Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Shia and the valley were gone. All that remained was the clinging, silvery fog . . . Which cleared to show him Aurian, huddled by the fire in the squalid little upper room in the Tower of Incondor, the weary droop of her shoulders betokening utter dejection. Anvar’s heart went out to her. “Aurian—. . .” he called, longing to comfort her, but without her powers, she could not hear him. After a time, she lifted her head, blinking, and he saw the yellowing bruises on her face, left by Miathan’s hand. Rage boiled within him. It was vital that he escape and rescue her—but how? What had Shia said? Get back into your body ... drag this thing all the way to Aerillia and you’re dead . . . Anvar gasped. “Is that what’s happening to me? But I can’t die now!” Frantic, he blundered through the viscous fog, seeking a way back to his body, more panic-stricken with each moment that passed. Help met someone—oh Gods, I can’t get out . . . Help me, please . . .

“Come on, lad—brace up!” That gruff, gentle voice, with its memories of reassurance and long-ago kindnesses, cut through Anvar’s terror, warming his heart and stiffening his resolve like a draft of strong spirits. Anvar’s terror vanished as fierce joy exploded through him.

“Forral? Forral, is it really you? But you’re—”

“Yes, I am dead—and so are you, pretty nearly, which is why I can reach you.”

Anvar could almost see him now—the glimpse of a broad, shadowy figure through the swirling mists, the ghostly glimmer that could only be that quick, flashing smile.

“Come on, lad, we must get you back quick, before they find out what I’m up to. I’m not supposed to be doing this, you know!”

There it was—that familiar wicked chuckle. Anvar did not have to see Forral to know that the old twinkle was back in his eyes—just as it used to be when he and Vannor had done something to outwit the Archmage. A callused hand engulfed his own . . . How can I feel this, if we’re supposed to be dead? the Mage thought wildly , . . There was a whirling sensation—and Anvar found himself back in the cave, looking down at his own gray face, pinched and gleaming with fever. His body was twisting fretfully beneath the furs, and a white-winged figure knelt over him, frowning, one hand on his heart,

“Better get in there quick—you don’t have long!” Forral’s voice advised him. Though he could not see the swordsman, Anvar felt the pressure of arms around his shoulders, embracing him hard. Forral’s voice was pleading: “For the sake of all the Gods, lad—take care of Aurian . . .”

Anvar’s head throbbed, and his mouth was dry and foul. He felt queasy, and his body ached as though he had been brawling. It was only when he tried to struggle upright that he saw the low, fanged roof of the cavern, and the youthful, fine-boned face that frowned down at him beneath a mass of snowy, silken hair. The figure was cloaked in folded white wings, and beyond him, at the cavern’s entrance, stood an armed guard clad in black.

“What—” Anvar’s mouth was so dry that the word stuck in his throat. His chest was constricted, and he could only breathe in shallow gasps. He coughed, and pain knifed through his ribs. A cup was pressed to his lips, and he felt his head supported by a bony arm. Anvar drank eagerly, choking, not thinking beyond the needs of the moment until his dreadful thirst had been eased. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted.

“Hush, now. Save your strength. You were fevered, from your journey here, and privations you had undergone before.” The winged man frowned, suddenly seeming older. “The contagion settled in your lungs,” he went on. “You were a feather’s fall from Walking the Paths of the Sky Anvar shuddered. No matter how you put it, he thought, dead is still dead! Something was nagging at the back of his mind, but the Skyman was speaking again, driving all thought away. “I must leave now’ he was saying, “but I have built up the fire, and there is broth by the side of it, and wood to hand. At all costs, you must keep warm! There is medicine in this flask, for your, cough ... I will return when I can,” he added, and with that he was gone, leaving Anvar gaping after him.

There was pain, and only pain. It encompassed her entire world. Raven lay crushed beneath the fearful weight and burden of the pain that rolled over her in pulsing waves. She opened her eyes to see the leg of her night table, a section of floor—and blood, so much blood, spattered over every surface that her tiny circle of vision could encompass. Clumps of mangled black feathers were embedded in the sticky mass, and tiny splinters of bone. Raven retched, and shrank from the sight, and the movement flayed her nerves with knives of fire as she tried to will herself back into unconsciousness, to escape the memory of blows pounding down on her, the agony of torn flesh and shattered bone. Oblivion had been welcome then. Wishing for death, she had embraced the darkness as once she had embraced Harihn. A self-mocking laugh, as bitter as bile, bubbled in Raven’s throat, and she flinched from the pain of it. Blacktalon had played her for a fool. He had duped her again. Given the refined cruelty of his nature, she should have known that death had been the last thing he had in mind for her. The last, no doubt, in a long line of torments. But no torment could be worse than this fate, which had led Incondor to bitter ruin. She would never fly again. The free exhilaration of the skies was denied her forever. Oh, but that blackguard of a priest was cunning! In wedding her, he might seize power as her Consort, but she would still be Queen, and always a threat to him. He could scarcely have kept her imprisoned—she and her mother must still have supporters within the Citadel, This way, however, he would have it all She was the last of Flamewing’s line, but crippled like this, she would never be permitted to rule. It was against the Law of her people. As long as Blacktalon could get a child on her, he could spend a lifetime as Regent to a puppet heir. And to keep the Royal line alive, her people would permit it. At that point, of course, she herself would become dispensable—unless he decided to keep her alive for his own amusement.

Raven shuddered. Live? As a cripple, an object of derision, or worse yet, of pity? And then it came to her—and her laugh, a real laugh of triumph this time, shrilled through the deserted room. Oh, but she could beat him yet—and how sweet it would be, to fulfill her only remaining desire while thwarting her enemy.

Even the smallest movement seemed to take forever, Oh Mother, it hurts! Make it stop] The room began to fade around her, and Raven bit her lip, blinking hard, and breathed as deeply as she dared, until her vision came back into focus. In the background, she could hear the keening of the wind in the spires of the temple, Incondor’s Lament, her folk called that sound. The nightmare edifice of the Temple had been built to mark his fall—and his fate. Incondor’s Lament . . . Now Raven could understand the anguish of a soul tormented, which lay within that frightful sound. With dreamy detachment she watched her hand—a white spider streaked with rusty blood—as it crept, inch by painful inch, toward the spindly leg of the night table. At last the fingers touched, then circled, the smooth, cold metal. Good. The legs had always been unbalanced—she remembered nagging her mother to get it fixed . . . Raven braced herself and clenched her teeth. Don’t pass out! she harangued herself. Princess of the Skyfolk, don’t you dare pass out! Then, as sharply as she could, she pulled—

The shriek exploded against her clenched teeth, emerged as a whimper that was drowned by a crash of splintering crystal that receded as everything went black. Blast you, Raven, don’t pass out!. Somehow, the Princess clawed herself back from the brink of the abyss by muttering every oath she had learned from Aurian, until the pain had reached the point of merely unbearable. She opened her eyes again. And there it was. The cup of her crystal goblet had splintered into shards, but the thicker stem had snapped off intact, as she had hoped, leaving a jagged, pointed edge.