Maggie Furey: Harp of Winds

The rough camp was not far from the edge of the forest, near the banks of a newborn stream whose rushing waters had washed out the roots of a gigantic pine. The tree had fallen to lean at an angle against its companions; its branches safely anchored in those of its fellows to provide a rough, slanting shelter for the wayfarers.

“This is but a temporary camp,” Eliizar was saying, as Bohan set Aurian down beneath the sheltering tree. He knelt to kindle a fire in the nearby fireplace as he spoke. “We are too near the stream here—it is damp, and there is a risk of flooding. We thought to build sturdier shelters deeper in the forest—Yazour found a perfect clearing—but we could not move while there was a chance that you might come.” He looked up at the eunuch and smiled. “Besides, Bohan would never have permitted it!”

Nereni, already advancing upon her cooking gear in a purposeful manner, shooed her husband away from the fire.

“Will you fetch some water, Eliizar? They must be parched, poor dears, and I must tend their hurts. Now where did I pack that salve? And Yazour, I need some cuts from the deer you shot this morning—Bohan can help you fetch it—and remember to bring a haunch back for Shia. On second thought, bring two. She looks starved ...”

Forral rejoiced in Aurian’s joyous reunion with her friends. Bohan was grinning from ear to ear. Lithe Yazour, his dark hair tied back in a long tail, positively glowed with quiet happiness. Eliizar and his plump, bustling wife were beaming with delight.

The swordsman listened with satisfaction as Eliizar showed his camp to Aurian and Anvar. Here they could recover from the hardships of the desert, and, thanks to the abundant gifts of the forest, prepare themselves for the next step in their journey. Everyone had been busy—even the horses, hobbled nearby, were grazing as though their lives depended on it. Making up for their near starvation in the desert, they had spent the whole time eating, and the improvement in their condition was already visible.

Eliizar and his companions had worked together to build rough shelters of woven boughs. Nereni had harvested edible plants while Yazour and Eliizar hunted goat, wild pig, and deer. Bohan had discovered an unexpected talent for snaring rabbits. As he noted their achievements, Forral looked on with approval. He was sure that Aurian would be safe here—for the present, at least.

“And so we give the body of our brother Mage Bragar to the Fire, and his Spirit to the Gods ...” The Archmage Miathan intoned the closing words of the Death Ceremony in a rapid monotone that was utterly devoid of any respect for the late Fire-Mage, whose shriveled, scorched remains lay on the great stone altar of the rooftop temple on the Mages’ Tower in Nexis. What a waste of valuable time, Miathan thought irritably—Bragar, a stupid, shallow, overambitious bully, had done nothing to merit it ...

“And let him go forth with our prayers and blessings!” He snapped out the final words with a contemptuous curl of his lip, and raising his staff, let loose a single bolt of crimson flame. It hit the corpse with an explosive flare that seared across the cloud-dark sky over Nexis, melting the glittering network of frost that silvered the temple’s tall standing stones.

Before Bragar’s body had even begun to sizzle and smoke, Miathan was striding back toward the stairs that led down into the tower. As he passed Eliseth, who stood huddled in a furred cloak against the raw dawn chill, his glance raked the Weather-Mage, and he had the satisfaction of seeing her cringe away from him; her icy hauteur vanished along with the beauty of her formerly lovely face.

Seeing the wreck of those once-perfect features, the Archmage smiled cruelly. Using the grail fashioned from part of the Caldron of Rebirth, he had cast a spell that had reduced the Weather-Mage to a stooped and wizened crone. Eliseth had been vain of her looks—he could not have found a better way to punish her for attempting to lure Aurian to her death, by creating a vision of the Mage’s murdered lover Forral. The ruse had failed spectacularly, resulting instead in Bragar’s death.

As he passed her, Miathan saw cold hatred burning behind Eliseth’s eyes, and warned himself that she would bear watching in future. For now, she would obey—he had made sure of that—but she would not stay cowed forever. With a shrug, the Archmage went on his way, ignoring the Mage woman’s venomous look. He had much to do—the sight, in his crystal, of Aurian and Anvar emerging from the desert, had spurred him to action. They must be taken before Aurian regained her powers—and the net was tightening around the unsuspecting fugitives. His puppet, the foolish young Prince, would be meeting the winged girl in the forest beyond the desert, and Miathan planned to leave his body and travel there to control Harihn’s mind and make sure he obeyed his orders. But first, the Archmage needed to contact Blacktalon, High Priest of the Winged Folk.

