Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

“Let me go! You filthy carrion-scavenger, fit for nothing but to pick flesh off a rotting corpse! Let me—” The words were cut off in a wail as the guard cuffed his captive.

“Gracious, who taught you such language?” Raven thought it best to interrupt at that point, before matters could deteriorate further.

The child, who had been too busy yelling to notice the Queen’s approach, turned her head sharply, her mouth dropping open in an O of surprise that changed swiftly to horror. “Your Majesty!” she gasped, and writhed in her captor’s grasp in a desperate attempt to dip her wings in obeisance.

Raven fought off the tender urge to straighten the girl’s tousled brown curls, and said sternly: “How comes this? Why are you trespassing in the precincts of the palace?”

“I caught her earlier, Your Majesty,” the guard interrupted. “The little wretch was trying to sneak into the throne room. Tried to give me a lot of nonsense about an urgent message for you. I sent her off then, but she must have sneaked back—”

“Be quiet!” Raven told him. “Are we still in the hands of a tyrant, that you must bully children? And let the child go, for Yinze’s sake. If she has a message for me, she’s hardly likely to go flitting off.” She turned back to the fledgling. “Now, little one, what is your name? And what word do you bring for your Queen?”

The child, released from the grip of the scowling guard, straightened her tunic in a pathetic attempt at dignity and dipped her wings once more. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she piped. “If you please, my name is Linnet. And I do have a message—an important one—from the cat Hreeza.”

“So you are the brave child who rescued her!” Raven said. She had been astonished when Aurian had brought her word that one of her folk—and a fledgling at that—could accomplish the mindspeech of the great cats. She had been meaning to look into the matter further, but… Raven put her thoughts aside with an impatient shrug. The child was here now, at least. “And what was your message?” she asked.

Linnet looked blackly at the guard. “She said it was private. ”

The Queen laughed. “Come, then, little one. We will adjourn to my chambers and see if we can find any refreshment there that is fit for a messenger.”

“She said what?”

Linnet flinched from the forcefulness of the Queen’s tone. Had that dratted cat got her into trouble again? Was she to be thrown out of these cozy royal chambers in disgrace? I told Hreeza that this idea was crazy, she thought resentfully. Linnet took an enormous bite out of the sweet cake in her hand—it tasted so good, and if she was to be thrown out, she might as well—and that was as far as she got for, not unnaturally, it went down the wrong way.

By the time the Queen had finished thumping her on the back and giving her a drink of water, Linnet had forgotten the original question. She flushed with embarrassment as Queen Raven repeated: “Now, then, tell me again, Linnet, exactly what Hreeza said.”

“She said that she had an urgent request.” Linnet scowled in concentration, doing her best to remember the exact wording. “She asks if you will wait until the others leave—the Mages and the cats—and then provide bearers to return her to the lands of her people.”

“But in Yinze’s name, why?” The Queen was frowning. In her consternation she seemed to have forgotten that she was speaking to a child. “Shia said that she and her friend were outlawed in their own lands, and could not return on pain of death.”

“That’s why it has to be a secret,” Linnet told her. “Because if the others find out, they’ll worry, and they won’t let her go. Hreeza says that her Queen is bad—not like you,” the child added hastily, blushing for the slip, “and if she isn’t dealt with, she will always be an enemy at Aurian’s back. But Hreeza has a plan—a wonderful plan—and if she can just get back quickly—”

“Wait, wait!” Frowning, the Queen held up her hand for silence. “Linnet, you had better come with me and talk to Hreeza. If you can translate, I would hear this plan for myself. What the Mages would say, if they knew of this…”

Linnet felt a weight of responsibility lift from her shoulders. Forgetting, in her relief, the exalted rank of her companion, she darted round the table and took hold of Raven’s hand. “Let’s go now,” she said excitedly. “I didn’t understand it myself, but you will. And Hreeza is very wise, so it’s sure to be a very good plan…”

As the excited child pulled her from the room, Raven lifted her eyes heavenward. “It had better be,” she muttered to herself, “or Aurian and Shia will have my hide.”

The little band of Xandim cavalry were but a scant handful of days from their destination, and excitement was growing within them as they neared their homeland. They had climbed high now, into the great mountain range, and were looking forward to the day when they could look out across the roof of the world and see the familiar shape of their own sacred Wyndveil Peak, glimmering in the distance like a promise.

Spirits were high around the fire that night, and the talk and laughter were loud, but even though the flask was passed round again and again from hand to hand, the Xandim maiden declined her share and crept away from the crowd of warriors who had crammed themselves into the bright circle of the campfire’s glow. After so many months of near solitude, Iscalda still found herself overwhelmed, on occasion, by such a press of people, and she wanted to be alone for a time—at peace with the immense stillness of the night. On quiet feet she crept past the sentries and ventured a little farther beyond the glare of the flames until the soft hum of voices had receded and the stars above her were bright once more.

Iscalda unbraided the rippled flaxen banner of her hair and pushed her cloak back from her shoulders, letting the wind that swirled down from the snowpeaks stroke her arms with fingers of ice, raising tingling gooseflesh along the bare skin. She shivered pleasurably, luxuriating in the sensation of being clothed in human flesh once more. For her, this trek back through the mountains to her homeland had turned into a wondrous voyage of discovery. She had been trapped in her equine form for so long that she had almost forgotten simple, ordinary sensations such as the smooth slide of linen and the rough drag of wool against her skin; the savor of hot food in her mouth and the supple weight of a leather cloak around her shoulders; the heart-lifting, all-enfolding warmth of strong arms pulling her into an embrace; and the delight of shared laughter with a friend. Sights, sounds, scents, emotions—they had all seemed like thrilling new experiences, tasted for the very first time. In these last few days Iscalda had felt like a child again, running out, full of excited expectation, into the morning of the world.

“Lady—do you not feel cold?”

Iscalda jumped at the sound of the soft voice that came from behind her and, whirling, came face-to-face with Yazour. He had been the last person she had expected to hear addressing her in her own language. During the journey she had been chiefly occupied with renewing old friendships among her own people, and had forgotten that Chiamh the Windeye had extended a spell of tongues around the strangers so that they could be understood. With a startled exclamation, she took a hasty step backward and pulled her cloak around her shoulders once more.

The young warrior inclined his head in apology. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“No?” Iscalda inquired tartly. “You creep up soft-footed as a Black Ghost of the mountains, and suddenly speak from out of the darkness. What, then, did you expect?”