Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Anvar, who could see better than the others, was in the lead. As he walked, only part of his attention was given to picking out the best trail through the dense, crowding woodland. He was conscious of a sense of relief that the stealing of the horses had been so easy, but at the same time there was a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind. It had been easy, all right—too bloody easy! Just what, Anvar wondered, is going on? All things considered, he would be glad to get out of this forest at last!

As the horses picked their way up a tortuous goat track in the dappled light beneath the trees, Aurian looked around, saying a last farewell to the place that had been her haven for the last month or so. Ironically, now that it was time for the Mage to leave, she was reluctant to quit the forest’s shelter. But it was not the beauty of the place that made her hesitate. It was pure fear.

Since her powers had left her, Aurian’s vulnerability terrified her almost to the point of paralysis. After months of flight and fighting, her body had betrayed her, forcing her to pause in her struggle. Her fears, however, emerged while she slept, filling her dreams with nightmare Wraiths, horrific visions of Miathan’s depradations back in Nexis, and the suffering of Raven’s Winged Folk, until she woke each night, sweat-soaked and trembling. The Mage had been impossibly torn between continuing her journey, or remaining in safety in the forest until her son was born, for now that she could feel his thoughts, the reality of the child had truly come home to her, and she had found herself loving him with a fierce protective-ness that had stunned her. She had found herself unable, even, to confide in Anvar, and unbeknownst to her companions, she had fought a tremendous inner battle in the forest to find the courage to go on with her quest. The last thing she wanted to admit, even to herself, was that her fear and indecision stemmed from the loss of her magic.

Now, however, Aurian could delay no longer. It was vital that she make some kind of stand against the Archmage, and Raven’s tower would be a step in that direction. What other choice was there? She and Anvar perforce must travel north. The Mage was glad that the proximity of the Khazalim camp in the forest had made the decision for her, but by Chathak, she was not looking forward to this journey!

All day the companions rode a twisting course through the forest, scrambling upward via the rough game trails that threaded the increasingly rocky slopes. By early evening, they had reached the end of the trees. Looking out across the bleak waste of boulder and scree that sloped up to the knees of the hostile mountains, the travelers decided to spend one last night within the forest’s shelter. Already the air was ominously cooler, and they gathered gratefully around a cheerful fire, roasting rabbit and pheasant from the previous day’s hunt while Shia made short work of a haunch of venison.

After supper, Aurian offered to take first watch, afraid that if she slept, her evil dreams would return. Sword in hand, she sat close to the fire, watching its dancing light make ruddy shadow-faces on the rough bark of the firs, and wondering what was happening to the friends and enemies she had left behind her in Nexis. Ever since her dream of Eliseth, she had felt uneasy—and the sight of the continuing snow that cloaked the distant peaks had added to her disquiet. Surely, if Eliseth is dead, her winter should be diminishing by now? the Mage thought. Beyond the comforting ring of firelight, she could feel the looming presence of the mountains, as though they watched her with unfriendly eyes. As though they were waiting for her.

As the Magefolk and their companions climbed through the convoluted chain of valleys that led up to the high mountain passes, the going became more difficult as the biting cold increased. The barren, stony landscape, hemmed in by ragged cliffs and unclimbable slopes of scree, was profoundly grim, though sometimes they found a rare green valley, protected from the incessant, whining wind by a trick of the cliff formations. They gladly stopped to rest in these havens, giving the horses a chance to graze, and themselves a respite from the overwhelming bleakness of the landscape. But as they went on, frost whitened the trails with a slick film that made the horses stumble, and slowed their progress to a snail’s pace. The fear that someone would sustain a serious fall was always with them, Bohan wrenched a shoulder when his mount went down, and it was sheer good fortune that his horse had not been lamed. Often they were forced to climb on foot, leading the animals—a grueling business that left everyone exhausted, dispirited, and out of temper by the end of each day’s freezing march.

The journey took its toll on everyone. Food for humans and horses was rationed, and there was never enough to sustain them against the enforced activity of the climb and the deadly cold. Tempers grew short among the little band, and even gentle Bohan was often seen to be scowling. He had taken a marked dislike to Raven, but without speech, was unable to tell them why. Anvar was deeply concerned about Aurian. Day by day, she grew more gaunt and hollow-cheeked as the babe took her food for its own growth, leaving its mother all belly and bone. Lacking the energy to talk, she no longer refused his aid as she hauled herself upward step by step, leaning on the Staff of Earth that she clutched in frozen, rag-wrapped fingers. At night, though Bohan and Shia curled up beside her and Anvar held her close to warm her body with his own, she never stopped shivering. Anvar, to his increasing frustration, could think of no way to ease her suffering, and he wished with all his heart that he could end the torment that Miathan was causing for his beloved, and countless others besides.

As the days went on, and the companions continued their cold and miserable climb, the thought occurred to Anvar again and again. Why should Aurian risk herself and her child? He had his own powers now, and the Mage had been training him intensively before she lost her magic. Perhaps he could find some way of fighting Miathan by himself. Had he confided in Aurian, she would have disabused him of such brave but foolish notions, for without the missing Weapons, the two of them together stood little chance against the Caldron, without bringing about a war between two equal powers that could destroy the very world. But Anvar kept his thought to himself, and the idea remained with him, growing in his mind like a canker. This, he was convinced, would be the way to repay Aurian for his part in Forral’s death.

The companions had been traveling for about a score of days when the blizzard struck. All morning as they had climbed, leading horses that were strangely uneasy, Aurian had felt spits of snow in the wind—hard, tiny pellets that stung her chapped hands and blew in skeins across the rocks to collect, unmelting, in every crevice. The sky grew black and heavy, as though the clouds were sinking to meet them as they climbed. The force of the wind was increasing, and Raven, who had been flying ahead of them, landed suddenly by die side of the tired Mages. “I think we should turn back,” she said. “There’s no shelter ahead—we’re nearing the top of the ridge, and it looks bad up there.”

Aurian swore. The slopes around them were naked scree, and it had been the same lower down. “There’s no shelter for miles, the way we’ve come,” she said. Everyone looked at one another, reluctant to lose any of their hard-won progress. Before a decision could be reached, the air was full of fat white flakes that bore down on them with a shocking suddenness, so thick as to make breathing difficult, and cutting them off from each other’s sight.

“Stay where you are!” cried Yazour. Aurian reached out to grab Anvar’s sleeve, and felt his hand clutch tightly at her own. At her other side, she felt Bohan’s big hand grip her shoulder, and hoped that her other companions had also located each other by touch.