Maggie Furey: Harp of Winds

Taking a silver knife from her belt, the Lady of the Mists cut off a lock of her long hair. Reaching out to the Harp, still clutched in the startled Mage’s grasp, she passed her hand across the glittering Artifact, The snowy lock vanished, transformed into a waterfall of silver strings that bridged the crystal frame. Power blazed up within Anvar, as his mind was flooded with joyful star-song. Green light blazed up from the Staff of Earth in his belt, to join the silver incandescence of the Harp. The Lady raised her hand in farewell ...

And Anvar found himself standing on a snowy mountaintop, looking at the sun rising over the city of Aerillia, One last message from the Cailleach echoed in his mind—and in his hands was the Harp of Winds.

The Skyfolk bearers were terrified of the growing blaze of incandescence within the shell of the temple. Only the fact that they were even more afraid of Aurian, made them take her there at all. They dropped her, net and all, into the midst of the ruined building, and fled as if for their very lives.

The Mage released herself from the meshes of the net, and began to pick her way across the stretch of rubble and shattered stone toward the source of the unearthly light. Her sword—her dear, familiar Coronach, which she had recovered safely from the Tower of Incondor, was in her hand, but she found herself desperately missing the reassuring power of the Staff of Earth. She had no idea what lay behind the flaring knot of rainbow brilliance—but for certain, it would be beyond the scope of any human weapon. But despite the fear that set her heart racing, Aurian went on into the heart of the blaze, irresistibly drawn, like a moth to a candle.

As the Mage walked forward, the scintillating radiance began to shrink and coalesce to form a human shape, clad all in blinding light, A long-limbed, rangy, heartbreakingly familiar figure ...

“Anvar!” Aurian cried. Then she was running forward, ignoring the stones that tilted perilously beneath her feet, her heart flying ahead of her across the intervening space. Then they were embracing, both of them laughing and crying and trying to talk all at once,

“I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Thank the gods you’re safe!”

“Is the child all right?”

“Where have you been?”

As their words tripped over one another, both of them started laughing again, clinging to one another as they rocked with the slightly hysterical mirth that stemmed from pure relief, Aurian dashed away happy tears, and looked into Anvar’s face. His blue eyes connected with her own like a flare of lightning, and Aurian trembled, half amazed by her own longing. “My dearest love ...” she breathed,

Anvar pulled her toward him, and as his lips touched her own, she felt the sudden flash fire of desire spark between them—that same explosive, powerful surge of love and longing that she had used unknowing, so long ago, to release Anvar from the clutches of Death in the slave pens of the Khazalim. And, just as it had happened then, their very souls seemed to touch—to meet and meld, as Aurian felt Anvar’s joy, and her own, commingling to lift them both on the brightest of wings . . .

Aurian gasped. No one had ever told her it would be like this between Magefolk! Having formerly had a Mortal lover, she had never known that this deep, intense linkage of hearts and minds and emotions existed. The Mage felt Anvar’s amazed delight in her mind, matching and augmenting her own dizzy joy. His mouth fastened on hers with a greed that matched her own as his hand explored her face and body, kindling a desire she had missed so long. They never noticed the sharpness of the stones as they sank to the ground, their cloaks their only shelter. And there, in the remains of the Temple of Yinze, in the ruins of an evil priest’s dream, Anvar and Aurian fulfilled at last a love that had started with the seeds of need and mutual dependence, and taken them halfway across the world, through friendship, into passion.

By the time they were ready to notice anything beyond each other, the sun was already high enough to peep over the shattered walls and into the ruined temple. Anvar sighed contentedly and reached over to brush a wayward curl from Aurian’s glowing cheek. “You were well worth waiting for,” he murmured softly into her ear.

Aurian grinned wickedly, “Suddenly, I can’t imagine why I made you wait so long!”

“You weren’t ready, my love,” Anvar said seriously-then he grinned back at her. “Apart, of course, from being the most irritating, stubborn, contrary wretch—”

“Well, of all the nerve!” Aurian spluttered—but he stilled her protest with a kiss.

“What happened to the child?” he asked her, when they could breathe again.

For an instant, Aurian’s expression clouded—then she lifted her chin determinedly.

“He’s beautiful,” she said firmly. “And he’ll be all right, I know he will, just as soon as we work out a way to get Miathan’s curse lifted.”

Anvar listened, with increasing sadness and concern, as Aurian told him about Wolf. He was about to reply, when:

“Welcome back, Anvar!” The voice in his mind came from Shia, of course, and Aurian’s wry smile told him that she was listening, too. “Aurian—I should warn you that they have started to look for you,” the great cat went on, and then her voice grew smug. “Otherwise, of course, I should never have dreamed of interrupting you—”

“You were listening!” Anvar felt his face growing warm, and looking across at Aurian, he saw her blushing, too.

“One could hardly help but hear you,” Shia snorted. “I would say that your emotions were broadcasting clear to the lands of the Xandim!” Her mental voice grew softer as she stopped teasing them, “I am so very happy for you both. Unfortunately, the world will not wait for you. Raven wants to talk—”

“All right, we’re coming,” Aurian sighed resignedly. “That is, as soon as we can flag down some Winged Polk to bring us across,” She rolled over, and swore, “Ouch! What on earth am I lying on?”

“Oh gods,” yelped Anvar in dismay, “It went right out of my mind. The Harp, Aurian! I have the Harp of Winds!”

“What?” Aurian yelled. “Why the bloody blazes didn’t you tell me before?”

Anvar grinned, “Well, I was somewhat distracted before . . . Here, let’s get some clothes on before we freeze, and I’ll show it to you.

“First things first,” Anvar returned the Staff of Earth to Aurian with a flourish, “I believe this belongs to you, Lady.”

Aurian’s expression of joy and relief as she took the Staff made Anvar smile. Then he held out the Harp to her, and her eyes went wide with wonder as she beheld its shimmering beauty.

“Oh, Anvar , . .”

Aurian reached out to take the Harp of Winds—and as she did so, Anvar was seized with a strange and powerful reluctance to let the Artifact out of his hands. The Harp too seemed to object to a change of ownership. Jangling vibrations ran through Anvar’s body as it thrummed discordantly. “No . . .” it sang to him. “No!” Almost of its own volition, it seemed to jerk away from Aurian’s outstretched hands, and Anvar went rigid with alarm as he saw her frown. A shadow seemed to fall between them . . . Then Aurian relaxed, and shook her head with a wry grimace. Once, more they stood in sunlight, and Anvar breathed again.

“Well, it certainly knows what it wants—and that doesn’t seem to be me,” said Aurian ruefully. “How daft of me—I should have known. Everything fits, Anvar. You won the Harp, just as I won the Staff—and frankly, of the two of us, you’re the musician.” She took a deep breath. “It couldn’t have worked out more perfectly.”

Anvar was amazed and humbled by such generosity of spirit. “But you were supposed to find the Artifacts,” he protested. Aurian shook her head, “No one ever said that, neither the Dragon nor the Leviathan. They just said that all three were needed. The Dragon did say that the Sword would be mine, but as for the others . . . Anvar, I’m truly glad you have the Harp. After what we’ve just shared, I couldn’t bear to think of the Artifacts coming between us,”