Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

By the time she had also dealt with Parric, who was fuming because as Herdlord, he was forced to remain with the Xandim and could not come to Aerillia with her, Aurian was heartily sick of all the wrangling, and in a fever of anxiety over the fate of Anvar. To distract herself, she Healed Yazour, and did the same for Eliizar (despite his obvious reluctance), Bohan, and Elewin, who was suffering from the effects of the long, swift journey through the mountains with the Xandim, Parric had wanted to leave the old steward behind at the Fastness, but Chiamh and Sangra had persuaded him other-wise. Not all of the Xandim had come with Parric’s force, and not all were convinced of his right to the Herdlord’s title. Had Elewin been left at the Fastness, he would probably not have survived to see his friends return, As it was, he insisted, just seeing Aurian again had rejuvenated him beyond belief, Aurian knew, however, that he was deeply disappointed at not seeing Anvar, and shared her concern over the fate of the missing Mage. Nereni had prepared a meal, and while they all ate, crowded into the tower room and halfway up the stairs, the companions had a chance to catch up on what had happened to one another during their long separation. But though Aurian was glad to be reunited with her long-lost friends, her relief, when she heard the thunder of wings that presaged the returning Winged Folk, knew no bounds.

The bridge of singing stars was a scintillating lacework rainbow that leapt the dark waters of the Timeless Lake from shore to island. As Anvar had expected, the stars were as solid as stone beneath him. What he had not expected, was their response to the touch of his feet. With each step that Anvar took across the bridge, the starstones rang with their unearthly music. Each footfall struck a different chord, until he found himself stepping deliberately, here and there, with varying rhythm, creating from this magic bridge his own song: his own soul-signature.

The nearer Anvar drew to the island, the more he felt a Presence, great and powerful, brooding on the other side. The closer he came, the more his own self-song developed, and the more the Presence seemed to hear, awaken, and approve of the music he created.

The bridge grounded on the island, on a ledge of obsidian stone. With a wrenching pang as profound as grief, the Mage stepped off the arch of song. At once, the music was cut off. Silence fell like a hammer blow. Before Anvar’s horrified eyes, the bridge shimmered, shivered, and disintegrated with a gentle sigh. A shower of stars spattered hissing down into the mere, filming its surface with coils of misty steam, and leaving nothing behind but an aching absence in the depths of Anvar’s soul. Turning sadly away from the destruction, he saw a curving path that sloped up from the ledge and vanished from view around the flank of the island. The Mage sighed, and leaning heavily upon the Staff of Earth, he began to climb.

Round and round the pathway twisted, cut smooth into the craggy cliffs as though the basalt had been soft as butter. The way seemed endless. The Mage was giddy and gasping for breath by the time he reached the summit, where the path ended abruptly at the face of one last, sheer pinnacle—and the black mouth of a cave. Anvar felt the tingle of magic in his fingers, and lifted a hand that was limned, once more, in flickering blue Magelight, and illuminated his way into the cavern.

It was as well that he had the light. A few short paces within, the cave ended abruptly in a solid wall—and a gaping pit that plunged down into darkness at his feet. His heart hammering wildly, Anvar knelt gingerly at the brink. The glowing blue light reflected off the edges of a spiral of steps, cut into the rock and leading down and down into the core of the isle.

“I don’t bloody believe it!” Anvar exploded in a flash of temper to rival the worst of Aurian’s rages. Cursing viciously, he set off down the stairway, dwelling on dark and baleful thoughts about the benighted idiot who couldn’t just make a tunnel straight through the rock at the base of the island.

Anvar’s grousing was cut short as he realized that he was no longer within the isle at all. At the bottom of the steps, he found himself in the midst of a forest. A perfect forest—carved in stone! The Mage stopped dead, gaping. The illusion was flawless. Each bough, each twig, each delicate jade leaf was perfectly and intricately carved, right down to the tiniest detail. Stone birds perched here and there, caught with throats swollen in mid-song, their wings half opened as though poised to take flight. Minute stone caterpillars looped along the slender twigs. Blossoms of translucent quartz opened in shining clusters along the boughs and a cool, silvery light filtered down between the trees, its source obscured by the lacework of leaves above.

The voice, when it came, was feminine, and most unusual: not old, not young, it managed to sound lilting and melodic, yet deep, harsh, and rasping, all at the same time.

“Welcome to the wood in the heart of the stone—or the stone in the heart of the wood! Which is it?” The weird voice chuckled. “Come, young wizard! Follow your nose, for in this place, all paths lead to me!”

The sense of power in that voice was overwhelming. Though all of Anvar’s instincts were screaming at him to turn and flee, as far and as fast as possible, he knew there could be no returning. With a little shrug, he began to walk, on and on, between the endless ranks of trees.

Stone trunks, stone branches, birds and insects—all were clearly and eerily outlined in that deceptive dappled light that came from somewhere beyond the wood. The Mage felt overawed by the vastness of this place; as though he were a little child strayed into some great ruler’s pillared hall. Though the magic of this timeless place kept him from being troubled by hunger and thirst, his legs were growing weary and his feet throbbed in his boots. Anvar strove to ignore the discomfort. He must keep his mind alert and ready for the coming confrontation.

The trees came suddenly to an end. Anvar stumbled out into a vast open space—a gigantic cavern, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell, for the place was so huge that its boundaries—if boundaries there were—were lost in the farthest shadows. The ground, furred to resemble moss by tiny, prickling spikes of crystallized minerals, swelled upward in a gently curving slope from where he stood. At the summit was the most gigantic tree that Anvar had ever seen, its girth greater than the massive weather-dome at the Academy, its trunk far taller than the Mages’ Tower, soaring up and up to finally be lost in the shadows far above. And Anvar had found, at last, the source of the diffuse silver light that had illuminated the forest. Though all the space around was enfolded in the wings of shadow, the tree itself glowed richly from within, as though filled with captured moonlight.

The immensity of this ancient titan outraged Anvar’s senses. In order to maintain his reeling wits, he looked only at the lower part of the tree, concentrating on details. Stone or wood? Even as the Mage drew closer, it was impossible to tell. The fabric of the tree had that same dense gray graininess of the carven Door Between the Worlds, which had led him to the Well of Souls.

“Well perceived, O Wizard! The Portal to the Well of Souls was indeed made from a bough of this tree. But how came you to tread that perilous road? And why are you still here to remember it?”

Anvar, startled by the voice, looked up into the tree.

And there, at about the height of three men from the ground, where nothing had existed save the plain and featureless trunk, was a door—a circular door that resembled a knothole in the wood. A rough stairway, seemingly a natural part of the tree, rather than steps that had been cut there, slanted in a curve up to the portal from one of the immense roots. The stairway curved out and widened at the top, to form a ledge or platform outside the door.