Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“You clumsy little wretch!” Eliseth grabbed the unfortunate girl by the shoulder and slapped her sharply, twice. “That was one of a matched set! Hurry up and pour some more—and get this mess cleaned up. You’ll be beaten for this!”

“And you’ll enjoy it.” Miathan smiled cruelly, as Eliseth returned to him. “How very kind of her to give you an excuse.”

The Weather-Mage shrugged. “Who needs an excuse? Which is just as well, for she doesn’t provide me with many. To give the brat her due, she’s the best maid I’ve ever had.”

“No matter.” Miathan shrugged aside such unimportant considerations. “Eliseth, I have just made the most useful discovery...” He went on to tell her of his confrontation with the captured merchant—and his excitement, when he found out the extent of the magical energy that could be transmuted from a Mortal’s pain and fear.

Eliseth cursed disgustedly. “What? So you mean that all those human sacrifices were unnecessary? We could have saved ourselves the trouble of procuring new victims by keeping a handful of prisoners alive and torturing them?”

“To a certain extent,” the Archmage replied judiciously. “For magic requiring a massive Boost of power, however, like possession from a distance, I should think that a sacrifice would still be required. Nonetheless, this discovery presents some interesting possibilities. Some experiments will be in order, I believe—and what better subject than Vannor himself?” His voice sank to a purr. “The man is tough-minded and physically strong. If we take good care of him, I should think he’ll last a good long time ...”

The Weather-Mage nodded avidly. “Where have you put him?”

“I had Aurian’s old chambers cleaned up for him.” Miathan smiled at her astonished expression. “We shall want him close at hand, and we must take good care of him—for as long as he lasts. Besides, the only other place we could have put him is the archives beneath the library, and it would be easier for him to escape from there—or even be rescued. No, I have him this time—and he will not escape again!”

Vannor opened his eyes and, for an instant, wondered where he was. Then his guts clenched with terror as he remembered his capture, and subsequent confrontation with the Archmage. The aftermath of Miathan’s assault was still with him: he felt weak as a newborn colt, and his body throbbed with an all-encompassing ache. But his discomforts were lost in surprise as he took note of his surroundings.

The merchant had been expecting a dungeon. Instead, he found himself in a soft bed that stood in a pleasant chamber with green and gold hangings on the walls, and a fire burning brightly in the grate. The furnishings were delicately wrought, their lines flowing and simple, all their richness in the deep glow of dark polished wood, Vannor shivered. What was the Archmage up to? Frankly, he would have preferred the dungeon, “At least that way, I’d know how things stood,” he muttered to himself.

A cup stood on the night table by his bed. An experimental sip proved that it contained taillin, still warm, and laced with spirits. Vannor could feel its heat all the way down to his stomach. His body craved the warm liquid. Before he had time to worry about whether the cup might contain anything worse, he had drained it to the dregs. The liquid seemed to put new life into him. Cursing, the merchant dragged his stiff, aching limbs, still marked in places from the ropes that had bound him, out of bed. Blessing the huge fire that blazed in the bedroom grate, he staggered across to the doorway that led into the next room.

A fire burned brightly in the living chamber, too. Everything was neat, clean, and welcoming—just as he remembered it from long ago. The old familiar surroundings brought back the past so sharply that Vannor lurched against the doorframe, undone. A groan wrenched its way from the very core of his being. He remembered dining with Aurian on several occasions, in this very chamber that had once been her own. Aurian—and Forral. And where was Aurian now? Vannor wondered. How was she faring? It must be about time for the poor lass to be bearing her child . . . And where was Zanna? Despite his best efforts, she was still wandering at large somewhere in the sink of vice and iniquity that the city had become. By the gods, if he ever got his hands on that wretched girl, he’d—His view of the room became suspiciously blurred. Vannor rubbed his eyes vigorously, and told himself he was suffering the aftereffects of Moathan’s attack.

Moving like a sleepwalker, the merchant checked the chambers thoroughly. The door was locked, of course, and he could get nowhere near the windows for Miathan’s spells. When he tried to touch the crystal panes, there was a flash of light, and his hand was engulfed in burning pain that shot up his arm. It felt for an instant as though he had thrust his hand into the fire. The fires in both rooms were guarded by a similar spell. Vannor found by painful experimentation that he could throw logs into the flames from a short distance away, but could approach no closer than the hearth itself. That ruled out using fire as some kind of weapon, then—and there was nothing else in the chamber that could be used at all. Even the bedcovers, with which he’d thought to hang himself as a last desperate alternative, simply slipped out of any knot he tried to make.

Swearing luridly and rubbing his stinging fingers, the merchant sank into a chair by the fire, buried his face in his hands, and cursed himself for a fool. Fear for Zanna must have blurred his thinking when he had set out to find her. His plan had seemed so simple at the outset! Return to Nexis, disguise himself, and make surreptitious contact with some of his old and trusted connections among the merchants. It should have been simple enough to trace one lost girl What he had failed to take into account was that one, at least, of his old acquaintances was no longer to be trusted.

Vannor cursed. Which one of those bastards had betrayed him? The city had changed so much in his absence—another thing he had failed to take into account. New opportunities had arisen under Miathan’s rule, new chances to prosper and become rich—if you weren’t too particular about the methods used. The rich and the poor were growing farther and farther apart in Nexis, and the merchant had been sickened to his very soul by the poverty, sickness, and squalor he had witnessed. Others, it semeed, had less tender consciences. Miathan’s immoral, self-serving ruthlessness was spreading like an evil canker through Vannor’s city, and the merchant was helpless to stop it. Stop it? Why, he couldn’t even save himself! Though he had never been a man to give up hope, Vannor could see no possible way out of this predicament.

All activity ceased as the Archmage strode into the kitchen. Janok, berating some hapless minion, broke off short in the midst of his tirade, his face betraying both astonishment and fear. What was Miathan doing here? He never lowered himself to enter the kitchen!

“Yes, sir? How can I help you?” Janok bowed low, almost groveling. The head cook had never forgotten that dreadful day so long ago, when he had carelessly allowed the drudge Anvar to escape and fall into Aurian’s hands—and how Miathan had punished him for his mistake.

“Janok,” the Archmage barked, “I need a servant for a delicate and special task. Is there anyone among this disreputable crew of layabouts and slatterns who is reliable, trustworthy—and discreet?”

“I can do it, sir,” a small voice piped up from the shadows. Janok scowled. By all the gods, were it not for the fact that she had the Lady Eliseth’s protection, he would teach that upstart little snippet a lesson she would never forget! The Archmage was frowning down at the tangle haired young girl. “Are you not the Lady Eliseth’s servant?”