Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“What now, Aurian?” Yazour, about to fling himself on the spindly, backless couch, took a second look at its delicate construction and lowered himself more circumspectly.

The Mage eased her worn boots off and lay back in the central hollow of the peculiar, circular bed. “Let me eat and rest for a little while, and as soon as we have some daylight, we’ll try to find out what happened to Anvar.”

Aurian reached out to the low table that stood by the bed, and took another piece of the heavy, soggy bread that seemed to have been made from ground-up tubers. She grimaced as she swallowed. “Gods, they are short of food,” she commented. “If the Winged Folk are so desperate, no wonder Blacktalon managed to gain his hold over the city.”

Yazour grunted a sleepy response. His eyes were already closing, and briefly, Aurian envied him. Forral had taught her, long ago, the warrior’s trick of snatching brief moments of sleep wherever possible, but though the circular tower chamber, with its thick, draftproof hangings, woven matting, and smoldering iron brazier in the corner, was the warmest place she had encountered since leaving the desert, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to stave off the urge to sleep, she knew there would be no real rest for her until she found her fellow Mage. Aurian took a sip of the thin, sour wine that was all that was left in Aerillia, and wished in vain for liafa. When a disturbance on the landing platform outside heralded the arrival of Chiamh, she welcomed him with undisguised relief.

Shia opened a sleepy eye as the Windeye entered, and came sharply to attention. The cat was as anxious as Aurian to find some trace of Anvar. Chiamh dusted flecks of snow from his cloak and stood shivering by the brazier, warming his hands. The Mage passed a cup of wine to him. “Did you find anything?” she asked urgently.

The Windeye shrugged. “I have news indeed—but good or bad, I cannot say. Have you heard of the Moldai, Lady?”

“The giant earth-elementals?” Aurian frowned. “Only in the ancient legends of the Cataclysm. I thought the ancient Magefolk had sent them out of the world, along with the Phaerie. What have they to do with anything?”

“More than you think.” Chiamh answered. “The Moldai were not sent out of the world, but merely imprisoned, sleeping, in the mountains that are their mundane flesh and bone.” He laid an urgent hand on her arm, his nearsighted brown eyes blinking up at her earnestly. “Aurian, the Moldai are awake once more. In my own lands, I have spoken several times with the Moldan of the Wyndveil Peak. And do you know what has awakened them? The finding of the Staff of Earth.”

Aurian stared at him, aghast. “What? You mean these things are on the loose again? And it’s all my fault?”

“Not on the loose, exactly—not in this level of existence, at any rate,” Ghiamh told her. “But they are awake now, and powerful—and not all have the good intentions of my friend Basileus, the Wyndveil Moldan’

Aurian saw his hesitation, and shuddered. Already, she had a sinking feeling that she knew what his next words would be. “Are you trying to tell me,” she said softly, “that there’s one of these elementals here in Aerillia?”

“There is,” the Windeye answered grimly. He could barely meet her gaze. “The Staff of Earth would prove an irresistible temptation to such a creature. Though this peak is unmistakably a Moldan, its consciousness is absent from this world, I fear it wanders other realms, far beyond this mundane plane—and that if you say your friend is not dead, I fear that it has taken Anvar with it, to wrest away the Staff. If it succeeds ...” The Windeye shuddered. “Who can say what will become of our poor world.”

Aurian leaned against the icy stone balustrade of the landing porch, watching the sky grow pale in the east. In the bleak dawn twilight, the city of Aerillia looked alien and mysterious, with its buttresses, and carvings both grotesque and beautiful; its lacework arches that pierced the stone at random; its spires and hanging turrets; and its utter lack of streets or any structure that was regular or level, and would give it a sense of order to the human eye. The Mage pushed back the hood of her cloak and shivered, letting the icy dawn wind cut through the cobwebs of fatigue in her mind. She was trying desperately to think of some way of reaching Anvar in time to help him—if it wasn’t already too late. If her fellow Mage was already beyond the confines of the mundane world, she would not know if he died there. Wretchedly, Aurian dropped her head onto her outstretched arms. “Damn you, Anvar,” she sighed. “Why did you have to go and do this, just when I had finally admitted to myself that I loved you?”

Aurian felt helpless and frustrated. Chiamh’s words had filled her with dismay and dread, for without the Staff of Earth, she could not pass into the realms of the High Magic, to go to Anvar’s aid. And mixed with the dreadful, clutching fear she felt for the Mage’s safety, there was an even deeper terror. If the Staff of Earth should be lost, she had nothing left to fight with. No matter what she did, Miathan would have won already.

The Mage blinked in the brightening light, and tried to tell herself that the blurring of her vision was just tiredness, and not tears, Suddenly, Aurian froze, narrowing her eyes against the dazzling dawnlight. That was not the light of the sun! It was brighter, more colorful. Great spars of jeweled light leapt skyward like an aurora. It was coming from the wrong direction: not east, but northeast—from the ruins of the temple!

With a stifled curse, Aurian whirled, shouting for the Winged Folk that Elster had provided to be bearers and messengers for the unwinged visitors in their lofty, inaccessible tower. “Hurry,” she cried, as they emerged from their chamber rubbing sleepy eyes, “Bring your nets! I must get to the temple at once!”

The interior of the Cailleach’s massive tree was dark even beyond the compass of a Mage’s night vision. Anvar groped in panic for the door, to let some light into the chamber, but flail though he might through the cloying darkness, his seeking hands met only empty air. With a muttered curse, the Mage poured his powers into the Staff of Earth. The gem between the Serpents’ jaws flared into life, sending shadows fleeing from its emerald blaze. But its magic did not belong within this timeless world. Some other will opposed it: a power much older than the Staff, and far, far stronger. The great gem flickered, its radiance sinking to a wan, sickly, firefly spark.

Before Anvar had even had time to take note of his surroundings, the darkness crowded round him once again—all except for one pale slip of light at the edge of his vision.

The Mage turned, frowning. What was that? As his eyes fell on it, the phantom glimmer brightened and expanded, the slender bar of light widening like a casement being slowly opened from another world. Anvar stiffened. Was this another of the Lady’s tricks? The line of light writhed, becoming curved and fluid, transforming into a succession of familiar shapes; a swan, a crown, a rose, a leaping salmon. And finally, a harp.

The light flared to incandescent brilliance, leaping out in a thick, dazzling, opalescent beam that fixed upon the Mage like a pointing forefinger. Anvar gave a wordless cry of rapture. The unearthly song of the star music flooded his mind as the power of Gramarye coursed through his body, consuming him, turning his racing blood to molten fire. Not even when he’d wielded the Staff had he known such glory! A sense of Tightness, of belonging, washed over him from some external source, and was echoed in his heart as he accepted the power of the Harp, and the Artifact claimed him for its own.