Maggie Furey: Harp of Winds

In truth, in his loneliness and isolation, Blacktalon aspired to the family he had lost, the security and acceptance he had been denied. Lacking knowledge of his true parents, he had fostered the best possible dream—that he was truly a bastard scion of the Royal line. Fantasies filled his head each night, in which he took control of the Winged Race and restored them to their former glory—and brought himself to the position of supremacy in the world that had always been denied him.

Then had come the writings. Put to cleaning the temple by his superiors, who were still desperately trying to instill some seeds of priestly humility in his soul, Blacktalon, more zealous than most in his ambition, had discovered the secret, hidden journal of Incondor.

It was obviously meant to be. The young, arrogant, accursed Mage, co-instigator of the dreadful events of the Cataclysm, whose very name was taboo among the Winged Folk, had left his solitary message to posterity to be discovered by Blacktalon in a dark, forbidden niche behind the altar. And nothing, in the view of the priest, happened by chance.

Incondor had been fearless, merciless in his ambition. Incondor had also been solitary and misunderstood by the lesser beings around him. Devouring the journal obsessively, night after night in his damp little cell, it was but a small step for Blacktalon to reach the obvious conclusion: that the journal had been left as a message reaching out across the centuries, left specifically for himself to find. That he, in fact, was truly Incondor—newly reborn in order that he might bring his unfulfilled dreams of power to fruition at last.

A timid rap at the door of his chamber interrupted the High Priest’s musings. With a snarl, Blacktalon flung it open so hard that it rebounded on its hinges, almost knocking his visitor off the landing platform into the depths below. The messenger jumped back hastily in a blur of white wings to avoid the plaque of snow jarred from the porch above, and hovered, wary-eyed, out of danger. Blacktalon recognized him as Cygnus, a warrior-priest of the Temple who had eschewed the Way of the Sword for the Way of Healing. The High Priest’s lip curled in a sneer of contempt—yet Cygnus was a loyal, zealous follower, and his physician’s knowledge of poisons had come in extremely useful of late.

“My Lord” the young priest gasped. “Queen Flamewing is dead”

Blacktalon’s heart leapt at the news. At last By Yinze, it had taken her long enough—but she couldn’t have chosen a better time. “I’m coming!” he snapped—but as he spoke, a muted tingle in his scalp pulled him back into the room. The High Priest turned—and gasped. On the wall opposite the window, a section of polished stone was glowing with a dim and ghostly flicker. Even as he watched, the luminescence took on depth and definition, resolving itself into the familiar, harshly carved features of the Archmage.

Blacktalon let out his breath in a sigh of relief. “I will come as soon as I can,” he told the young warrior. “In the meantime, I am not to be disturbed for any reason! Is that clear?” He slammed the door on the startled messenger, and bolted it quickly.

“Miathan, where have you been?” Blacktalon was too anxious to form the disciplined thought patterns used in mental communication. “The snow is melting!” he gabbled. “My winter is dissolving, and—”

“Shut up, Blacktalon, and listen.” The Archmage’s mental voice seemed faint and far away. He sounded very tired,

“Eliseth, my Weather-Mage, has been attacked by those renegades-—”

“She was attacked? But was she hurt? Can she restore my winter?” the High Priest insisted.

“Of course—if she knows what’s good for her!” For a moment, there was naked steel in Miathan’s voice, “I shall deal with the matter on my return. More to the point, how fares that Queen of yours?”

Blacktalon smiled. “Dead,” he purred. “The poison worked perfectly.”

“Excellent! Then you must seize power with all speed. My pawn, Prince Harihn, has duped your Princess into betraying the fugitives. She will lure them to the Tower of Incondor—a superb idea of yours, that; it’s perfect for an ambush—and if you provide the warriors you promised, we cannot possibly fail! How soon can you be ready?”

