Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“My people,” Chiamh said sadly, “you think me a traitor for siding with Outlanders, yet I would not have done such a thing without a reason.” He straightened, eyes flashing, his long brown hair blowing back in the breeze. “O

Xandim—you must make ready for battle. The Khazalim have crossed the desert and formed an alliance with black sorcerers, and with our other foes, the warlike Winged Folk!. I have seen this in a vision—and I swear it is true!.”

Chiamh’s next words were drowned in an angry roar of protest, and once again, he was forced to bellow for silence.

“We are not a warlike folk! he said into the calm that followed. “Though we can defend ourselves fiercely at need, we lack the organization and battle skills that have permitted the Khazalim scum to raid us with impunity in the past. But this time it will be different!”

The Windeye turned to Parric, who was staring at him in amazement, “This Outlander can lead us, can teach us the skills we lack. He seeks companions who were captured by the Khazalim scum, and will offer us his aid until his friends can be released, and our lands swept clean again. At that time, he promises to relinquish the Herdlordship and leave us in our former seclusion, keeping the secrets of our folk for all time. 0 Xandim, for the sake of our lands and the future of our children, will you have him?”

This time, the roar of assent almost knocked Parric off his feet. “Chiamh, you’ve a way with words,” he told the young man gratefully. The Windeye shrugged modestly. “Who would have thought it—least of all, me!”

The crowd surrounded them, staring curiously at Parric. Some of the bolder ones reached out to touch him. Sangra, who all this time had been standing at bay with her back to the standing stone, defending Elewin with drawn sword, came pushing with the steward through the throng, her face aglow with relief. “Well done, Chiamh!” She pounded him on the shoulder.

Some of the Xandim had gathered in a knot around the former Herdlord. To Parric’s relief, they were assisting the exhausted, injured beast to climb shakily to its feet, “Now that the people seem to have accepted me, will you change Phalihas back?” he asked the Windeye,

Chiamh shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he said flatly. “Not everyone may be convinced—and in this state, Phalihas ensures our safety, for if he could speak, he would oppose you. Our former Herdlord is a proud and stiff-necked soul!” A grimace, like the memory of old pain, shadowed his face—then, with an effort, he brightened, “It will be time enough to restore him when we have done what we set out to do—but now, O Herdlord, you have a feast to attend!”

“Thank the Gods for that!!! Parric said feelingly. Then his face fell. “Chiamh—I won’t have to make a speech or anything, will I?”

“Where’s the problem?” Sangra teased him. “After a couple of wineskins, we usually have trouble shutting you up!”

Chiamh, his lips twitching to hide a smile, hastened to comfort the dismayed Cavalrymaster. “Don’t worry, Parric—I think I have said what needed to be said.” At last, his grin escaped him. “What would you do without me?”

“What, indeed?” Parric agreed. “And tomorrow, I’ll need you again, my friend—when we prepare for battle!”

Meiriel watched from her hiding place behind the standing stones as the last of the Xandim left the plateau, to accompany the new Herdlord to his feast. “Herdlord, indeed!” she snorted—but at least the wretched Mortal was finally doing something! The Mage smiled to herself. If Parric meant to use the Xandim to rescue Aurian, that meant he would be bringing her here—along with the monster she had spawned. “Why, thank you, Parric,” she crooned,

“you’ve just saved me a long, hard trip through the mountains!. And when you return with Aurian, I will be waiting!”

“And there you have it,” Anvar finished. “That’s the whole story—so far.” He took a sip of wine to moisten his throat. Elster was looking at him, her head cocked slightly to one side, her dark, bright eyes fixed upon his face. She frowned.

“Now I see why it took you so long to trust me with this.”

Anvar nodded. “I had to be convinced, in the first place, that I could trust you.”

“And you trust me now?” Elster’s eyes narrowed. “Gods, I’ve got to trust someone!” Anvar cried. “Elster, I must get out of here!”

The physician sighed. Ever since she and Cygnus had begun to visit this fascinating alien prisoner, her sympathy toward him had grown at an alarming rate. But to her shame, she had simply lacked the courage to assist him in any of his increasingly bizarre plans to escape. “Alas, Anvar, what can I do?” Her wings rustled as she shrugged. “My own life hangs by a thread, and were it not for my skills, Blacktalon would have had me murdered long ago. As it is, he is depending on me to heal Queen Raven—”

“How is she?” Anvar interrupted. Elster spread her wings helplessly. “She lives—but she will not speak, and we must force sustenance down her throat. When we enter the room, she turns her face to the wall. I see your eyes harden when I speak of her, yet if you saw her I am certain you would pity her. Though it is difficult to tell, since she will not speak to us, I’m sure she is bitterly ashamed of what she has done,”

“As far as I’m concerned, she brought her suffering on herself.” Anvar’s voice was hard, “Don’t ask me to pity her, Elster. Though even I was sickened by what was done to her, I can never forgive her for what she did.”

“Yet if you could only see the poor child, your heart might soften.” Elster shook her head sadly. “I cannot imagine what effect your news would have on her. Perhaps it would do more harm than good for her to know that her lover’s mind was in thrall to your ancient enemy—”

“Then you believe me?” Anvar relaxed a little. “I wasn’t sure that you would.”

Elster took the forgotten goblet from his hand, and drained the wine in a single swallow. “Oh, I believe you, Anvar. Too much of your tale rings true.” Turning, she groped for the flask in a dark corner beyond the firelight, and refilled the goblet before handing it back to him. “I can also believe that the High Priest has allied himself to an evil sorcerer,” she went on. “He is desperate to restore the lost magic of the Skyfolk, which perhaps is understandable. But Blacktalon’s mind has flown too high, and fallen into madness.” She grimaced. “He is convinced now that he is a new incarnation of the doomed Incondor.”

“What?” Anvar’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Aurian told me of Incondor, and how he brought about the Cataclysm.” He shook his head. “No wonder Blacktalon and Miathan chose one another. Both have gone beyond the bounds of sanity in their pursuit of power.” Anvar leaned forward and grasped the physician’s wrist. “Elster, you’ve got to help me escape!”

“Anvar, I cannot,” Elster interrupted flatly. “Not now. I would assist you, as would Cygnus, but Blacktalon keeps a constant watch on our movements. Besides, what could we do? The only way out of here is by flight, and Cygnus and I have not sufficient strength between us to bear you far enough to escape the warriors that the High Priest would send after us.”

“What about the other Winged Folk?” Anvar begged her, “Surely there must be some who oppose the High Priest?”

“No one dares. The city is paralyzed by fear and suspicion, Anvar. Blacktalon’s spies are everywhere, and it is impossible to discern who they may be. You must understand that there are many among us who would wish to see the Skyfolk in the ascendant once more—at whatever cost.” Elster sighed, “If there are those who would help us—and I’m sure there are—they dare not reveal themselves. Anvar, I truly wish to help you, but you must be patient. The time is not ripe to strike back at Blacktalon, If Cygnus and I were to contrive your release at this point, we would be unable to rally opposition against him. Not without the Queen, And it would be clear to him who had done the deed. We would lose our lives for naught.”