Miathan regretted that Bragar’s burning would prevent him using the rooftop temple to carry out the stark, arcane ceremony that used the Death-magic of the Caldron, and permitted him to cast his mind so far abroad, It would take more than one human sacrifice to give him the power he needed to travel as far as the Winged Folk citadel of Aerillia. Still, he reflected with grim amusement, it was a bitterly cold day for working magic out of doors—and Mortals could be sacrificed anywhere, after all.

“Where in the Sky-God’s name is that accursed Archmage?” Blacktalon screamed at the unresponsive crystal.

“Answer me, you worthless stone! I demand to speak to Miathan!” Seething, he kicked the carven plinth on which the crystal lay. As the darkly glittering gem spilled from its wooden rest, he made a frantic dive to save it, but it slipped from his straining fingertips. Hitting the floor in an explosion of sparks, it shattered into fragments.

“No!” the High Priest howled. Dropping to his knees, he scrabbled at the lifeless shards, scalding the air with curses. No matter what the provocation, how could he have been so stupid as to destroy his only means of communication with his ally? Blacktalon snarled with frustration. Why did Miathan not answer? He glared at his chamber walls, as though to wrest the information from their dark, reflective surface. It was vital he speak with the Archmage. The killing winter, through which he had gained and kept his supremacy over the Skyfolk, was faltering.

Blacktalon rose, shaking out his dusty black wings as he hurried to the wide, arched casement. Maybe this time he could deny the evidence of his own eyes? But the delicate spires of the city bore dripping fringes of ice spears, and as he watched, a slab of snow slid down the roof of the Queen’s Tower to vanish with a rumble into the chasm below. Hearing voices, Blacktalon leaned out of the window to look across the city that he coveted. Winged Folk swept back and forth between the pinnacle towers, crying out in excitement as they dodged the snowslides. The sound of their joy was bile in the High Priest’s throat,

Blacktalon was too preoccupied to heed the ominous rumbling overhead. Leaning out as he was, the lump of snow from the roof caught him square between the shoulders, knocking the breath from his lungs and splattering his bald head with slimy slush. Ice slipped down the loose neck of his mantle, and slithered, melting and mocking, down between his wings where he couldn’t reach it, “By the all-seeing eyes of Yinze, I won’t stand for this!” the High Priest howled, as he danced about, trying to shake the snow out of his robe. “Where is that wretched Archmage?”

Slamming the window shut, Blacktalon cursed the loss of magic that had afflicted his race since the Cataclysm, He’d spent hours poring over the wretched gem, in a frantic attempt to stretch his mind across the miles that separated him from Miathan. His efforts had resulted in nothing but a pounding headache and the loss of his precious crystal. It would take too long to make another—and by then he might have lost his hold over the Winged Folk altogether, Blacktalon was desperate to restore the dignity of his race. Before their decline, the Skyfolk had been one of the four great races of Magefolk—the Guardians appointed by the Gods to oversee the ordering of the world. Before they had been robbed of their powers in a disastrous magical war for supremacy, his people had charge of the element of Air, Together with the human Wizards, or Earth-Mages, they cared for the birds and all creatures that were borne on the wind, In conjunction with the mighty Leviathan, or Water-Mages, the world’s weather had been under their control. The loss of this power was like a choking briar that had twined itself about the High Priest’s soul, growing greater with each passing year. The memory of his race’s former greatness was a matter for pain, not pride. In Blacktalon’s view, the Skyfolk, even in their ascendancy, had never fulfilled their true potential. “Why?” he snarled. “Why did we never have complete control of our element?” Every act of significance was shared, either with those groundling Wizards or the pathetic, softhearted Seafolk; the self-appointed conscience of the world. Blacktalon’s driven mind had never paused to consider that all Elements and their controlling forces were interdependent; all interlinking and supporting one another in the complex web of life. He was only concerned with himself, his own race—and what they had lost. In his youth, the High Priest had been more idealistic. The young Blacktalon had grown up in the sacred precincts of the peaktop Temple of Yinze, dedicated to a priestly life by unknown parents—the usual fate among the Skyfolk for an unwanted child. But Blacktalon had been different. The others, accepting their fate, had become meek, obedient little priests, but he had always wanted more. Highborn females had rejected him—and the others, less proud and particular, he despised. Ugly, gaunt, and ambitious, underestimated by his teachers and mentors, he had clawed his way to power to spite them, achieving his ends, within the Temple, by becoming too good a student to be ignored.