The image smiled: a self-satisfied, cruel smile that sent a shiver down Blacktalon’s spine. “Ready?” he gasped. “But the Queen has only just died! I have no time—”

“Then I suggest you hurry, Blacktalon. You’ll have sufficient time to prepare—our fugitives must make ready for a journey into the mountains, and it will take them some time to reach the Tower. Take a firm grip on your city, and leave the rest to me. Have warriors ready to carry out the ambush on my word. Oh, and Blacktalon, I have no idea what has become of your crystal, but rectify the matter as soon as possible. Communicating like this is exhausting and inefficient, and I’ve better uses for my time and energy!” With that he was gone, leaving Blacktalon staring indignantly at a blank wall.

As the awareness of his surroundings returned, the High Priest heard a sound that did much to soothe his annoyance at Miathan’s peremptory manner. Opening his window, he heard a wailing of many voices, mourning the death of Flamewing, Queen of the Skyfolk. Blacktalon allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction. Then, composing his features into a suitable expression of sorrow, he straightened decisively and went to the door. He had a great deal to do, and according to Miathan, little time in which to accomplish it all, Stepping out onto his landing platform, the High Priest spread his night-black wings and soared across the darkening void toward the tower of the Queen.

Dark. Darkness and the smell of wet horse—both had become familiar companions to Parric since he and the others had been captured by the Xandim Horselords, The Cavalrymaster cursed, but it was halfhearted. Even his endless store of profanity had run out of inspiration. He was helpless, blindfolded and bound, and to be hauled like a sack of dung on one of the legendary Xandim beasts was a dire humiliation for a horseman. He was wet through, furious, frustrated, and afraid. He could only speak with these people through Meiriel, but the Mage was stark-mad, and hated him besides. He had no way of knowing if she’d translate his words correctly—supposing these savages would give him a chance to speak!

Behind him, Parric heard the tearing sound of Elewin’s cough. The elderly steward’s illness had worsened during this grueling journey. He might not survive it, for as far as the Cavalrymaster knew, Elewin and the others were in a similar plight to himself—bound and gagged, and with their eyes tightly covered. Bereft of information, Parric fretted. Where are these bastards taking us, anyway, he thought—and how much longer will it take to get there?

The Cavalrymaster bitterly regretted his rash decision to come in search of Aurian. How could he possibly find her in these vast, hostile lands? If only he had thought to find out more about the place from Yanis, the Nightrunner leader who had befriended the rebels, and had been running an illicit trading operation with the Southerners. It had seemed a good idea, at the time, to beg a passage on one of his ships. Parric cursed again—had it not been for the gag, he would have spat. Idris, the superstitious captain who had brought them here, had been reluctant to carry a Mage, and the situation had not been improved by Meiriel’s abrasive arrogance toward the man. It made no difference that she treated all Mortals in the same way—when his ship had been crippled by storms, Idris had dumped Parric and his friends on the nearest strip of land and abandoned them without even taking the time to repair his broken mast. Gods, I’m a fool! Parric berated himself. Forral, his old commander, would have been disgusted. The Cavalrymaster had abandoned his fellow rebel Vannor to come on this fool’s errand, leaving the merchant, with no experience of warfare, in command. The Gods know what a mess he’s making of things, Parric thought ruefully. I wonder if he found the Lady Eilin? I wonder if she’ll help us? Of course she will, he comforted himself. She’s Aurian’s mother! The Archmage murdered Forral and betrayed her daughter—she’s sure to be on our side! If I could only find Aurian . . . The horse paced tirelessly on. Parric, a horseman to his soul, found some solace in the appreciation of its smooth stride. Powerful muscles moved beneath him with fluid ease, and he rubbed his cheek against a thick but silken coat. He ached to see the beast; to run his hands along sleek flanks and powerful haunches. Oh, to ride this creature—to share such generous strength. Why, this horse could outspeed the very wind! Lulled by his mount’s even paces and comforted by the warm, rough smell of horse, he dozed, and dreamed of riding the wind ...