Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

“I’m sorry.” Anvar’s voice pulled the Mage away from her thoughts. “I know you had good reasons for healing Raven. It just—well, it galls me, that’s all. After everything we suffered because she betrayed us…” With an effort he dismissed the subject. “Anyway, Raven can wait. What were these alternatives that you were mentioning when I woke up?” Now he was grinning, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Aurian was consumed by a surge of pure happiness as she slipped the now-gleaming Coronach, her precious and long-disused sword that she had rescued from the Tower of Incondor, back into its scabbard and reached out to her lover. She slid her fingers through the silken gold of Anvar’s hair, losing herself in the blue depths of his eyes. Her arms encircled him, his skin smooth to her touch, his body hardened to spare bone and muscle and sinew by the privations of their quest. Aurian let herself sink into the welcome of his embrace…

Their bliss was rudely interrupted by the whirring of great wings on the landing platform outside their tower lodgings followed by a thunderous knocking on the door and the rasp of steel leaping free from scabbard as Yazour and Chiamh drew their weapons in the adjoining room where they had been sleeping with Khanu, Shia’s other feline companion.

Aurian cursed, and groped beyond the edge of the bed for her scattered clothing. “Now what?” she muttered sourly.

The winged messenger, when they let him in, was in a state of considerable agitation. “Come quickly, come quickly,” he cried. “Something dreadful is happening in the ruins of the temple. We heard screams…”

“It’s not fair!” Linnet muttered. Scowling, the winged child glowered at the now-deserted ruins of the Yinze’s Temple and kicked a loose stone from the top of a tottering pile. The stone went bouncing away, dislodging a small cascade of other rubble that slid after it with a staccato rattle. Linnet jumped back, startled, her wings spread for flight. She half expected to hear a grown-up voice raised in reprimand—the Father of Skies only knew, the temple was wrecked enough without her contribution—but nothing stirred save the sharp, dying echoes of the clatter of stone on stone. Nobody was there to scold Linnet—no one, in fact, had even noticed she was missing, the fledgling thought with a sniff of self-pity. The grown-ups were all across at the palace, celebrating the unexpected coming of spring, the accession of the new Queen, and the rediscovery of the Harp of Winds by some strange, alien, wingless Wizard. Linnet’s small but vital part in these miraculous events appeared to have been forgotten entirely.

“It’s just not fair!” Linnet muttered again. “By Yinze—I was supposed to be the hero!” Had Cygnus, the white-winged Skyman, not promised her as much? Why, had she not single-handedly carried the news that the Queen was being held captive by Blacktalon, the evil High Priest? And at the risk of dire retribution from her mother for having been playing where she had no business to be in the first place? Linnet sat down on a fallen beam and dropped her chin disconsolately into her hands. “That Cygnus promised me a reward, too,” she sighed. “But what with all the fuss and excitement about everything else, I don’t suppose he’ll remember.”

A lot of things had been forgotten since the strange, wingless Wizard, with eyes the color of the summer sky, had appeared out of nowhere in the ruined temple, carrying the Harp of Winds. Linnet couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. A harp—so what? Why old Martin, the instrument maker, could turn out harps by the dozen! Oh, the thing looked pretty, for sure: twinkling and glowing as though it had been wrought of purest moonlight and the glimmer of stars—at least it had seemed that way in the quick glimpse that Linnet had been able to snatch before Louette, her mother, had whisked her away to take care of her little brother, Lark, while Louette went off to the palace with everyone else.

“And now they’re all having fun except me,” the winged child grumbled, aggrieved. She huddled down, shivering, and wrapped her wings tightly about herself. Spring it might be, but the glittering, starcrazed night still held a lingering chill, as if winter, though defeated, were loath to slink away. Linnet tried to warm herself with the fire of righteous indignation. ” I should be there, at the palace! I should be getting my reward for saving the Queen, instead of sitting at home with that little brat!” But in truth her conscience was nagging her—for of course she was not at home taking care of Lark. Once her brother had fallen asleep, Linnet had crept out and headed for the palace, hoping that she would be able to sneak up as close as she had done on the fateful day (could it really be only yesterday?) when she’d found the captive Queen, and catch a glimpse of the festivities through some window. And if only she could attract the attention of Queen Raven’s white-winged companion without her mother catching her first, then she might get her reward after all.

Linnet’s plans, however, had come to naught. Halfway to the palace her courage had failed her. It had been different last time, when the gigantic edifice had been virtually deserted as the Winged Folk mourned the passing of Queen Flamewing. But tonight the towers and spires had been aglow with a blaze of torchlight that outrivaled the red-gold glory of sunset, while clamorous swarms of excited Skyfolk circled the turrets and went zipping in and out of every doorway, preparing the best feast that could possibly be managed from the meager stock of remaining supplies. The winged child could not get anywhere near the building without being spotted—and if her mother should catch her, it wouldn’t be a reward that she’d be getting! A bitterly disappointed Linnet had been turning away to head back home when her eye had caught the black and shattered shell of Yinze’s Temple.

The fledgling’s thwarted, rebellious spirit had guided her toward the menacing hulk of the temple ruins. She had so desperately wanted to be distinguished by the important folk at the palace—already she had unwisely bragged to her friends about her adventures, and the reward she’d been promised. Linnet couldn’t bear to think of the teasing she’d receive on the morrow when the other children discovered that she’d been left tamely at home to sit with Lark. At least the ruins held out the hope of another adventure—or at least, if she used her imagination, an incredible and thrilling tale with which she could impress the others and hopefully avert their taunts.

Now, however, the rush of indignant disappointment had begun to cool, and Linnet was having second thoughts. While the blush of sunset had still bathed the sky, the ruins had looked like some old, harmless heap of stones—but now that night had laid a shadowy caul across its scarred and shattered face, the temple had taken on a far more sinister aspect.

A shiver ran down the winged child’s spine. In the deceptive gloom eerie transformations were taking place. An up standing sliver of stone—all that remained of one of the decorative archways—had become a tall, cloaked figure, its features hidden within the fathomless depths of a cowl of deepest black. Twisted pieces of votive silver took on the eerie gleam of ghostly figures, while a scattered drift of broken crystal from the massive stained-glass window depicting the Fall of Incondor had become the gleam of many unknown eyes. A pile of fallen stone had turned into the lithe, sinister contours of a crouching beast. Everywhere, shadows were advancing in the stillness: deep holes of deeper black against the thickening darkness. They seemed to be reaching out for Linnet—and what did they conceal? Was the ghost of Blacktalon stirring amid the desolate ruin of his stronghold? Would he come creeping forth out of the darkness, clutching the ghastly trophy of his severed head?