Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

After the baking heat of the desert, the cold of the mountains had presented a problem, for the robes they had been wearing were too thin for these colder lands, and the clothing stored in Dhiammara to equip the Khisu’s raids to the north had been taken by Harihn. The companions had been lucky, however. At the forest’s edge, Bohan had found the desert tents that the Prince’s party had abandoned. Nereni, who had guarded her case of needles like a royal treasure all the way across the desert, was making new clothes for everyone from the silken cloth, sewing it in double layers quilted with wool from wild goats, the fur of rabbits snared by Bohan, and soft warm down from Raven’s birds. It was tedious and painstaking work, which took up most of Nereni’s time, and as much as the winged girl could spare. The others helped as they could, with Bohan, to everyone’s astonishment, producing miracles of deft and delicate stitchery with fingers so thick that they obscured the needle. Aurian had proved to be useless at sewing, and though she was now in no condition to help with the heavier work around the encampment, she had, to Raven’s disgust, still managed to find ways to get out of the detested chore.

The hunters, including Shia, had been bringing in all the game they could find. Some they ate, glad of it after the privations of the desert, but most they smoked and dried for the journey. Even the horses had been busy, foraging for tender new grass. The improvement in their condition was visible by the day, while the days had flowed past as swiftly as the forest’s running streams—until at long last, just as Raven’s frustration had reached breaking point, the Mages had decided that it was time to leave.

“Surely we must have enough now.” Aurian looked at the pile of speckled trout that glittered on the streambank, and straightened her aching back with a grimace.

“It’s better than sewing, though, isn’t it?” Anvar teased.

Aurian grimaced. “Anything is better than sewing!”

“Anything is better than your sewing!” Anvar chuckled. “Apart from its appalling effect on your temper, I had visions of your clothes falling to pieces on us halfway up a mountain!”

“And you could do better?” Aurian retorted.

“Not I! We Magefolk may have many talents, but needlework seems not to be one of them, somehow.”

Aurian had managed to escape the dreaded sewing by—taking up fishing, and so it was that Anvar had mastered the art of trout-tickling at last; not in the sea, but in the icy forest streams, with Aurian as his tutor. Forral had taught her the skill long ago, in Eilin’s lake, and Aurian’s heart was wrenched again and again by the memory of her younger self, a skinny, tangle-haired urchin, elbow-deep in the still lake waters as she copied the swordsman’s every move, her eyes filled with adoration, her face alight with excitement. Ah, those had been happy days! Now she was grown, and had drunk the bitter cup of grief and hardship to its very dregs. Another head, blond instead of brown, nestled close to hers as she peered into the amber forest streams, with Anvar’s brilliant blue eyes straying from the waters again and again, to peer longingly into her face.

Anvar, seated on the streambank, was cleaning the fish with quick, deft skill. “Are you coming with us tonight?” he asked her conversationally, as she bundled their catch into one of Nereni’s woven baskets.

Aurian knew that the question, casual though it sounded, was anything but, and could easily provoke another of the squabbles that were all too frequent between them nowadays. Since they had escaped the desert, Anvar’s protectiveness was beginning to grate on her—however, Aurian knew there were limits now, to what she could do.

“What?” she asked him in scandalized tones. “You want me to go out stealing horses? In the forest, in the middle of the night, in my condition?” She grinned at the quick flash of relief in his face. “Got you!”

“Wretch!” He flung a fish at her, and Aurian clawed the slippery creature out of the air just before it hit her.

“Do you mind?” she protested. “We have to eat that!”

“In fact,” she said, returning to their original conversation, “I intend to be in bed and asleep by the time you leave tonight, so don’t make a noise when you go.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it!” scoffed Anvar. “Really, though, do you mean it, Aurian? You don’t mind?”

The Mage looked at him gravely. “Anvar, I mind it more than I can say. But what use would I be? I can’t move quickly, I’d find it hard to fight these days . . . But what if it’s a trap? Have you thought of that? For the life of me, I can’t see why Harihn’s folk have stayed here so long! And I’m amazed they haven’t found us!”

Anvar shook his head. “How can it be a trap?” he argued. “They don’t know we’re going to steal their horses, and with Shia and Raven guarding our camp, none of them could have come near enough to spy on us! If you ask me, I don’t think the Prince is there at all”

“What?” This was news to Aurian.

“Well, think about it. Raven had no idea of their numbers, but when Shia scouted, she said that half of them were missing—mostly men-at-arms. You know how callous Harihn was about leaving us behind—I think he’s gone ahead with his soldiers, abandoning his housefolk who were likely to hold him up on his way through the mountains. If those people are trying to settle here, that would explain the hunting and gathering, and their lack of exploration.”

“Dear Gods, I never thought of that!” Aurian frowned. “It would be just like Harihn. If you’re right, it should make tonight’s expedition much easier, but all the same ...” She leaned across and laid a hand on his arm. “Anvar, for goodness’ sake be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He reached out to hug her—and Aurian, with a wicked grin, dropped a fish, which she had been saving for just such a moment, down the back of his tunic.

“Shia, are you in position yet?” Anvar peered through the bushes at the dim and shadowy shapes that grazed, content and oblivious, in the clearing.

“How fast do you think I can move in this tangle?” Shia’s terse mental voice came back at him. “Do you want me to scare the stupid creatures all the way back to the desert?” There was a moment’s pause, then: “I’m in position now. Can you see them?”

“They’re right in front of me. Any sign of a guard on your side?” Because Anvar possessed the night-vision of a Mage, he had been the one selected to go in close with Shia to steal the Khazalim mounts.

“Only one—where Raven said he’d be,” the cat informed him. “The fool is fast asleep!”

“Perfect!” Anvar grinned. “Move in slowly, so that the horses don’t get panicked. We don’t want to wake him!”

“I know, I know!”

In the bushes, Anvar waited. Somewhere on the other side of the clearing, he knew, Shia would be creeping up carefully on the Khazalim beasts. She was upwind of them, and at any time now . . . One of the horses flung its head up and snorted, scenting the predator. Hobbled as they were, they could not stampede. Instead, as the sense of unease spread from one beast to the others, they began to move in a tightly gathered knot away from the danger. Out of the clearing they came, away from the sleeping guard—and, Anvar thought with a grin, right into his arms!

“Come, my beauties,” the Mage crooned softly, slipping a rope around the neck of the leading horse. In normal circumstances, they might have tended to shy away from a stranger, but now, with the cat at large in the forest, they knew that a human meant protection. Anvar whistled softly, and Yazour, Eliizar, and Bohan came melting out of the forest to help him. Cutting the hobbles on four of the horses, they led them away, back through the forest to their camp, where everything was packed and ready for them to leave at dawn, before the Khazalim discovered their missing mounts.