Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

The man who hid behind a pile of tumbled boulders at the mouth of the pass spared the threatening mountains not a single glance. He was more concerned with the strangers who were sheltering within the tower. In his cloak of silvery wolfskins he was camouflaged against the snow-and-shadow backdrop, as was his horse, Iscalda, the white mare who stood patiently at his shoulder, showing less movement than the whirling snow that piled in drifts around her feet, Schiannath stared at the tower, silhouetted on its wooded mound, and cursed bitterly. Of all the vile, unbelievable, impossibly bad luck! The abandoned building was the best of his refuges, the only one in which he and Iscalda could shelter in any degree of comfort from this deadly, preternatural winter. His other lairs, discovered in months of wandering these inhospitable mountains, were either dense woodland thickets or caves: the former were pathetically inadequate in this bitter weather, and the latter were damp and drafty, tending to fill with choking and conspicuous smoke if he lit a fire. He and Iscalda had made a long, perilous journey to this place in the teeth of the storm and had arrived here wet, frozen, and unutterably weary—only to find the tower already occupied!

Once more, Schiannath cursed the interlopers—whoever they were. And who could they be? The Xandim never came so far south. These lands were quite outside their province—which was why he was here, The outlaw flinched from the memory of his trial and exile, when the bumbling, half-blind young Windeye had uttered the spells that erased his name from the wind—and from the memory of the tribe. He bit his lip to keep from crying his shame and agony aloud. Oh Goddess, why did I do it? he thought wretchedly. Why was it so important to me, to be Herdlord?

How had it come about? Why had he always been the outcast: solitary among a people where the tribe was all; secretive among folk who shared everything? Time and again, the sharpness of his wits had got him into trouble. He was cleverer than the lot of them, and they hated him for it. Well, a plague on them all! Curse his mother, for leaving him in the coastal settlement with his father when they parted, while she kept the children of her other mates with her in the hills! If not for that, Schiannath would have grown up with his brethren in the tribe. But when he a come to the Fastness after his father’s death, he had never been able to settle, clashing with the Herdlord again and again over his wild, undisciplined behavior, until it had seemed that the only way to be free of Phalihas and his tiresome rules and restrictions lay in becoming Herdlord himself. Only his sister Iscalda had cared about him, had tried her best to dissuade him from his folly—and, when that had failed, had insisted on sharing his exile,

Grief pierced Schiannath’s heart like a knife. The Xandim had no death sentence for their own; that fate was reserved for foreigners and spies. Instead, they haddone worse—they had taken his name, and driven him out with curses and stones. For defying Phalihas, Iscalda had been transformed into her Othershape of a white mare and locked forever in that state by the Windeye. Now, she was no better than a normal horse, with the needs, the instincts—and the mind—of a beast.

His throat tight with unshed tears, the outlaw glanced over his shoulder at the white mare, wishing that he could find surcease from his painful memories. There had been times, in his despair, when he had thought of ending it for both of them—with his blade, perhaps, or simply by riding Iscalda over a precipice, But he had never found the courage, There had always remained that tiny, unquenchable hope in the depths of his soul that one day he would somehow find the means to change her back . . .

The mare made a low chuckling sound deep in her throat and dropped her nose into his palm, lipping gently at his fingers, Schiannath sighed, “I know, Iscalda, I’m hungry too. Come, it’s time to go.” He had another lair nearby, a small cave set high in the towering walls of the pass. It would be cramped and uncomfortable, but he had left a small store of food there for emergencies, and dried grasses for Iscalda that he had harvested from the valley during the long-gone days of milder weather.

Schiannath glanced up at the windowless tower for one last time, scowling at the thread of smoke that trickled from the crumbling flue. Curse them! Who were these folk? Why were they here? He hesitated. If they were not Xandim, then they could not know he was an outlaw! If he claimed to be a strayed traveler, they would surely take him in! Hope, painful in its intensity, swelled in Shiannath’s heart. After months spent with only Iscalda for company, the sudden hunger for people, for kind faces and the sound of human voices and laughter, overwhelmed him in a flood of desperate longing. His lean, weather-beaten face creased into its first smile in months, as he took hold of the mare’s bridle, and began to step out of his hiding place . . .

A new sound drove him swiftly back, like a hunted animal into its lair. With the sharp-honed senses of a wild creature, he heard on the wind the sound of wings, drumming through the valley toward the pass. Schiannath huddled behind the boulders, the mare tucked in behind him. He was shivering, and not from the cold. Had he become a Windeye, that the storm’s tidings brought such dread foreboding? Then, as he peered up beyond the stark limbs of the tower’s encircling trees, the outlaw saw winged figures dropping from the sky. He caught his breath in horror. By the Fields of Paradise, what were those abominations doing here?

Then to Schiannath’s astonishment, a group of human warriors—who must have been well concealed to have escaped his careful observation—had left the pine-wood at the sound, and came briefly within his sight as they fanned out toward the tower. Schiannath heard a mutter of voices in a harsh, uncouth tongue, and stiffened with rage. Accursed Khazalim! What were they doing here? With a muttered oath, he shrank back behind the rocks as the Skyfolk hovered over the copse, then dropped out of sight amid its branches.

Common sense warned the outlaw it was time to leave. If the invaders sent out scouts . . . Yet he lingered, drawn by curiosity and the irresistible urge to be near humans—any humans—again. Iscalda would warn him of approaching danger, and with his knowledge of the surrounding terrain, it should be easy to elude pursuit in the flurrying snow. So he stayed, and watched as the winged warriors soared up to land on the roof of the tower, as the Khazalim scum who seemed to be in league with them assailed the door. It was an ambush! Whoever might be within the tower, Schiannath found himself moved to pity for the poor wretches.

Yazour awakened abruptly, disturbed from his sleep by some faint, unplaceable sound. He opened his eyes, and glanced around a strangely depleted chamber. Shia was stretched out, catlike, in the warmest place beside the fire. Bohan lay nearby, his head pillowed on the hearth, and Nereni and Eliizar were curled in a tangled nest of blankets. But where were the others? He tensed in alarm, until a murmur of voices from the floor above him told him the whereabouts of Aurian and Anvar. Yazour smiled. They were making the most of the opportunity to be alone, and who could blame them? That only left Raven—but why should she be missing? He was rousing himself to go and investigate as the door of the tower flew open, and Harihn’s men burst into the room.

Yazour sprang to his feet and drew his sword. “Foes,” he roared. “Awake!” His heart clenched with the anguish of betrayal as he recognized each familiar face. Before he left the prince’s service, these had been the loyal troops that were his to command. Now he was their enemy. Yazour felt sick at heart. If Harihn was his captor, he could expect no mercy from the Prince. Then his foes were upon him, and there was no time for further thought.