missing—mostly men-at-arms. You know how callous Harihn was about leaving us behind—I think he’s gone ahead with his soldiers, abandoning his housefolk who were likely to hold him up on his way through the mountains. If those people are trying to settle here, that would explain the hunting and gathering, and their lack of exploration.”

“Dear Gods, I never thought of that!” Aurian frowned. “It would be just like Harihn. If you’re right, it should make tonight’s expedition much easier, but all the same ...” She leaned across and laid a hand on his arm. “Anvar, for goodness’ sake be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He reached out to hug her—and Aurian, with a wicked grin, dropped a fish, which she had been saving for just such a moment, down the back of his tunic.

“Shia, are you in position yet?” Anvar peered through the bushes at the dim and shadowy shapes that grazed, content and oblivious, in the clearing.

“How fast do you think I can move in this tangle?” Shia’s terse mental voice came back at him. “Do you want me to scare the stupid creatures all the way back to the desert?” There was a moment’s pause, then: “I’m in position now. Can you see them?”

“They’re right in front of me. Any sign of a guard on your side?” Because Anvar possessed the night-vision of a Mage, he had been the one selected to go in close with Shia to steal the Khazalim mounts.

“Only one—where Raven said he’d be,” the cat informed him. “The fool is fast asleep!”

“Perfect!” Anvar grinned. “Move in slowly, so that the horses don’t get panicked. We don’t want to wake him!”

“I know, I know!”

In the bushes, Anvar waited. Somewhere on the other side of the clearing, he knew, Shia would be creeping up carefully on the Khazalim beasts. She was upwind of them, and at any time now . . . One of the horses flung its head up and snorted, scenting the predator. Hobbled as they were, they could not stampede. Instead, as the sense of unease spread from one beast to the others, they began to move in a tightly gathered knot away from the danger. Out of the clearing they came, away from the sleeping guard—and, Anvar thought with a grin, right into his arms!

“Come, my beauties,” the Mage crooned softly, slipping a rope around the neck of the leading horse. In normal circumstances, they might have tended to shy away from a stranger, but now, with the cat at large in the forest, they knew that a human meant protection. Anvar whistled softly, and Yazour, Eliizar, and Bohan came melting out of the forest to help him. Cutting the hobbles on four of the horses, they led them away, back through the forest to their camp, where everything was packed and ready for them to leave at dawn, before the Khazalim discovered their missing mounts.

Anvar, who could see better than the others, was in the lead. As he walked, only part of his attention was given to picking out the best trail through the dense, crowding woodland. He was conscious of a sense of relief that the stealing of the horses had been so easy, but at the same time there was a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind. It had been easy, all right—too bloody easy! Just what, Anvar wondered, is going on? All things considered, he would be glad to get out of this forest at last!

As the horses picked their way up a tortuous goat track in the dappled light beneath the trees, Aurian looked around, saying a last farewell to the place that had been her haven for the last month or so. Ironically, now that it was time for the Mage to leave, she was reluctant to quit the forest’s shelter. But it was not the beauty of the place that made her hesitate. It was pure fear.

Since her powers had left her, Aurian’s vulnerability terrified her almost to the point of paralysis. After months of flight and fighting, her body had betrayed her, forcing her to pause in her struggle. Her fears, however, emerged while she slept, filling her dreams with nightmare Wraiths, horrific visions of Miathan’s depradations back in Nexis, and the suffering of Raven’s Winged Folk, until she woke each night, sweat-soaked and trembling. The Mage had been impossibly torn between continuing her journey, or remaining in safety in the forest until her son was born, for now that she could feel his thoughts, the reality of the child had truly come home to her, and she had found herself loving him with a fierce protective-ness that had stunned her. She had found herself unable, even, to confide in Anvar, and unbeknownst to her companions, she had fought a tremendous inner battle in the forest to find the courage to go on with her quest. The last thing she wanted to admit, even to herself, was that her fear and indecision stemmed from the loss of her magic.

Now, however, Aurian could delay no longer. It was vital that she make some kind of stand against the Archmage, and Raven’s tower would be a step in that direction. What other choice was there? She and Anvar perforce must travel north. The Mage was glad that the proximity of the Khazalim camp in the forest had made the decision for her, but by Chathak, she was not looking forward to this journey!

All day the companions rode a twisting course through the forest, scrambling upward via the rough game trails that threaded the increasingly rocky slopes. By early evening, they had reached the end of the trees. Looking out across the bleak waste of boulder and scree that sloped up to the knees of the hostile mountains, the travelers decided to spend one last night within the forest’s shelter. Already the air was ominously cooler, and they gathered gratefully around a cheerful fire, roasting rabbit and pheasant from the previous day’s hunt while Shia made short work of a haunch of venison.

