Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Anvar shuddered. Miathan could have thought of no better way to ensure his compliance.

“As for you,” the Archmage continued, “you will be shipped back to Nexis once your child is born—and disposed of. Once there, you will surrender to me—or see Anvar dismembered before your eyes!” Swiftly he bore down on Aurian, grasping the front of her robe and ripping it apart. Naked lust leered from Harihn’s borrowed features, and one of the guards snickered.

“I can’t think why you want her, Anvar,” Miathan taunted, “ugly and swollen as she is with another’s brat! Personally, I prefer to wait until she is in better condition before I use her! Though perhaps I may give her back to you afterward—if you still want her!” He paused in calculated reflection. “Still, why should you not? You can have no objection to used goods. You were not too proud to pick up Forral’s leavings!”

Anvar’s heart burned at the sight of Aurian kneeling there, stricken and shamed. Fighting back tears of rage, he glared coldly at Miathan. “There speaks jealousy,” he sneered. “She was too proud to take you, was she not? Do your worst—you’ll never defile this Lady, who is far beyond the reach of such as you. Used goods? You deceive yourself! If you take from Aurian what she would never give you freely, then the shame is on you, not her. You may take her body, but you can never sully her brave spirit or touch her heart. No matter what you do, you’ve already lost!”

The Archmage stood as if turned to stone by Anvar’s words, but they restored Aurian’s tattered courage. Turning away from Miathan, she lifted her chin proudly and spoke directly to Anvar, as though they were alone in the room.

“My love,” she said softly. “As long as I have you, I have hope.”

Anvar looked at her, his heart in his eyes, “You’ll always have me—I promise.”

Miathan spat out a vile curse, and gestured to the guards. One of them drew his sword, and clubbed Anvar hard with the hilt. Without a sound, he crumpled to the floor as his captors loosed their grip,

“You said he wouldn’t be harmed!” Aurian cried.

“Did I?” Harihn’s face was disfigured by Miathan’s ugly scowl, and Aurian saw jealousy burning livid behind his eyes.

“I remember no such promise. Anvar’s continuing good health depends entirely on your future conduct toward me!”

He leered into her face, caressing her body. Though his attentions sickened her, Aurian bore them without flinching, concentrating instead on Anvar’s words.

Cheated of his sport, Miathan ceased his torment, and with a snarl of rage, struck her until she sobbed with pain.

“When I return, I expect to find you in a more accommodating mood—for Anvar’s sake,” he snapped, and stalked out, followed by his men who dragged Anvar’s unconscious body away. Aurian’s guards threw her down, bound as she was, and left her lying on the cold hearth with its dying fire, alone in her despair.

Yazour staggered through the pass, weak and faint from his wounds, buffeted mercilessly by wind and driving snow, and no longer even certain that he was still heading away from the tower, Blood streamed from the bolt that pierced his left shoulder, but amazingly, the pain had been numbed away from his wound, and from the tender bruise on his skull, and the sword cut in his thigh that he had received, almost without noticing, in the heat of his fight to escape. Blessed snow!. Kindly snow, to take away his pain!

What am I doing out here in the snow? Why can I not remember? he wondered. It seemed to Yazour that was something he should be remembering . , . Some danger , , . Was he not running away from something or someone? But why worry? The wonderful snow would take care of him. It lay all around him, like a thick, soft blanket. It would hide him, as his blankets had hidden him in his childhood, when nightmare-demons had threatened from die darkened corners of his room. Of course! That was the answer! That was why he couldn’t remember! He needed to rest! He would hide here, and rest in the soft warm snow . , , Dropping to his knees, the wounded warrior pitched forward, giving himself gratefully to darkness, and winter’s deadly embrace.

Miathan swept downstairs, enjoying the disciplined vigor of the Prince’s youthful body. He smiled to himself, putting Anvar’s disquieting words out of his mind. It would not be long now, before Aurian was rid of the monster she carried—then he would have her, with this wonderful new body that promised such pleasure , , ,

When the Archmage reached the lower chamber, even the scenes of carnage that awaited him did nothing to damp his spirits, though buried far down at the back of his controlling mind, he felt a faint stir of protest from Harihn. The great cat, it seemed, had proved a formidable opponent. The room resembled a battlefield, its floor awash with blood and entrails. Men were dragging bodies out of the door, or tending groaning wounded. Miathan shrugged. So long as enough remained to guard his prisoners, the ills of these Mortals were none of his concern.

Blacktalon approached with a rustle of wings, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight, his hooded eyes bright with satisfaction. “It went well,” he said. “The Princess has already been taken to Aerillia.” He smiled. “When I felt the touch of your mind that first night, it turned out to be a most auspicious meeting—for both of us.”

“Indeed,” Miathan replied brusquely, thinking that when he turned to the conquest of the south, he would have to find a way to eliminate his new ally. In a struggle for power, Blacktalon could turn into a dangerous opponent. However, in the meantime . . . “I need a favor, Blacktalon,” he said. “Will you take this wretch to Aerillia, and guard him?” He gestured toward Anvar. “He is to be a hostage.”

Blacktalon shrugged. “Of course. The Winged Folk will keep him safe for you.”

“Listen, High Priest.” Miathan held the other’s eyes in an icy stare. “I must emphasize the risk—and responsibility—involved in guarding this renegade. Anvar is a sorcerer. He may be able to escape as easily as . . .”

“Be easy, my friend,” Blacktalon interrupted. “I have studied ancient records of this sorcery of yours, and precautions will be taken. There is a cave in our mountainside, set in sheer rock with a thousand-foot drop beneath. Believe me, it can only be reached by Winged Folk.” He laughed harshly. “Unless his powers of sorcery extend to flight, he’ll be safe enough. Food can be lowered from above, and none of my people need go near him.”

Miathan smiled, betraying his keen sense of relief. “I chose well, in selecting you as an ally,” he said. “You will take the best possible care of my prisoner, will you not? Remember, I need him alive—for now.”

Raven had been put back into the old turret room in the Queen’s Tower, with its walls of rose-pink marble, that had been hers for all the years she could remember. It was unchanged, exactly the same as she had left it when she’d fled into that stormy night—how long ago it seemed now. There were her familiar furnishings: the rounded scoop of her fur-lined bed, where she had curled up to sleep so many nights beneath the shelter of her drooping wings; the same warm rugs on the floor; and the night table, made of scarce and precious wood, with its mirror of polished silver. There, wrought in a sturdy filigree of gleaming iron, was the tall backless stool with its cushioned seat, on which she’d sat for hours by the window, watching the changing sweep of cloud and sunlight across the mountains.

There were her frayed old wall hangings, which she had loved too much to have replaced, with flights of Winged Folk soaring like eagles across a backdrop of snow-bright peaks and valleys that had once been green. In the wall niches concealed behind them, Raven found the favorite playthings of her childhood still in place; old and battered now, but too beloved to ever throw away. The only change in the room was the grille of sturdy iron that now barred the window.