Maggie Furey: Harp of Winds

The Door Between the Worlds was ancient; its weathered wood as gray and heavy as stone, the timeworn carvings on its panels obscured by the weight of years. With a grimace, Forral touched the splintered gashes that scarred the beauty of the complex, twining patterns—his own handiwork, from the first time he had tried to pass this way. Embittered by his murder, enraged by the unguarded folly that had led to his own untimely death, and frantic with fear for Aurian’s safety, he’d been in no mood for obstacles. No matter that it was forbidden for the Dead to return to the Living—all he had cared about was his Mageborn love, and her unborn child—their unborn child.

Again and again, the swordsman’s blade (Forral wondered why he had suddenly found a sword in his hand when he needed one) had hacked at this door in a frenzy of rage and grief until, shade though he was, he had become weak with exhaustion. Only then, as he leaned against the cold gray wood and wept for Aurian, had he found the answer. Where no amount of violence would open Death’s portal, love—if that love was strong enough, could take him through. The door swung open to Forral’s touch, at the sound of Aurian’s name. He stepped through into a shining veil of mist that obscured his vision and, by good fortune, concealed him within its silvery shroud. Although he’d learned how to pass this way, it did not mean that he was permitted to do so. The swordsman shrugged. As if that could keep him from Aurian. He remembered the last time he’d seen her, in the City of the Dragons. She had been so sad and weary, with tear-tracks smudging the dirt on her haggard face and her belly rounding with child beneath her tattered desert robes. Tears came into Forral’s eyes at the memory. It had torn his heart to be unable to hold her, to comfort her, to make everything right for her again. Instead, he’d done the only thing he could—he had shown her how to find the Staff of Earth. Death, the ruler of this eerie realm, had been livid at his interference.

As the swordsman reached the end of the overgrown track that led beyond the door, the fog dropped away to become a silken film, ankle-deep, where the path opened out into the valley. Praying that he was unobserved, Forral strode the familiar way between rounded hills under a starry sky, with ground mist roiling around his boots at every step. Sometimes, the way to the Well of Souls seemed short, but at other times, it seemed to take forever . . .

“Forral—stop, I command you.”

The swordsman jumped guiltily, and swore. The hooded figure had appeared out of nowhere—a stooped old man it seemed; gray-cloaked, and leaning on a staff. He bore an intricate lantern that cast a single, silvery beam. As apparitions go, this one seemed fairly harmless—but Forral blew better. “Let me pass!” His hand went to his sword.

“You think to use a sword on me?” Death chuckled, the rusty, wheezing sound emerging from the sinister depths of his hood. His hollow, sibilant voice sent like corpse-fingers crawling down Forral’s spine. “Forral, will you never learn? No matter how you try, you cannot go back! What good does it do to haunt her? That one can manage quite well on her own—believe me” The wry voice became soft, cajoling, “Give it up, for everyone’s sake. You are not permitted to linger here, Between the Worlds. Go back where you belong, and consent to be reborn. That is the only way in which you can return to Aurian.”

“Liar!” Forral spat, reckless now beyond all measure, “You only want rid of me! How will rebirth get me back to Aurian? I wouldn’t remember her, and she won’t recognize me What use would I be to her as a squalling brat?”

“Ah ...” Death’s voice was soft and cunning. “An infant yes, but which infant? Have you thought of the Life that Aurian bears beneath her heart? What if—”

“What?” Forral bellowed. “That’s obscene”

“Consider,” Death purred. “In a brief span of Mortal time, you could be back in her arms, loving and loved . . . And perhaps, eventually, you might remember who once you were. Sometimes the memories slip through ...”

For an instant, Forral was tempted. He was so desperate to return to Aurian . . . Then he thought about the torment that would be his if he did remember. “Never,” he snarled. “I’ve been a father to that lass, and I’ve been her lover—I’m damned if I’ll be her son after that”

To his acute irritation, Forral caught the flash of a smile, deep within the shadows of Death’s hood. “Enough, my belligerent friend—you pass the test.”

“Test?” The swordsman scowled. “What test? Just what the thundering blazes are you playing at?”

Forral gulped, backing away hastily as the Specter suddenly grew, blotting out the stars as it loomed over him, dark with menace. “Forral,” the chill voice hissed, “it makes a refreshing change to deal with a Mortal who has no fear of me, and for that reason I indulge your courage—but never forget, for an instant, who I am”

Forral breathed again, as the Specter dwindled back to human dimensions. “But never believe that Death is not merciful,” it said softly. “You and Aurian, and your friend Anvar, form part of a pattern that is yet to be resolved. Each of you have met me now, and been tested. Believe me, there is hope for you all.”

This was beyond Forral, and he was tired of being toyed with. “If you’ve finished,” he growled, “just get out of my way.” He took a deep breath. “Please,” he begged, “I must see Aurian!”

Death sighed. “Still you insist. Very well—but you have been warned. See her you may, but I will not permit you to interfere again!”

The ancient grove loomed dark on the shadowy hilltop, shrouding the secrets of its hidden heart. Forral strode forward confidently, knowing his love for Aurian would also cleave a path into this place, as it had opened the door Between the Worlds. Death pushed him aside—a loathsome touch that was no touch, like the gruesome lack of feeling in a scar. It made the swordsman quake to the depths of his soul. “Allow me,” the Specter said with mock politeness. “The trees dislike you, Forral—your presence defiles their hallowed shade, and your unruly haste upsets them.”

Turning toward the grove, the Specter bowed low, three times, and the trees moved silently aside to form a path. Forral, stepping in Death’s footprints, could discern, almost beyond the range of his hearing, the rustling murmur of their anger as he passed beneath the arching boughs. Clutching the memory of Aurian to his heart like a shield, the swordsman told himself he was not afraid.

The pool at the heart of the grove was just as Forral remembered it. Cupped in its hollow of soft, mounded moss, it lay silent; still and solemn in its awesome power; all the worlds of the Mortal Universe in its starry depths. The swordsman thrust forward impatiently—he had learned, long ago, that by touching the waters of the Well of Souls, he could send his shade into Aurian’s world.

“Wait!” The Specter’s voice was harsh. “Before you approach the Well, I tell you once more—you may only observe. You may not go back, and you may not interfere! And if what you see in those waters brings you anguish—well, you were warned!”

“All right!” Forral growled. Kneeling on the mossy brink, he looked into the dark waters—and flinched, as always, as the starry Universe spun out at him from the obsidian depths. But he had the way of it now. Aurian, he thought, yearning. Aurian, my love . . . Though he remained firmly on the bank, the swordsman felt as though he were falling. Falling endlessly between the endless stars . . . Then the waters cleared; became a mirror—no—a picture that moved and lived. Forral saw places, people, hours, days—all compressed into a timeless whirl, in a world that was heartbreaking in its sweet familiarity.