After supper, Aurian offered to take first watch, afraid that if she slept, her evil dreams would return. Sword in hand, she sat close to the fire, watching its dancing light make ruddy shadow-faces on the rough bark of the firs, and wondering what was happening to the friends and enemies she had left behind her in Nexis. Ever since her dream of Eliseth, she had felt uneasy—and the sight of the continuing snow that cloaked the distant peaks had added to her disquiet. Surely, if Eliseth is dead, her winter should be diminishing by now? the Mage thought. Beyond the comforting ring of firelight, she could feel the looming presence of the mountains, as though they watched her with unfriendly eyes. As though they were waiting for her.

As the Magefolk and their companions climbed through the convoluted chain of valleys that led up to the high mountain passes, the going became more difficult as the biting cold increased. The barren, stony landscape, hemmed in by ragged cliffs and unclimbable slopes of scree, was profoundly grim, though sometimes they found a rare green valley, protected from the incessant, whining wind by a trick of the cliff formations. They gladly stopped to rest in these havens, giving the horses a chance to graze, and themselves a respite from the overwhelming bleakness of the landscape. But as they went on, frost whitened the trails with a slick film that made the horses stumble, and slowed their progress to a snail’s pace. The fear that someone would sustain a serious fall was always with them, Bohan wrenched a shoulder when his mount went down, and it was sheer good fortune that his horse had not been lamed. Often they were forced to climb on foot, leading the animals—a grueling business that left everyone exhausted, dispirited, and out of temper by the end of each day’s freezing march.

The journey took its toll on everyone. Food for humans and horses was rationed, and there was never enough to sustain them against the enforced activity of the climb and the deadly cold. Tempers grew short among the little band, and even gentle Bohan was often seen to be scowling. He had taken a marked dislike to Raven, but without speech, was unable to tell them why. Anvar was deeply concerned about Aurian. Day by day, she grew more gaunt and hollow-cheeked as the babe took her food for its own growth, leaving its mother all belly and bone. Lacking the energy to talk, she no longer refused his aid as she hauled herself upward step by step, leaning on the Staff of Earth that she clutched in frozen, rag-wrapped fingers. At night, though Bohan and Shia curled up beside her and Anvar held her close to warm her body with his own, she never stopped shivering. Anvar, to his increasing frustration, could think of no way to ease her suffering, and he wished with all his heart that he could end the torment that Miathan was causing for his beloved, and countless others besides.

As the days went on, and the companions continued their cold and miserable climb, the thought occurred to Anvar again and again. Why should Aurian risk herself and her child? He had his own powers now, and the Mage had been training him intensively before she lost her magic. Perhaps he could find some way of fighting Miathan by himself. Had he confided in Aurian, she would have disabused him of such brave but foolish notions, for without the missing Weapons, the two of them together stood little chance against the Caldron, without bringing about a war between two equal powers that could destroy the very world. But Anvar kept his thought to himself, and the idea remained with him, growing in his mind like a canker. This, he was convinced, would be the way to repay Aurian for his part in Forral’s death.

The companions had been traveling for about a score of days when the blizzard struck. All morning as they had climbed, leading horses that were strangely uneasy, Aurian had felt spits of snow in the wind—hard, tiny pellets that stung her chapped hands and blew in skeins across the rocks to collect, unmelting, in every crevice. The sky grew black and heavy, as though the clouds were sinking to meet them as they climbed. The force of the wind was increasing, and Raven, who had been flying ahead of them, landed suddenly by die side of the tired Mages. “I think we should turn back,” she said. “There’s no shelter ahead—we’re nearing the top of the ridge, and it looks bad up there.”

Aurian swore. The slopes around them were naked scree, and it had been the same lower down. “There’s no shelter for miles, the way we’ve come,” she said. Everyone looked at one another, reluctant to lose any of their hard-won progress. Before a decision could be reached, the air was full of fat white flakes that bore down on them with a shocking suddenness, so thick as to make breathing difficult, and cutting them off from each other’s sight.

“Stay where you are!” cried Yazour. Aurian reached out to grab Anvar’s sleeve, and felt his hand clutch tightly at her own. At her other side, she felt Bohan’s big hand grip her shoulder, and hoped that her other companions had also located each other by touch.

Eliizar’s voice penetrated the rising howl of the wind. “Stay together,” he shouted. “Tie the horses in a circle and get inside!” It was difficult to follow his advice, blind as they were and with frightened horses to contend with, and hands that were numbed and clumsy with cold. After a struggle, they found themselves huddled within the minimal shelter of the circle of beasts as the snow heaped itself around them, counting one another by touch and afraid to sit, lest they never rise again.

The companions clung together, sharing each other’s warmth, which was quickly leeched away by the merciless wind. Aurian had long ago lost all feeling in her frozen feet, and the cold was pervading her body with a drowsy numbness. It took her back to her childhood, when she had searched for Forral in the endless snow . . . She awakened in the warm, glowing kitchen of her mother’s tower on the lake, to see the swordsman’s anxious face looking down at her . . .

