Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

The door swung slowly open. There, framed in the shimmering golden light that shone from the tree’s interior, was a ... Anvar blinked, and rubbed his eyes. The figure was an eagle—no, an ancient crone . . . No. It was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The deceptive figure was clad from head to foot in a cloak of black feathers, cowled and fringed with white. For an instant, Anvar’s vision blurred and he perceived an eagle once more, then his attention shifted and he saw a woman, with the face of the carving he had last seen in the tunnel that led to the Timeless Lake, What he had mistaken for a cowl of white feathers was her swirling mane of snowy hair. Her eyes . . . Anvar had expected them to be hawk-dark, or eagle-gold, but instead they were pale, almost colorless, matching and blending into her white face and wintry hair, They fixed upon the Mage with unnerving regard.

“Well? I asked you a question. How came you to pass Death’s portal, and survive?”

In the face of the Cailleach’s impatience, Anvar scrambled together his scattered wits. He bowed low before he answered. “Madam, the answer to your question I think you know already, Did you not search through all the contents of my mind, while I was captivated by your image in the tunnel?”

“Captivated, eh?” The moonstone eyes held a gleam of approval—and something more. “As well as being perceptive, you have a clever way with words, young Wizard. And you are right, of course. Otherwise, I might have thought you had come to relieve my lonely exile.” Her brief smile was cut off before it could reach her eyes, and her expression grew cold. “As it is, I am well aware that you have come to steal the Harp from me.”

“Steal, Madam?” Anvar strove to keep his fear from showing on his face. “That is harsh. I had hoped, yes, to persuade you to give it to me. It was made by Magefolk in the mundane world, and there it truly belongs. I desperately need to take it back with me, to save my world from evil.”

“What, all by yourself? Are you some mighty hero, then, all set to save your world?” There was no disguising the mockery in her tone.

Anvar, almost stung to making some rash retort, controlled himself just in time. It would not do to forget how powerful, how dangerous, this creature truly was. “Not a hero,” he told the Cailleach. “I never wanted this—any of it—except my powers, and Aurian. Especially Aurian. But it’s better than using the Harp for destruction, is it not? It’s better than letting such a thing of wonder molder here, unloved and unused, far from the world of its creation. Even now, I hear it, calling out to me like a lost child, begging me to take it home.” As he uttered those last words, he realized that they were the truth. The thrilling starsong had not died with the bridge, but still murmured softly, somewhere in the back of his mind. But now the music carried words: half comprehended yet coming clearer all the time.

The Cailleach raised an eyebrow. “The Harp sings to you?”

But Anvar heard the tremor of doubt behind her mocking tones, saw her eyes flick away, infinitesimally, before coming back to pierce him. And yes, the Harp was singing to him, with the crystal starry music of the bridge, from the hinterland beyond his consciousness. And it told him how to answer her. “Of course it sings to me. You know it does. Who kept the waves of the lake from harming me? Who built the bridge of stars to bring me here? At first I thought that was your doing, but now I know better.” Anvar lifted his head, and looked her in the eye. His glance flicked across the Cailleach’s pitiless raptor’s gaze, and they clashed like two slender blades of steel. The Lady was the first to look away. When she looked back, she was smiling.

No trace of the crone, now. No trace of the eagle. Her face was flawless, youthful, and alluring. Beautiful. Irresistible. Anvar’s heart beat faster. “Fool,” sang the Harp, in the back of his mind. “Dupe. Beware deception ...” Just as the power of the Staff of Earth had a distinctly masculine aspect, the tone of the Harp felt indisputably feminine.

“Where are you?” the Mage called back to it, using mind-speech. “How can I find you?”

“Within. Within ...”

Anvar grinned up at the Cailleach. “Why don’t you invite me inside?” In her eyes, he surprised a flash of victory. She beckoned him up the curving staircase, and as he entered the numinous golden glow beyond the portal, he heard the door spring shut behind him like the steel jaws of a trap.

The golden light was much brighter inside. It dazzled his eyes, burned into his brain. It was like falling into the heart of the sun. Anvar staggered forward, blind, dazed, disoriented. He heard the triumphant cackle of an old hag’s laughter—or was it the harsh cry of a bird of prey? Arms twined around his neck, pulling him down; clawed nails like talons impaled his skin. An undulating body clung to him, pressing against his flesh. Moist lips fastened on his mouth, sucking at his breath, drawing the life-force from his body. Anvar struggled, fighting for breath, drowning in the tidal wave of the creature’s lust . . .

“The Staff, fool! Use the Staff, before she takes it from you!.” The song of the Harp cut shrill across his reeling consciousness. Such was its power that Anvar obeyed instinctively. He lifted his right hand, and brought the Staff of Earth crashing down upon the head of the clinging succubus.

The vampire lover vanished. The air was split asunder by a hideous shriek, as the world plunged into blackness.

It was full night by the time Aurian and her winged escort reached Aerillia. The Skyfolk who were bearing her were plainly unhappy about the risk of flying in darkness, and to compound the problem, the peaks were smothered in low-lying banks of cloud, reducing visibility to nothing.

The Mage could hear the muttered complaints of her bearers as she dangled perilously below them in the swinging net. And they thought they had problems! She snorted in disgust. Of all the insane, ridiculous ways to get from one place to another . . . The rough rope meshes dug into her body and the raw, damp chill had pierced her to the very bone, despite the blankets in which she had wrapped herself. And for someone afraid of heights, this was definitely not the way to travel! Aurian was wholeheartedly glad of the darkness, and obscuring cloud, so that she could not see how far she would have to fall, if these winged idiots should accidentally drop her.

“Aurian? My friend, is that you?” They must be nearing Aerillia at last. Hearing Shia’s mental call, the Mage forgot her fear in her concern for her companion. Shia sounded unhappy, and unusually subdued. “Are you all right?” she asked the cat.

“Khanu and I are cold and cramped and hungry. We daren’t even try to dig our way out, for fear of attracting attention. There are Skyfolk down here searching . . . For Anvar as well as ourselves.” Shia’s despairing tone told the Mage that Anvar had not yet been found.

Shuddering, Aurian tried to banish the cold hand of fear that clamped around her heart. I’ll find him, she told herself stubbornly. I know he isn’t dead—I would have felt it! Firmly, she put that worry out of her mind for the present and turned her attention back to Shia. “But in the message I sent, I told Raven to tell the Winged Folk you weren’t to be harmed!”

“Pah!” spat Shia. “She already betrayed us once. I’d put as much trust in Raven as I would put in the rest of these murdering skyborne fiends!” There was a long pause—so long that the Mage began to worry, then an unknown voice—another cat, for sure, but definitely male, broke in: “They killed Hreeza.”

“We failed her,” Shia added bitterly. “We could not come to her in time.” Into Aurian’s mind came a vision of a great cat standing at bay in a ruined building. Her black muzzle was frosted with gray and her movements were stiff with age, but her eyes were still ablaze with courage and defiance. A crowd of Winged Folk were closing around her, armed with stones and knives. “It took her a long time to die.” Shia’s mental tones were almost inaudible. The picture broke up and vanished as Shia lost control of the vision, and Aurian’s heart was overwhelmed by the agony of the great cat’s grief. A wave of anger rose up in her against the Winged Folk who had done this dreadful deed.