Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

At the sight of those accursed pelts, something had broken within the Mage. Since that dreadful first night of their capture, she had remained as cool and firm as a bastion of stone, and Nereni had drawn inspiration from her courage. But after the furs had come, the little woman had been kept awake all night long by the storm of Aurian’s bitter, heartbroken weeping.

Nereni blamed herself. She had gathered every single fur and brought them down here to Eliizar and Bohan, and the incident had never been referred to again. The following day, Aurian had been pale, but stern of face and calm as ever. But now, when Nereni looked at her, she saw an extra shadow of pain behind the Mage’s eyes—and knew that she herself had put it there.

Once she was satisfied that Eliizar had mastered his emotions and was eating, she dished out another bowl of stew and took it over to where the eunuch huddled miserably beneath his own pile of furs. He had not been able to come to her—those unspeakable brutes, afraid of his tremendous strength, had fettered him to a ring in the wall with long but heavy chains. He had remained unscathed from the fighting, barring the many bruises where they had beaten him down at last, but his wrists, as thick as Nereni’s arm above the elbow, had been chafed and scored by the heavy manacles, where he had tried desperately to pull himself free. Due to the damp and dirty conditions in the dungeon, they were now a putrid mass of festering sores,

Bohan’s plump face was gray now, and hollow-cheeked. Though he still had his enormous frame, he had lost so much weight that his wasted flesh seemed to hang from his bones like a beggar’s suit of rags. Though the eunuch’s hurts had been less serious than those of Eliizar, he looked in a far worse state. Nereni knew why—she had seen this same thing happen to prisoners within the arena. Chained and helpless, feeling that he had failed his beloved Aurian, Bohan had simply lost the will to live.

Thanking the Reaper that the Mage had been spared from seeing her friend in this appalling state, Nereni let him have his stew first—how could she refuse him, poor man? While he ate, she comforted him with news and messages from Aurian, which seemed to cheer him a little. Then, gritting her teeth, she bent herself to the nauseating task of cleaning his sores.

It hurt him dreadfully, Nereni saw the pain in the rigid set of the eunuch’s face and the roll of his eyes; yet he sat there suffering patiently, and neither flinched nor moved until she had finished. What must it be like, Nereni wondered, to be in such pain and be denied the release of crying out? Nonetheless, she forced herself to be thorough. By the time she had finished, and was bandaging the lacerated wrists as best she could beneath the manacles, both she and Bohan were shaking.

Nereni looked coldly at Jharav, who had been standing on guard by the door all this time, watching without saying a word. “You are cruel, to fetter him See this,” she snapped. “How will he ever heal, with these iron bands that chafe and infect his hurts?”

Harihn’s captain could not meet her eyes. “Lady, take your anger to the Prince, for this was not my doing,” he said abruptly. He bit his lip, and glanced uneasily at Eliizar. “For my part, I agree with you,” he murmured, “But if I value my life, there is nothing I can do, and you must not expect it of me.”

“Come, Nereni, he is right,” Eliizar put in harshly. “You cannot blame the man for following orders—or if you do, you must also take the blame with me, for all the atrocities that were committed in the Arena, to those poor wretches under our care.”

Nereni shuddered, and turned away.

While Nereni was visiting Eliizar and Bohan down in the cramped little dungeon that was carved into the foundations of the tower, Aurian was making the most of her absence to take some welcome air on the roof. Usually, the little woman’s protests about the state of the ladder was enough to deter the Mage from climbing up here, but she had reached the point, she felt, where one more day spent looking at the walls of that dingy, cramped little chamber would send her right over the into raving insanity,

Aurian sat, wrapped in cloak and blanket, beside the parapet of the tower, letting the crumbling wall shield her from the worst of the wind. Every once in a while, when she was tired of her thoughts, she would peer through a dip in the crenellations at the uninspiring vista below. Though no sunset had been visible through the heavy clouds, the light was fading rapidly, flattening the sweeping slopes and shadowed crags until it looked as though a gigantic sheet of dirty gray linen had been draped over the world.

It had been many days since the Mage’s capture—fifteen, sixteen, more, she thought, she could no longer be sure. Aurian had never felt so desperate and helpless—not even when she had been recovering from the wounds she had received in the Arena, and had been unable to go in search of Anvar. Even then, though she had been constrained by her wounds, at least Harihn had been searching!

The thought of the Prince fueled Aurian’s anger. That treacherous bastard! she thought. That monumental fool! I should have stuck a knife in him back then, when I had the opportunity, and taken my chances! The Mage fought against an overwhelming wave of despair. Why did he do it? she thought. Why did he betray us? I saved his life when his father would have killed him! What did I do to make him turn against me like this?

Yet deep in Aurian’s heart, buried amid her raging resentment, there lurked a shred of pity for Harihn. He had made his choice, had succumbed to Miathan’s blandishments—and now, in a way, he was as much a prisoner as she. Had it not been for her own desperate situation, and that of Anvar and her child, Aurian might almost have pitied him. As it was, however, she wanted to tear out his beating heart with her bare hands, and stuff it down his throat. The Mage wished that she knew what had happened to those of her companions who were missing; to Shia on her long and lonely journey—oh Gods, how Aurian’s heart had turned over when she had seen those accursed pelts! The thought that one of them might have belonged to her friend . . , But that was nonsense, she told herself firmly. If Shia had been slain, Harihn would never have been able to resist bragging about it! She thought of Yazour. Was he even still alive? And Anvar, imprisoned in the Citadel of Aerillia . . . The Mage crammed her knuckles into her mouth, and bit hard to keep back tears. Oh Anvar, she thought. How I miss you! And to make matters worse, though she had cudgeled her brains through every sleepless night since she’d been taken prisoner, she had been unable to come up with a suitable plan to save Anvar, her child, or herself.

The Mage froze, as the thoughts of her child intruded into her mind. Even after all this time, it still startled her, and she was both alarmed and dismayed to find that her despairing thoughts were causing him distress.

Aurian sighed. “Dearest, I’m all right…” She sent out thoughts of love and reassurance, but at the same time, her mind was racing. As the time for his birth drew nearer, her son’s thoughts were growing stronger and more articulate—and unfortunately, more perceptive to the turmoil of her own emotions.

Aurian frowned. What could she say to him? How could she explain, in terms he could understand, why her thoughts held so much pain these days? Though she knew that he had access to her emotions, she had always tried to shield her most private thoughts from the child. Had the little wretch been eavesdropping? Goodness, she thought, I have to be more careful in future,

Aurian wondered if this close mental link would continue to exist after her son was born. Less than a moon now, she thought, and I’ll be able to hold him in my arms. Me, a mother! Dear Gods, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the idea! Less than a moon now, and you won’t have the chance to hold him, she reminded herself, if you don’t stop daydreaming and come up with a plan to save him!