Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

And he found her. Already she was coming to him, hurtling back toward the light of the Staff, streaming tatters of gray. Her wraithlike form was hideously maimed, as though she had been scored again and again by the grip of giant talons. Anvar shrieked her name—felt his own name, cried in Aurian’s voice, reverberate in his mind, harsh with terror and anguish. He held her tightly, and she clung to him as the emerald glow of the Staff fell about them like a benison.

There was no time for their reunion now; no time for love or fear. “Aurian,” he told her urgently, “I need your help. Your Healing is beyond me—I still lack the skill. You must come back now and join with me in the power of the Staff as we did in the desert. Give me your Healing powers, so that I can help you.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Is that possible?” she breathed. Then he saw her jaw tighten. “It had bloody well better be,” she muttered. The world spun, and—

Anvar was back within his mundane form, kneeling over the Mage—but this time he felt her mind, in deep and intimate linkage with his own. He shared her shock as she perceived the damage that Meiriel’s treacherous knife had done to her chest—and felt his own heart miss a beat—for until that moment he had not known the identity of Aurian’s assailant. But there was no time to think of that now.

“We’d better hurry,” Aurian whispered. “I didn’t realize there would be so much to do.”

Without the Staff of Earth they would never have managed it. Without Aurian’s skills, which had been taught her by the very one who had tried to take her life, the Mage would not have stood a chance. Anvar, trusting, simply gave his power into Aurian’s hands, and his hands into her will, and let her do what she would with the fusion of his strength and her knowledge. And after a dreadful, bloody, exhausting age spent rebuilding sliced muscle and damaged tissue, Anvar felt her mind slip free from his own. For an instant he felt the clutch of panic round his heart—then Aurian opened her eyes. “Oh, how I love you,” she whispered. “You did good work, my partner in Healing—and in all things.”

From her nest of cloaks, the Mage looked up to see Anvar grinning like a lunatic for the sheer joy of her safe return. Though as yet she lacked the strength to reach up and touch him, her heart went out to him.

“The skill was yours,” he told her, “and I love you, too.” He clasped her hand tightly. “But are you—will you be all right now?”

Briefly, Aurian’s gaze became unfocused as she scanned inwardly with her powers; then she looked up and nodded, with a weary little smile. “All mended. I’m just sore—and so very, very weary. I must sleep for a while, to regain my strength and let the Healing settle, and then”—her grip on Anvar’s hand grew fierce—“then we go after that bitch Meiriel—and my poor son.”

Anvar frowned. “I can scarcely believe it was Meiriel. Are you sure, my love? Parric was convinced she was dead…”

“I wish to all the gods she was,” Aurian snarled. “But that mistake will be rectified. Is there any news?” she demanded. “Has anything been done?”

Anvar squeezed her hand in comfort and shook his head. “But we’ll—”

“You live!” Shia’s voice echoed joyously in the Mage’s mind as two great cats, their coats flattened and streaked with rain, came hurtling into the hall. Shia nuzzled her with care, long black whiskers splashing icy drops onto the Mage’s face as she purred her happiness.

Aurian, despite her worries, somehow managed to summon a smile for the cat. “I live,” she agreed. “Though the gods only know how. But”—her mental voice was shadowed with fear—“what happened to you, Shia? What news of my son?”

The great cat dropped her head. “We failed,” she confessed miserably. “Our foe threw up a barrier of magic through which we could not pass, and we lost her trail. The Skyfolk, too, seemed equally at a loss. I think the magic veiled her from their sight. Then we sensed that your life was in danger. Even from such a distance, we could feel your mind slipping away…” For an instant, Shia’s mental voice trembled. “Khanu and I returned while the wolves began to quarter the mountain, to see if they could track Wolfs abductor.” She looked away from the Mage. “Aurian—I believe our enemy had assistance. We could have been mistaken, but Khanu and I were convinced that we picked up a faint trace of strange cats—our own folk. I am ashamed…”

“Hush,” a voice interrupted. Looking around, Aurian saw the Xandim Windeye. “Do not blame yourself,” he told Shia, while including the Mages in his mental range. “Things are not all bad. No matter how she tried to hide herself, we do know which way the madwoman went. She may have been able to veil herself from normal vision, but with my Other-sight I pursued her on the winds—I was forced to return to help Aurian when I sensed that her life was threatened. But when last I saw the witch, she had made no attempt to harm the child…”

His voice was soothing, reassuring. Much too reassuring, given the circumstances. Aurian’s scalp prickled with suspicion. “And the bad news?” she demanded. “Come on, Chiamh—what is it that you aren’t telling us?”

Chiamh sighed. “The madwoman took the babe up onto the high Wyndveil slopes and headed toward the Dragon’s Tail ridge. Shia was right—two strange cats were nearby, pacing her like shadows. She has taken your son to the dreaded Steelclaw Peak. Even if they trace her, the wolves will be unable to follow. None but the Black Ghosts may walk the slopes of Steelclaw—and live.”

The stricken silence of the Mages was broken by Shia’s growl. “None but the ghosts, you say? But Chiamh, I am one of your Black Ghosts! Never fear, Aurian, Khanu and I will go to Steelclaw. I have unfinished business there, especially if Gristheena and her people are aiding your foe. Be assured that I will bring Wolf back.”

Meiriel scrambled across the exposed Field of Stones toward the broken ledges of the Dragon’s Tail ridge, alternately blessing her Mages’ sight, which allowed her to pass safely through the darkness, and cursing the wind that wrapped clinging tendrils of hair around her face and drove the rain stinging into her eyes to obscure the very night-vision that she needed so badly.

Despite the storm, despite the hardships of the climb, Meiriel’s heart burned with a savage joy. At last, she had struck down her enemy, the slayer of her beloved soulmate! Her magical shield had foiled her pursuers, and perhaps—Meiriel thrust down the nagging hint of doubt at the back of her mind—it had also shielded her from feeling the pang of Aurian’s death, which she had been expecting every moment since she’d fled. Yet surely her thrust had been fatal—and now she had Aurian’s child, that accursed, unnatural monster, to dispose of at her leisure. In the distance, Meiriel heard wolves howling, and dismissed the chilling sound with a shrug. Instead she looked down, her sharp eyes seeking the hidden way that led down from the plateau, to the shattered ridge. As soon as she reached Steelclaw, and was certain that she had shaken off pursuit, the child would be at her mercy…

“Twisted serpent of a Wizard—, think not”

“Who’s there?” Meiriel whirled, her voice shrill with panic. Though softly spoken, the words had been clearly audible above the whine of the storm.

“You are mistaken, Mad One. Your treacherous attack was not as accurate as it seemed. Aurian will live—even now she is being healed—and if you have not lost the last shreds of wisdom, you will keep her child alive as hostage—or as bait.”

“Who are you?” Meiriel shrieked. Sobbing with terror, her joy extinguished, the Magewoman half scrambled, half fell down the sloping edge of the plateau and crawled onto the broken ridge that led to Steelclaw. Once she had left the Wyndveil behind, the voice tormented her no more.