Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“Inella, Lady,” mumbled the brat.

“Speak up, girl! Tell me—why haven’t I seen you before?”

“Wasn’t here before.”

Eliseth’s hand itched to slap her again, but she kept her temper reined. She required fear and respect from the girl, but she also needed her loyalty. With an effort, she managed to produce a smile, “Are you hungry, child?”

The girl nodded, her large eyes fixed on the serving dishes that crowded for space on Eliseth’s supper tray. Her mouth quirking in an odd little smile, Eliseth divided the contents of the tray, serving herself with generous portions of beef stew and steamed vegetables, but leaving enough in the covered dishes to feed the starveling child. She took one of the sweet apple pasties, spicy with cloves and cinnamon, and left the other for Inella. “Here, child.”

She handed back the tray. “Take that off to a quiet corner and feed yourself—by the look of you, Janok keeps you on slender rations! Report to me first thing tomorrow, and we’ll replace those disreputable rags you’re wearing,”

The dull, resentful look had vanished from Inella’s face. Already, it seemed that Eliseth’s ill-tempered slap had been forgotten, “Oh, Lady—thank you!” The child’s eyes were bright with gratitude as she took the proffered tray, which tipped perilously as she curtsied,

Eliseth steadied the tray quickly before the dishes could slide to the floor. “Off you go,” she said, “Enjoy your supper, child—and when you report back to Janok, tell him that from now on, I shall want you as my personal maid!”

When the girl, still babbling her gratitude, had departed, Eliseth sat down to enjoy her first hearty meal since Miathan had cast her into the shape of a hag. It was good, solid fare—a far cry from the broth and gruel that were all she’d been able to manage with the toothless gums of an old crone. The Mage ate with great appetite, but more than the food, she was savoring the thought that once again she would have a willing tool, enslaved by her false and easy charm, to do her bidding. Eliseth smiled. She was sure the little maid would prove useful eventually. Mortals usually did.

Eilin’s Valley cupped the rich sunset colors like a handful of jewels. In the glittering waters of the lake, a unicorn disported in the shallows, striking starbursts of spray from her bounding hooves and scattering a rain of diamond droplets with her silvery horn. D’arvan, watching, smiled. Gods, she was breathtaking] The most beautiful creature that had ever lived, and he was the only one privileged to see her—yet he would have traded the marvel in an instant to have his Maya back! Her hearty laugh and sense of fun; her blunt common sense so richly mingled with compassion; her slight, wiry form with its strong, sun-browned limbs; her glossy dark hair, neatly braided warrior-fashion, or lying loose in crinkled waves across a pillow . . .

As though he too were emerging form the waters of the lake, D’arvan shook himself free from dreams of longing as the unicorn approached, the deepening twilight blue-silver on her moonspun hide, D’arvan put his arms around her neck and the two of them—Mage and Miracle—embraced, sharing, for a moment, their loneliness. How long would this wretched isolation last? D’arvan wondered, He and Maya were doing all that his father, the Forest Lord, had asked. His magic, augmented, he suspected, by the ancient powers of the Phaerie, had kept Eliseth’s deadly winter out of the Vale, which glowed with burgeoning life like a solitary emerald set into the iron-locked lands around. Trees, aware and wakeful, filled the great bowl from brim to brim, providing shelter, protection, and sustenance for the enemies of the Archmage. D’arvan and the Lady Eilin’s wolves patrolled the Valley, protecting those who dwelt within from invasion and danger. Maya guarded the lakeside, and the wooden bridge led to the island and its hidden secret—the legendary Sword of Flame, forged in ancient times by the Dragonfolk to be the greatest of the Artifacts of Power.

D’arvan sighed. Were it not for the accursed Sword . . . But wishes were useless. The Weapon of the High Magic did exist, and until the One for whom it had been forged came to claim it, as had been foretold long ago, he and Maya must fulfill their lonely Guardianship. The Mage wondered, as he often did, who the wielder would be. It’s all very well, he thought, for us to assume that this person will be on our side. It could be anyone! What if it turns out to be the Archmage? His guts twisted in terror at the thought.

Maya—or rather, the unicorn—nudged him sharply in the stomach with her nose, making him totter backward to keep his balance. “All right,” D’arvan told her. “I know. I’m wasting time with my foolish notions, while you want to take a last look at your friend Hargorn before he leaves.”

Darkness was falling, and all was still, save for the rhythmic chirp of frogs in the rushes. Ghostly tendrils of silver mist were swirling over the dark, smooth surface of the water. D’arvan held up the Lady’s staff, and the trees parted before him, bowing their leafy heads in homage over the path they had created. Together they left the lakeside, Mage and unicorn, vanishing into the shadowed forest like the last, fading memories of a dream.

It was not far from the lakeside to the camp of Vannor’s rebels. Though D’arvan and the unicorn were invisible to the Mortals, they remained in the thicket that edged the clearing. D’arvan had tried, once or twice, to enter the camp, but had been unnerved by the blank expressions of Vannor’s fugitives, as their eyes looked right through him. It was lonely enough being invisible, the Mage had decided, without being reminded of the fact.

Invisible or not, D’arvan had done the rebels proud by way of a camp. His father had told him to shelter Miathan’s foes, and he had done his best by way of preparation, even before Vannor’s folk had arrived. With the protection of the trees uppermost in his mind, D’arvan had taken every precaution to eliminate the need for the fugitives to cut living wood. The rounded shelters that ringed the clearing were made from saplings and shrubs that the Earth-Mage had persuaded to embrace and intertwine, leaving hollows within their hearts where men might live. D’arvan made sure that a pile of deadwood appeared each day, transported by an apport spell—taught him in his brief apprenticeship by the Lady Eilin—from the farthest reaches of the forest. Paths appeared wherever Vannor’s people wished to go. The filbert and fruit trees, which throve by the lakeside, had been cajoled into producing early harvests, and though the island, with Eilin’s garden, was forbidden to the outlaws, D’arvan had rounded up most of her scattered goats and poultry, and had left them where they had soon been found.

The young Mage smiled, remembering how unnerved the rebels had been at first—and how quickly they had settled in. Vannor’s redoubtable housekeeper, Dulsina, had, of course, been the first to point out that they were clearly being helped and protected, so they ought to make the most of it—as indeed they had. D’arvan’s haven, apparently, was a vast’ improvement over their hideaway in the sewers of Nexis!

It was with great reluctance that Vannor had eventually pointed out that this idyll in the forest was accomplishing nothing. Accepting the need for tidings of their enemies, and also wishing to increase his forces and bring more people from the city to this place of safety, he had decided that someone must return to Nexis. Hargorn, to Maya’s palpable dismay, had been selected for the mission.

“Are you sure you have everything?” Dulsina asked Hargorn.

Vannor, who sat watching on a nearby log, grinned to himself at the disgusted expression on the veteran’s face.