Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Blacktalon waited in the narrow antechamber behind the gold-stitched curtains, as his lesser priests carried out the service of worship for the Father of Skies. His heavily embroidered formal robes rustled stiffly, their weight dragging at his shoulders as he paced back and forth in the narrow space. The chanting and sung responses seemed to drag on endlessly, and the High Priest fought to stifle his impatience at such nonsense. Power was the only thing that mattered; however, if superstition kept the Skyfolk appeased, he supposed the end must justify the means. At last the time arrived for Blacktalon’s own part of the ceremony. Hearing his cue, he opened the wooden door at the rear of the chamber, and two Temple Guards came forth, supporting the physician between them. Elster’s face was stark white, and her jaw was set. She remained limp in her captors’ grasp, dragging her feet, refusing to assist them to take her on this final journey to the altar and the knife. As she passed Blacktalon, life returned briefly to Elster’s stony face, “May Yinze blast you to oblivion!” she snarled. Eyes flashing, she spat into his face.

Elster had the satisfaction of seeing the High Priest recoil from her, He could not lose face by showing his disgust before the Guards, and had to remain there, glaring fiercely as the slimy trail of spittle trickled down his chin, while she was dragged away. Elster smiled grimly. Considering the fate that awaited her, it seemed a puny victory—but it was satisfying, nonetheless.

As she was dragged beyond the curtains and out into the temple, she was further buoyed by the reaction of the congregation. As one, the crowd rose to its feet and hailed her. Elster blinked in confusion. Since Blacktalon had taken power, she had made a point of avoiding the temple, but from the tales she had heard, her reception was unprecedented. Even better was the crowd’s reaction when Blacktalon appeared. The physician could not suppress a smile at the livid expression on Blacktalon’s face, as the Winged folk booed and jeered at him.

Without waiting for the High Priest’s command, the Temple Guards fanned out through the congregation, seeking to identify and isolate the troublemakers. The restive crowd fell silent, but behind their stillness lay a palpable air of anger and resentment. Tension lay heavy on the temple like a brooding storm front. Even as the Guard fastened her down to the altar, the physician saw the look of baffled dismay on Blacktalon’s face.

Dispensing with ceremony, the High Priest stood over her with lifted knife. For Elster, time slowed to a viscous crawl. The world sprang into vivid focus, her brain registering every detail. Each pore in Blacktalon’s face, each line of ambition and discontent on his skin, stood out like a scroll, unrolled for her to read. Elster felt the crowd’s restiveness beating The pulse of so many hearts beating together in a common cause thrummed through the temple like a vibrating harpstring. Then the world narrowed and dimmed, as the physician’s attention focused with hypnotic intensity on the glistening blade that hovered above her, ready to strike. The knife arced down—

“Coward!”

“Traitor!”

“Where is Queen Raven?”

“We want the Queen!”

Elster was amazed to find that she was still alive, and further astounded to find that the Skyfolk had discovered Raven’s presence in Aerillia. How had Cygnus managed that? She opened her eyes to see the knife poised and trembling, a scant inch above her heart. Blacktalon’s eyes flashed ire.

“Curse you!” the High Priest gasped. “How did they know?” He lifted the knife once more. “This time, there will be no reprieve for you,” he hissed, Elster saw his upraised arm begin to move, and shut her eyes.,.

“We’re close.” Anvar turned to the cats, who waited at his heels, at a respectful distance from the Staff of Earth.

“Then finish it!” Shia’s voice was thin with tension.

The Mage nodded agreement, knowing that the Artifact was causing her distress. At least she was better off than Khanu, who had remained strained and silent for some time, suffering the unfamiliar discomfort of the Staff’s magic. At last, however, they had reached their goal. Only a thin skin of rock remained to bar Anvar’s access to the Skyfolk temple. And the priest was there—he knew it! Somehow, the Staff had made him sensitive to evil. The Mage could feel it, like a stream of fetid waste, seeping through the rock above, and was seized with an unconquerable urge to blast through the intervening stone. He raised the Staff, and . . .

Lethal fragments hurtled through the constrained space in the Mage’s tunnel as the rock blew apart above him. Shia and Khanu cowered, snarling. Seeing the lip of stone, and open space above him, Anvar leapt, his fingers finding purchase. Hauling himself upward, he found himself hanging onto a rim of rock, peering up into a vast chamber. Panicked Skyfolk were screaming, running, taking to the air, their wings colliding in the constricted space. The High Priest stood over a bound victim on the alter Anvar saw the blade flash down . . . Vaulting from the hole, he launched a bolt of emerald fire at the roof of the temple. Flaring, the bolt impacted. Rocks rained down as the ceiling cracked and crazed. Blacktalon cursed—glanced up ... In that instant’s distraction, his blow was deflected, and flew wide to slice the victim’s shoulder...

Two winged Guards swooped down on Anvar from above. Shia gathered herself and sprang aloft in a mighty leap, taking one foe neatly from the air, ripping at him with her claws as he hit the ground. Flashing into Anvar’s mind came a vivid picture of the pathetic heap of skins within the cave. Khanu caught the other Guard as he landed, his jaws closing around the Skyman’s throat. The air was full of blood and feathers. As Shia whirled, seeking another victim, the remaining Guards drew back hastily, and fled—only to come face to face with another flame-eyed shadow that stood snarling in the open doorway. Hreeza. As he closed the distance between himself and the shocked High Priest, Anvar caught the old cat’s triumphant thought: “Ha! There was an easier way up after all!”

Blacktalon shot one terrified look at Anvar, ablaze with the power of the Staff of Earth, and whirled and fled behind the curtain. Anvar followed, reaching the anteroom in time to see the door slam as his foe escaped. Wild with wrath, he pursued the High Priest, almost wrenching the door from its hinges in his haste. With the Staff of Earth to light his way, he hurtled down a narrow stairway and raced through the maze of catacombs beneath the temple, following the sound of running footsteps.

Coming to a place where the passage forked, the Mage hesitated. Which way had Blacktalon gone? He thought he heard the faintest echo of footsteps coming from his right, and went that way. At once, the passage began to climb again, and soon Anvar found himself winding his way up an endless spiral of narrow steps. Up and up he climbed, until his legs were aching and he was gasping for breath. There had been no sight or sound of Blacktalon for several minutes, and Anvar began to wonder whether he had taken the right path after all. The sharp bang of a door slamming far above him finally erased his doubts.

A window in the final landing showed Anvar that he had climbed to the top of a lofty tower. As the Mage had expected, the single door at the top of the stairway was firmly locked. Cursing with impatience, he unloosed a bolt of energy from the Staff and blew it into splinters, charging into the chamber beyond before the fragments had time to settle, realizing his mistake too late as a knife came flashing at him through the air. As cold shock drenched him, time seemed to slow for Anvar. The blade floated toward him, turning slowly end over end . . . And went clattering to the floor as he activated his magical shield just in time. Gasping, Anvar looked up to see the High Priest, hunched over a carved pedestal, screaming into a glittering crystal.