Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Nonetheless, Fire it must be—and luckily, he would only need a tiny fireball. That was all he had the energy to produce, and since his control was not too good, the smaller the Fire, the less chance he’d have of immolating himself! Craning his neck, the Mage looked down at his chest where the meshes were wrapped tightly, three or four times around. In order for him to ever get his arms free, that tangled mass of rope would have to go,

Biting his lip (how many times had he seen Aurian do that when constructing a spell?), Anvar, with an effort, thrust the image of her face to the back of his mind, and reached deep within to find the wellsprings of his power. Ah. Compressing the magic that he found there with all the force of his will, he crushed it tighter and tighter until it formed a tiny spark of fiercely growing energy. In his mind’s eye, the Mage placed it where he wanted it, where the meshes crossed each other on his chest—then he fed it with all the strength of his love of magic, nurturing it, encouraging it to grow and blossom—just a little at first, then a little more . , .

There was a sharp smell of singeing hemp, then a whiff of smoke. Before Anvar’s eyes, strand after strand of the twisted rope began to blacken and glow red, breaking apart and unraveling thread by thread, with a little spark of fire gleaming like a dragon’s eye at each fractured end.

Then the Mage became carried away with his success—or perhaps it was only that the rope was tinder dry. All at once, a section of the net the size of Anvar’s hand burst into flames. With a yell he rolled over and over, trying to douse the fire—and the net burst apart to free his arms. His rolling had almost quenched the flames, and he beat frantically at the smoldering remnants until he was certain that the fire was out. Half cursing, half laughing with relief, Anvar sat up and began to undo the tangle around his legs with shaky hands.

At last he was free, but Anvar had been bound for so long that at first his legs would not support him. He crawled to the cave mouth, where a pile of windblown snow had collected at one side. His hands had not been badly burned by putting out his self-made fire, but he plunged them into the soothing snow until all the feeling of heat had been drawn away from his palms, and then plastered more of it on the tingling skin of his chest, where the flames had come too close for comfort.

That done, Anvar looked out from his prison, but the storms had closed in once more, and he could see nothing beyond the opening but dark gray clouds and thick, slanting curtains of snow. How far it was to the ground, he had no idea, but one thing was certain—if they had imprisoned him here, it must be too bloody far! At any rate, nothing could be done until he could see. Sighing bitterly, Anvar crept back into his prison—-and found that it was better provisioned than he had expected.

Blacktalon, obviously, had sent messengers on ahead, In one corner stood two great crocks of water, and a generous basket of food. Beyond them, stacked along the far wall of the cave, was a large pile of firewood and kindling. Very carefully, with the memory of his recent mishap all too clear in his mind, Anvar lost no time in lighting a fire. It took a little trial and error with a smoking brand to find the best spot for a blaze, where the swirling draft from the entrance would blow the smoke out of the cave, without freezing the Mage to death in the process. After a time, he found the ideal place, where the left-hand wall of the cavern jutted out in a sloping spur, about half his height at its highest point. Behind this outcrop was a sheltered corner, where the smoke from his fire would blow over the top of the spur and out. Anvar was cheered by the fire—the saffron flames brightened the gloom within the cavern, and the crackle and snap of the burning logs helped to cover the screeching, nerve-grating plaint of the hideous edifice on the peak. The fire danced and talked and needed to be fed—it seemed a living thing, and company. Nonetheless, despite the fire, it was still bitterly cold within the cavern. Anvar wondered, for a time, why his enemies should go to all this trouble just to freeze him to death—until a more detailed exploration of his cavern provided the answer, an answer that froze his blood with horror.

Not far from the food, in a shadowy corner at the back of the cave, lay a thick pile of dark-furred animal skins, overlooked until the flames had thrown them into light. Anvar, much relieved, went quickly across to take one—and snatched his hand back with a vile and livid oath. How well he knew that fur—its depth and thickness and heavy, silky feel! Those bloodthirsty freaks expected him to wrap himself in the pelts of Shia’s people!

“Murderers!.” he howled. He struck his fist against the cavern wall. “I’d rather freeze! I’d rather freeze to death a thousand times over, than to wear the hides of these slaughtered folk!” Anvar thought of Shia, of her loyalty and courage; her understanding and her sharp, wry humor; the lithe and graceful beauty of her sleek, steel-muscled form; the glory of her glowing golden eyes . . . Shia with her fund of calm common sense, who would have been the first to tell him to be practical: to save his own life. He had no other choice.

Anvar steeled himself to place one of the furs around his shoulders, though his skin cringed away from its touch as though it were still steeped in blood, and its weight on his back was his own burden of guilt for profiting from the poor creature’s death. Had this been Shia’s friend? Her mate—her child? With a shudder, he forced the thought away from him. The poor cat was dead, as were its companions. His sacrifice could do nothing to bring it back to life, and he had to survive. Somehow, he had to find a way to escape this prison and go back to help Aurian. And if in doing so, he could strike a blow at the ones who had committed this atrocity, then by the Gods, he would at least avenge these cats who, by their death, had saved his life!

Anvar hid his face in his hands, fighting back tears. He had been unable, until then, to think of Aurian—the agony of losing her had been so unbearable that his mind had shied away from the pain. The memory of Shia, and the pitiful remnants of her poor murdered kin, had served to trigger all his grief at last—but survival was still the stronger imperative. His dying of cold and hunger in this accursed cave would not help Aurian. Anvar wiped his face on his sleeve, in an unconscious echo of his lost love, and got up to heap more wood on his guttering fire. By now, the Mage felt dizzy and sick with hunger and thirst. He found a cup beside the water jars and drank deeply, filling the cup again and again, before dragging his basket to the fire and rummaging through its contents. He found flat cakes of moist heavy bread, plainly not made from grain. But of course no grain would grow up here. Perhaps it was some kind of tuber, Anvar thought, as he wolfed it down. Nereni had experimented with similar foodstuffs in the forest. There were chunks of roast goat, and the meat of some enormous fowl that had been delicately spiced and smoked. No greens or fruit, but if Raven had spoken the truth, Aerillia had been in winter’s grip too long for such luxuries. At the bottom of the basket, Anvar round strong goat’s cheese, and best of all, a flask of thin red wine. When it came to it, the Mage could summon little appetite. His throat was dry and aching and his stomach churned, but he warmed the sharp wine with a little water in the metal cup, and drank it all. Then, heaping wood on his fire, he made a nest of catskins in his sheltered corner, and curled up in them. Though he was hot and shivering with fever, Anvar fell asleep in a surprisingly short time, clutching the thought or Aurian to his heart like a talisman.