“Aurian, wake up!” It was Anvar’s voice. Aurian’s dream melted like snow—oh dear Gods, the snow! She opened her eyes with difficulty and pulled herself upright. Anvar was shaking her. “Thank the Gods you’re all right! You fell asleep, you idiot! Had I not felt you go down . . .”

Aurian groaned. “I was having a wonderful dream . . .”

“I should hope it was,” Anvar told her grimly; “because it was almost the last one you ever had!”

For the first time, the befuddled Mage noticed that she was hearing Anvar’s voice quite clearly. The wind had dropped. The snow was still falling, but more gently now, and Aurian could see her surroundings for a few yards around. Not that there was much to see . . . Only snow, and more snow—and her companions, who were so encrusted with the dreadful stuff that they were difficult to distinguish against the stark white background.

Raven, with her race’s inborn resistance to the cold, seemed the most alert of them all. “We should be fairly close to the tower now,” she said. “If you will wait, I’ll fly up and see where we are.”

Nereni sighed. “I wish we could have a fire. We all need something hot inside us.”

Nereni, however, would have to go on wishing. They had exhausted the slender stock of firewood that they had brought with them from the last valley, some days previously. The companions had not long to wait, however, before Raven returned. “I thought-so,” she told them. “The tower is at the far end of the next valley. We should reach it before dark, except—” Her face fell. “For you flightless ones, there may be a problem ...”

Grim and silent, the travelers urged their weary, frozen horses through breast-deep drifts to the top of the ridge. Near the top the going became easier, for the wind had scoured the snow away until it was only a thin speckling over the dark rocks. They paused on the windswept ridge, looking out over the next stage of their journey. Below them, the way opened into a broad sweep of valley, its stark, snow-choked whiteness alleviated here and there by dark clumps of twisted evergreens, bent like worn old men by their wintry burden. Above, oppressive with their looming weight, peaks like jagged fangs shouldered one another as though jostling to attack their puny human victims. The Mage, looking out across the way they had to travel, felt her heart sink. Now that the companions had reached the summit, she could see only too clearly what Raven, with masterly understatement, had described as a problem. The pass below them, the only way down into the valley, was choked with snow.

“That’s all we need.” Aurian sighed. “How will we ever manage to dig our way through that lot?”

Shia, born and bred in the mountains, surveyed the snow-clogged pass. “The way looks very steep,” she said. “An avalanche might sweep it clear, at least sufficiently for us to get down. If only we could start one ...”

“A what?” Anvar squatted beside her, his cold hands tucked beneath his cloak, while the great cat told him of the massive snow slides that sometimes occurred in the mountains, crushing everything that stood in their path. He frowned, looking down at the pass. “Do you think it would be possible to start one?”

“Surely.” Shia paused. “So long as you are willing to sacrifice the one who starts it, for the risk of being swept away is exceedingly great.”

“Oh.” Anvar’s face fell, but the great cat’s words had set Aurian thinking.

“Anvar . . . Do you think you could set the snow in motion with the Staff of Earth?” the Mage suggested. He turned to her, his face alight with excitement. “Aurian, you’re brilliant! That is ... if you wouldn’t mind lending it to me again?”

Aurian shrugged. “If it’s a choice between that and freezing my backside off on this accursed mountain, there’s no question. But Anvar—for the sake of all the Gods, be careful. The Staff has a way of taking over, it’s so powerful, and Shia just told us how dangerous this is. Think it through first, before you do anything, and—”

“I know, I know!” He grinned at her. “Don’t worry, Aurian. I’ll be all right.”

The Mage fumbled the Staff from her belt and handed it to him—and was seized with misgivings as she did so. These were different circumstances from the first time he had handled the Staff, during the desert battle. Then he’d been fighting for his life—and he had also had her steadying hand on the Staff to take up some of its awesome power. Me and my bright ideas, Aurian thought. For an alarming instant, she saw in Anvar what he must have seen in her, when she had first won the Staff. He seemed taller, his body wrapped in an aureole of power. His eyes glowed with sapphire fire as he strode to the head of the pass, where the snow deepened and the way began to drop toward the valley floor.

“Stay back everyone,” Anvar called cheerfully.

Aurian swore under her breath. She knew how it felt to him—she had experienced this euphoria when she’d first held the Staff. Over his shoulder, she could already see his spell beginning to take effect as a web of glowing green lines snaked their way through the snow, right down to the bottom of the pass. But he only needed to dislodge a little of the snow at the top, Shia had said

“Anvar, don’t ...” Aurian yelled.

The force lines flared with a blinding emerald light. With a rumble growing to a deafening roar, the snow began to thunder down the narrow defile, rumbling and rolling and crashing down in an inexorable wave as the ground shook and shuddered and great clouds of powdered white crystals erupted into the air and the plaque of snow on which Anvar was standing began to move, sliding forward, down and over the edge. Anvar, flailing wildly to keep his balance, cried out once in shrill desperation—and was gone.