Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“I think so ...” The Windeye hesitated. “But if I do, I will not be able to use my powers to hold off the storm until we reach safety, which I otherwise might have done.”

The Cavalrymaster looked down again at the old man, refusing to meet Sangra’s eyes. “Are you sure you can save him if we do get him down?” he asked quietly.

For a moment, the Windeye’s confidence wavered. Parric was asking him to make a decision that might either kill the old man, or kill all four of them. Is it worth it? he found himself thinking. Is it worth the chance of preserving one spent and fragile life, if the alternative is for us all to die here on the mountain? Then suddenly, into his head came a vision of his Grandam—and the old woman was scowling at him fiercely. Chiamh flinched as though she had clouted him and stiffened his spine. “Of course I can save the old man, and we will get him down,” he said, with a confidence that he was far from feeling. As he spoke, he was uncoiling the rope that had originally bound his bundle of blankets.

“Help me tie this around him’ the Windeye instructed, the gradient is steep in the gorge—if we cannot carry him, we may be able to pull him, like a sled.”

“Don’t be daft, man! All that jolting around will finish the poor old beggar!” the Cavalrymaster protested. Chiamh sighed. Parric was right, but the alternative was the one thing he had been hoping to avoid. To change in front of these Outlanders—to betray the secret of the Xandim . . . Not to mention, he thought wryly, the risk of breaking a leg down there among those rocks! But if the old man was to be saved, there was nothing else for it.

“Listen carefully,” he told Parric. “Don’t be alarmed by what you will see in a moment—I’m going to change ...” He knew he should be explaining this better, but the words were sticking in his throat. He hurried on, before they could ask questions: “Tie the old man to my back and I will take him down the gulley. When we reach the bottom take him off again—I’ll need my human shape to get down that last part of the cliff ...”

As he had been speaking he was backing away from them, trying to avoid their puzzled eyes lest they should start asking difficult and untimely questions. “Now, you folk—stand back!”

And with that, the Windeye changed. The shocked cries of his companions shrilled loudly in Chiamh’s equine ears, and their Outlander stink burned his nostrils. He began to tremble all over. What have I done? he thought wildly. Gritting his teeth and blowing hard, he edged nervously toward the others. He had already betrayed the secret of the Xandim—there was no going back now.

Sangra was the first to recover from her shock. “Seven bloody demons,” she breathed—and swallowed hard. “Right,” she said crisply. “Come on, Parric—stop dithering! Help me get Elewin up and get these ropes tied—a horse is the one thing you do understand!”

For Chiamh, the descent of the gorge was a nightmare. He was unaccustomed to carrying burdens in his equine shape, and though the old man’s weight was slight in comparison to the Windeye’s strength, the unfamiliar bulk of the body unbalanced him, making it hard for him to pick his way down the slippery track—especially with the added distraction of keeping Elewin breathing. Also, in this form, he could feel the storm, the pressure of its forefront prickling against his skin and filling him with the instinctive, animal urge to shed his burden and flee. Before they were halfway down the gully, a wild-eyed, shivering Chiamh was dripping with sweat, despite the freezing weather.

“There, hush—it’ll be all right soon. Soon we’ll be down ...” Sangra’s lilting voice was low and soothing. A hand smoothed his neck, stroked his nose. Chiamh flung up his head and snorted in surprise—but her voice helped calm him, and her touch was astonishingly pleasant.

“Sangra, what the blazes do you think you’re doing” The Windeye heard Parric’s frantic whisper from his other side.

“He’s not a bloody horse, you know!”

Sangra’s hand never paused in its gentle soothing. “For now, he is,” she said: Chiamh blessed her understanding. When they reached the bottom of the gorge and removed his burden, Chiamh barely had the strength to change back. Once he had done so, he slumped in the snow, trembling all over. Spots were dancing before his eyes. Sangra draped one of Elewin’s blankets around his shoulders. “Are you all right?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder. He nodded. “Thank you for your help. As a horse it’s hard to think straight . . .” His words lost themselves in a half-shamed smile.

Parric shook his head. “That was the most incredible—” he began, but the Windeye cut him off.

“Ask me later.” Snowflakes were beginning to swirl around them in the rising wind. Chiamh got swiftly to his feet.

“Come, we must get down the cliff before the storm hits.” In fact, he had no idea how to accomplish the final part of the descent. That crumbling, icy ledge would be difficult enough for him, and he was used to it, but for inexperienced, exhausted Outlanders . . . Chiamh was crushed by a weight of despair. After he had brought them so far .

“Have courage, Windeye, for I am also the mountain. Take up your burden and trust me. I will not let you fall.”

“Basileus!” Chiamh cried joyfully. Clearly, the others thought he had lost his mind, and only the proximity of the storm persuaded them to trust him when he assured them that the ledge was not so difficult as it seemed. Even then, they would only follow him when at last he hoisted Elewin across his shoulders, staggering under the weight, and set off alone down the narrow path. Behind him, he could hear them swearing horribly as they began their descent. But as Basileus had promised, it was easy. It was as though their feet clung tight to the stone of the ledge, as though a vast invisible hand held them safe against the rough cliff face. Chiamh’s burden seemed to weigh nothing, as the Moldan’s strength poured into him to take him over that last, desperate lap. Nonetheless, when they finally reached the pinnacle spire at the head of the valley, the Windeye had never been so glad in his life, to see his home.

The peaks beyond the forest turned from rose to blazing gold in the sunrise, Raven came banking low over the campsite, skillfully avoiding the trees. From her vantage point aloft, she could see a great deal of early-morning activity, Yazour and Eliizar were skinning two deer by the stream, watched by Shia, who, no doubt, had played an enthusiastic part in the hunting of the animals, Bohan was coming through the trees from another direction with the rabbits he had snared dangling limply from one huge hand, while Nereni, cooking breakfast by the fire, looked up and waved to her. The winged girl noticed, with a twinge of annoyance, that Aurian and Anvar were missing—again. Raven landed, the whirls of wind from her wings making the fire spark and glow. She exchanged warm greetings with Nereni, and handed over her catch—two pheasants and a wild duck that she had caught napping farther up the course of the stream. “Where are the Magefolk?” she asked.

“Fishing, perhaps, or rounding up the horses.” Nereni gave her a cup of steaming broth in exchange for the birds. “By the Reaper, I’m glad we leave tomorrow! The sooner I have walls around me again, the better it will please me!”

“And I,” Raven muttered, thinking of Harihn. How she had missed him, since he had left for the Tower! For the better part of a month she had labored like a drudge, helping the others prepare for the grueling journey into the mountains. As well as ostensibly keeping an eye on Harihn’s encampment, she had helped to build the rough shelters of woven boughs that were dotted around the clearing, caught birds for Nereni to cook, and scouted for the hunters to locate deer, wild pigs, and other game among the trees. Her scratched and roughened hands bore testimony to the fact that she had hauled wood and water as though she had never been a Princess, and she had still found time on top of these tasks to help Nereni with her endless sewing.