Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

A wistful smile softened the Forest Lord’s sculpted mouth. “What they were! What fire they had; what power; what beauty and spirit! They were fleet and strong, and terrible in battle—and they could outspeed the wind!” Hellorin

his eyes shadowed with ancient memory. “In winter, when the moon was full, we rode across the land like comets, with our hounds, like my Barodh, at our sides, and the coats of our steeds glistening like moonlight. The Mortals would lock up their beasts and hide quaking in their beds when the Wild Hunt was abroad!”

Hellorin’s voice shook with emotion, “The loss of our horses represented the loss of our freedom. Perhaps that was why the Magefolk took them—or perhaps, as I believe, they wished to tame them for their own use—as if they had a chance! At any rate, when they exiled us, they forbade us our mounts, which we loved, and sent them to the Southlands, across the sea where our magic could not reach. We only had time for one last desperate spell to confound our foes, before we lost our steeds forever ...”

“What did you do?” Eilin asked breathlessly.

“To protect our precious mounts from conquest by Magefolk and Mortals alike, and help them survive in an alien land, we gave them human form,” Hellorin told her. “They became—and as far as I know, they still are—capable of changing shape from human to equine at will.” He looked at her sadly. “We will not regain them until we have been freed from our exile—and even so, there may be difficulties, for we Phaerie cannot cross the sea. And who knows, in these long ages, how their race may have altered?” His voice grew harsh. “Truly, Eilin, if this Magefolk interference has cost us our horses forever, all the endless ages will not suffice for them to make recompense!”

His words, recalling the bitter enmity that had existed for so long between his folk and hers, were enough to strain the fragile bond that had been building between Forest Lord and Mage. Eilin was frowning, and suddenly, the evening seemed darker. Hellorin shivered, wondering what damage he had unwittingly wrought.

The Earth-Mage twisted her hands in her lap. “Speaking of recompense, Lord, there is something I have long been meaning to ask you ...”

Hellorin, his curiosity piqued, nodded, “Say on, Lady.”

“I ... Do you remember, so many years ago, when you saved Aurian and Forral, who were lost in a blizzard?”

“Aye, Lady, I recall it well—the first time we met.”

“You told me then what I already knew—that in dealing with the Phaerie, there is always a price. You said—”

“Remember that this matter is not resolved between us. We will meet again—and when we do, I will claim my debt,”

Hellorin supplied.

Eilin flinched. “What made you say that?” she demanded. “How did you know we would meet again? Had I wished to renege on our bargain, I only needed never to summon you—”

“As indeed you did not,” the Forest Lord rebuked her. “This time, it was my son D’arvan who did the summoning.”

“Thanks to which, I now owe you another debt for saving my life!” Eilin turned anxious eyes to the Phaerie Lord.

“How long will you keep me in suspense? I am a prisoner here, no matter how kindly a captivity it may seem! How can I rest, not knowing what you may see fit to ask of me?”

Hellorin sighed. “Eilin, I understand your concern. Sooner or later, a price must be paid, for our Law cannot be set aside. Why, I was unable even to spare my son and his beloved, who paid a heart-rending price for my aid with their endless vigil in the Wildwood to guard the Sword of Flame!” He shook his head, “But alas, I cannot name what I would demand of you. This is not cruelty on my part—I simply have no idea what to ask, which in itself is strange, as if it formed part of the workings of some destiny that I cannot foresee. When first we met, I hated the Magefolk—I scarcely knew you, and I had no idea of the existence of my son. When you asked for my aid, so many notions leapt into my mind, to exact revenge on your kind through you! But”—he spread his hands “I could not, I must hold your indebtedness against some future need,”

“I see” snapped Eilin, “Your actions sty little for your trust in me—and a great deal for my lack of trust in you!” She rose to her feet and strode out of the clearing without a backward look.

Eliseth sat in her chambers, bundled in cloaks and huddled over a roaring fire. Since Miathan had set his aging spell on her, her bones had ached with the cold. The Weather-Mage stared into the blaze, her silver eyes reflecting the glare of the leaping flames. Her body was wracked with shivers, but her hatred smoldered on, un-quenched—and she would not endure this loathsome condition much longer! “Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Miathan!” she grated. Her rheumy eyes tracked blurrily around the room, registering drifts of shattered crystal that twinkled frostily on the lush white carpet. After Miathan had wrought his hideous change in her, the Weather-Mage had smashed every mirror in her rooms.

Avoiding slivers of glass, Eliseth shuffled across the room, leaning on her staff for support. With stiff, twisted hands she poured spirits into a goblet, cursing herself for succumbing to the dubious comfort of drink-—the very thing for which she had once derided Bragar.

Bragar! Eliseth emptied the glass in one swallow, and refilled it quickly. The Fire-Mage had been a fool—he had deserved to die. So why was she haunted by the sight of his blackened, smoking face? Why did she still feel the ghost of his clawlike grasp on her hand’s aged skin?

Bragar loved you! Who will love you now, old crone?

That insidious, persistent thought! A snarl of rage bubbled up in Eliseth’s throat. The goblet flew across the room, impelled by the force of her magical will, to smash against the wall, its contents streaking like dark blood down the pure white surface. “Oh Gods!” Eliseth buried her face in shaking hands, “Pull yourself together!” she growled, “If you panic, you’ll ruin your only chance!” Taking another goblet from the shelf, she filled it and returned to the fireside to wait. He would be coming soon. By now, he must have discovered what she had done—and if she wanted to regain her youth, everything depended on the approaching confrontation,

The door flew open, rebounding against the wall with a reverberant crash, “You treacherous bitch. What in the name of the Gods are you playing at?”

Eliseth jerked upright, scrambling her wits to meet the ire of the Archmage, Miathan slammed his fist on the table, the gems that had replaced his burning crimson with rage. “You have one minute to begin restoring the winter in Aerillia—before I blast you to cinders!”

This was her moment! Eliseth willed her shaking body to stillness, and forced the illusion of nonchalance. “I don’t care if you do.” She shrugged. “Do you think I want to stay in this wrinkled, sagging shell? Do your worst, Miathan—ah, but I forget, you already have!”

“You call that my worst?” Miathan howled.

The Weather-Mage cringed and cowered as a roaring inferno leapt up around her. The flames closed in, reaching for her greedily. Eliseth felt their searing heat, felt her hair frizzle and flame. Her skin was beginning to blister and crack. She clenched her fists so hard that blood ran through her fingers as her nails cut into her palms; clenched her teeth so hard to stop herself from screaming that she thought her jaw must surely break, “It’s just an illusion,” she told herself.

“An illusion!” But oh—the unspeakable pain!

“Restore the winter!” the Archmage roared, his voice cutting into the depths of her agony,

Eliseth shuddered, ignoring the insistent voice. Everything was at stake—everything, I must endure, she told herself, I must! But it was too much—how could anyone endure such suffering? The mind of the Weather-Mage twisted and writhed in panic within its cage of tortured flesh, desperately seeking to end the agony.