Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

—and others. Alone, he was helpless, but if he could somehow help those bright Powers ...

Turning into the storm, Chiamh wrapped a piece of wind around his fingers. As he poured his Othersight into the knot of air, it took fire, flaring into a shining tangle of moonspun silver. With the greatest he grasped it, then pulling his gently apart, he began to stretch and mold the gleaming stuff until at last, between his hands, he held a glimmering disc of silvery air. Narrowing his quicksilver eyes, the Windeye looked into the mirror . . .

And the visions came, a flood of images that flickered and changed and ran into one another in their urgent haste to reveal themselves . . .

The Snow Queen’s cold and deadly beauty; the haggard face of the Dark One, with eyes of burning stone; and all the world in chains beneath their feet . . .

The forest beyond the mountains. A solitary tower, crumbling to ruin, and the lean, fleet shape of a running wolf. The Bright Ones—a tall woman with hair of burnished red, her body rounded with child; the blue-eyed man who never left her side; and behind them, half glimpsed, the specter of a warrior, who hovered over them protectively . . . Another forest, far away in the North, that woke in Chiamh a conflicting tangle of fear and longing, and the wrenching pain of separation and loss. A fiery Sword, sealed in crystal, that marked the end of evil—and the annihilation of the Xandim ...

A face, long and narrow, bony of nose and high of cheekbone, too young for die silver that streaked the dark hair and echoed the sly, sidelong glint of hooded gray eyes. It was the face of a rascal, a malcontent, a maker of mischief—the face of Schiannath, the misfit, who had actually dared to challenge the Herdlord Phalihas for leadership several moons ago, Chiamh had no idea of his whereabouts now, His failure had meant his exile from the tribe, and he had vanished into the mountains, together with his sister Iscalda—a particular cause of anger to Phalihas, since the girl had been the Herdlord’s betrothed.

“Schiannath?” The mirror rippled and clouded, as Chiamh almost lost control of the Seeing in surprise, Schiannath a part of this business? “O sweet Goddess,” the Windeye muttered, “how in the name of your mercy can he be concerned with this?” With an effort he steadied the image—and saw the woman again, her hair a flaming banner, her body wreathed in a rainbow aura of magic. The Dark One stretched forth his hand to take her, but the vision of Schiannath lay between them like a barrier. She reached out to take the Sword, and destroy the Xandim . . .

“NO!” Chiamh shrieked. The mirror dissolved into mist between his fingers as he collapsed on the very brink of his eyrie, heedless of the lethal drop. To his Othersight, the meaning of the Vision was horribly clear. Only the Bright Ones could forestall the encroaching evil—but at the cost of the entire Xandim race.

The Seer wrestled with the conflicting possibilities, but whichever way his thoughts turned, he came up against one inescapable truth—whether or not the Evil Ones succeeded, the Xandim were doomed. The Windeye bowed his head, and with tears streaming down his face, he turned north, to look out across the heartlands of his people. He had forgotten that the Othersight still held him in thrall. Chiamh’s body stiffened, left behind on the brink of the platform as his consciousness fled on the wings of his Othersight, arrowing down the valley along a path of silver toward the source of the Vision, Across the snow-scoured meadow of the plateau he sped, following the crystal course of the ice-locked stream, down the broad, shallow steps of the cliff path, beside the diamond-lace curtain of the frozen waterfall, and along the well-traveled track that skirted the foot of the cliff until , , , Until ...

“Iriana of the Beasts!” Chiamh shouted in astonishment. There, approaching the blocky fortifications of the Xandim

he saw the prisoners. Strangers from across the sea! A man and a woman, warriors by their garb; a silver-haired grandsire, clinging stubbornly to life . , . And the other. Goddess, the other! She was one of the Powers—but Bright or Dark, Chiamh could not tell, Her mind was hidden from his Othersight by a cloudy labyrinth of madness. The Windeye was sure that the outlanders were somehow connected with the Bright Powers, And he also knew, with a chill of certainty, that as foreigners in the Xandim lands, they would be killed out of hand, But they must not die—or the Bright Ones would be lost! The Vision was telling him to save them!

But saving the strangers was easier said than done. How would he persuade the Herdlord? Chiamh knew he had failed to win the respect accorded to his Grandam. She’d had the advantage of-venerable old age ... She had no always been old, but she had proved herself as a warrior against the marauding Khazalim. He had never done so and never would—the weakness of his normal sight prevented it. Why, before he saw his enemy, he’d be dead meat! Face it, Chiamh, he thought, you’re a laughingstock—and so you hide in your valley, living in a cave like a hermit . . . They will never believe you—they’ll mock, as they have mocked so often . . .

Nonetheless, he had to try—and there was no time to lose! By the light in the sky, half glimpsed between the scudding clouds, Chiamh knew that dawn was on its way. Stifling his doubts, the young Windeye scrambled down from the tower, slipping and slithering and scraping himself painfully in his haste as his Othersight faded back to his own defective vision. He fell the last few feet and landed, winded and bruised, on a pile of gravel. Without waiting to catch his breath, he picked himself up and pelted down the valley, stumbling and rolling and getting up only to be tripped again by rocks and roots and hampering drifts of snow that massed in this narrow, sheltered place. But he kept on going, driven by sheer determination. The Bright Ones must be helped! He must get there in time to save the strangers! With the forgotten tatters of his shadow-cloak streaming out behind him, Chiamh ran as he had never dared run before.

The Windeye burst out of the woods at the lower end of the valley, and passed the standing stones that were its gate. The smooth, inviting grass of the plateau beckoned, and he heaved a sigh of relief. No longer did he have to worry about breaking a leg on uneven ground—on the plateau, he could really move! Chiamh stopped in the shadow of the great stones and collected himself, turning his attention inward. Then—he changed.

To an observer, he knew, the transformation would have taken place in seconds. To Chiamh, time seemed to stretch—as did his body, his bones and muscles gaining a tingling elasticity as they lengthened and grew thick and strong. There was a moment of blurred confusion, as impossible to register as the instant between consciousness and sleep—and in the lee of the stones that had previously shadowed a young man, Stood a snaggy-maned bay horse.

Chiamh pawed the ground, enjoying the power of his equine body, and the tapestry of rich scents that swirled around him. His ears flicked back and forth, hearing the slurring of the wind across the plateau’s snowswept grass, and the creak of branches back in the woods. His eyesight, unfortunately, remained unchanged in his Othershape—flatter in depth of vision and more peripheral and encompassing than that of a human—but still as blurred as ever. Still, at least in this form, he had other senses that could, in some measure, compensate . . .

Woolgathering! Chiamh snorted disgustedly. That was the trouble with this shape—one’s thoughts tended to become those of a horse, and the longer one stayed this way, the greater was the risk of losing all vestiges of human intelligence. But enough! Time was passing! At the far side of the meadow, he would have to change back again, to descend the steep cliff path, but in the meantime it was worth it, both For the saving in time—and the sheer, exuberant joy of the run. With a flick of his heels, the Windeye was off, racing the wind across the plateau.