Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

The great cat sighed. “Why must you humans complicate matters? I suspect that once you stop fighting your own feelings, your distraction will vanish.” She looked deep into Aurian’s eyes. “Listen, my friend. Why torment yourself? This nonsense proves once and for all that you do love Anvar. You have loved him since the desert at least, though I suspect the seeds were sown long before. No one lives forever, Aurian. I will not. I flatter myself that you would feel some measure of anguish at my loss—do you wish to discard our friendship?”

“Why, of course not!”

“Then why make poor Anvar suffer?” Aurian felt Shia’s mental equivalent of a shrug, “After all,” the cat went on slyly,

“there is every chance that he may outlive your!

Aurian, with a guilty glance at her sleeping friends, muffled her snort of laughter, “My dear Shia, what would I do without you? You have the most amazing talent for making me feel better, while pointing out that I’m a fool!

“You give me a lot of practice, you and Anvar!” Shia replied, “Go and talk to him—he is on the roof,” she added helpfully, as Aurian, feeling lighter of heart than she had done in a long time, sped up the tower stairs. She was so preoccupied with thoughts of Anvar, that she never noticed that Raven was missing.

Blacktalon was uneasy in the pinewood below the tower. It hemmed him in on all sides, cutting off the open sky and enclosing him so that he could scarcely breathe. For all his race’s resistance to the cold, he shivered as he tried to peer through the whirling snow and tangled mass of that concealed his quarry, “Is it not time we made our move?” he whispered to the Prince, “My warriors weary of this endless wait!”

“Be patient, you idiot!” Harihn snapped, “By the Reaper, High Priest, recall the plan! The Princess will come to tell us when they sleep. We must wait for her word—then, when my men attack the tower, your warriors will go in from above. And Blacktalon—remember that I want them alive!”

The High Priest of the Winged Folk nodded impatiently, biting back his irritation. By Yinze—did his ally think him a complete fool? But fear held him back from a scathing reply. For behind the foolish, amiable expression on Harihn’s handsome face, there burned the harsh and terrifying gaze of the Archmage Miathan!

“Harihn?” Raven stumbled through the bushes, wishing that the night were lighter, so that she could safely take wing. It would be far easier, and less painful, she thought, as she sucked blood from yet another scratch, to locate him from the air. By the eyes of Yinze, where was he?

To the winged girl’s relief, the springy branches gave way before her at last, and she found herself in a clearing. Raven frowned, puzzled—and stamped in irritation. Harihn had promised to meet her in a clearing close to the tower—but this was obviously not the right one! Yet . . . Raven squinted into the gloom. Was that not a movement, over in the bushes on the opposite side? Surely that shadow was not a tree, but the tall, straight figure of a man?

“Harihn?” Raven stepped forward—too late, she heard the rustling behind her, and on either side. Before she had time to take wing, a heavy weight hurtled into her, bearing her to the ground and grinding her face into the snow and fallen pine needles. Then many hands were upon her, grabbing at her wings and limbs. Though the winged girl struggled and fought, lashing out with flailing pinions and clawed fingernails, she was hopelessly overpowered. Before she could cry out for help, a hand seized her jaw, thrusting a heavy wad of cloth into her mouth and tying it in place with another scrap of material. Her wings, wrists, and ankles were bound tightly with strips of leather—but tighter still was the hand of fear clenched round her heart. Harihn, she thought desperately—where are you?

Raven soon found out. A booted foot rolled her onto her back, and she looked up through tear-filled eyes to see the face of her former lover! “Nol” The word was only a muffled whimper through Raven’s gag—it was her mind that shrieked in rage and anguish. The Prince had betrayed her!

“Ah ...” The heart of the winged girl twisted within her at the sound of the dry, familiar voice that had haunted her nightmares for so long. Cloaked in the dusty black of his wings, the High Priest Blacktalon stepped out from behind the Prince. “Mine at last!” He knelt beside her, and Raven closed her eyes, shuddering at his touch.

“Get moving, Blacktalon—you can enjoy your plaything later!” Harihn’s voice was harsh and cold. “My side of our bargain has been fulfilled, but we need to take the others before your prey is secure!”

“Mind your tone, when you address the new King of the Skyfolk!” Blacktalon snapped stiffly—but nevertheless, he obeyed, and got to his feet at once. Raven stiffened at his words. King? But that could only mean her mother was dead! As the sound of receding footsteps faded from the clearing, Raven closed her eyes in utter despair, and sobbed.

The Mage had a tremendous struggle to haul herself up the rickety ladder to the roof. When she saw Anvar, huddled out of the wind in the corner of a crumbling embrasure, her courage almost failed her. But he looked up, aware, as always, of her presence, and the sight of his sad, tired face strengthened her resolve. She crouched down beside him, but her words were drowned by the howling of the wind. “Come inside, Anvar,” she yelled. “You’re frozen!”

The upper chamber of the tower boasted a fireplace, and a few cobweb-draped bits of old furniture of peculiar design that must have been used when the Winged Folk maintained a guard. Anvar smashed a tall, backless stool against the wall and flung the pieces into the hearth, lighting them with a sizzling fireball. As the flames flared up he began on the remains of a spindly table, and Aurian, seeing his grim expression, took an involuntary step back. His first words took her completely by surprise.

“Aurian, you are an utter idiot to risk that rotten ladder!. If you’d fallen, you could have lost the child!” Then he seemed to become aware of what he was saying, and turned away from her. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness.

Aurian took a deep breath, and laid a hand on his arm. “It is your business, Anvar,” she said softly. “That is—if you still want it to be.”

For a moment he simply stood, unmoving. Then, he turned to face her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Aurian swallowed hard, her throat gone suddenly dry, “I should have spoken sooner—after the desert, maybe, or certainly after the avalanche today. But I was afraid,” Her voice began to tremble. “Oh, curse it!” she sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast,

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever break you of that revolting habit!” The anger had fled from Anvar’s face. He led her to the fire and sat her down on the floor beside the hearth. Taking pieces of the broken table, he fed them to the dying flames.

Aurian plunged on before she lost her courage, “I let you think I didn’t love you, but I lied. I was lying to myself, too. I was afraid, because after Forral was killed, I never wanted to go through that pain again! And we’re in such danger—”

“And that was the problem? You were afraid I’d be killed, too? Oh, my dearest love ...” Anvar put his arms around her, holding her close, and at long last Aurian gladly returned Anvar’s embrace, rejoicing in his touch, his closeness, feeling the racing of his heart that matched the joyous beating of her own. But there was one vital thing that she had left unsaid.

She took her face from Anvar’s shoulder to look at him. “I can’t forget Forral, you know,” she said softly. “Even if I could, I don’t want to.”