Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“What?” Frowning, Eilin pulled back from him, but was no match for his strength.

Hellorin pulled her from the window embrasure, and into the center of the room. “I feel the presence of High Magic.”

His voice was tense with excitement. “A Mage has somehow found a way into this world!”

“Aurian?” Eilin cried. Hope leapt like a flame within her.

Hellorin squeezed her hand. “We will go at once, and see,” he told her.

In a blinding flash, the Great Hall of the Phaerie vanished around the Earth-Mage. She and Hellorin seemed to be flying through the featureless amber heavens, the landscape naught but a dizzying blur, far below her. Eilin’s heart beat faster. Her grip on the Forest Lord’s hand tightened convulsively, and she swallowed hard and closed her eyes tightly. It helped. “Is—is it far?” she faltered. Their speed snatched spoken words away as soon as they were uttered, so she switched to mental speech, and repeated her question.

“Far, near ...” Eilin felt his mental shrug. “Lady, in this world, the rules of human distance do not apply. I am searching for traces of the alien magic, and as soon as I find it, we will be there.”

It seemed an age to Eilin, before she felt herself being set down on the blessed ground, as gently as a falling leaf As soon as her feet touched the earth, sound returned—the thunder of massive feet, followed by a hideous cacophony of blood-chilling snarls. With a startled cry, the Earth-Mage opened her eyes—and saw a monster. A huge, terrifying, fanged abomination that stood on its hind legs, towering up and up ... And held in its great forepaw was a tiny human figure, its identity unguessable from this distance. Eilin’s mouth went dry. Was it Aurian? “No!” she cried, and leapt toward the monster, not knowing what she would do when she reached it, but knowing she must do something.

A hand caught her, and hauled her roughly back. “Stay here, Lady! I will deal with this!” Hellorin’s eyes flashed dangerously—then he vanished, to reappear on the riverbank, confronting the monster. But this time, he had cast off his puny human form. Tall he towered, far higher than the creature, cloaked in cloud and shadow with stars glinting like jewels in the branches of his great stag’s crown. Eilin gasped in awe. This was the first time she had seen the Forest Lord revealed in all his might and majesty. Lightning flashed from his angry eyes, and his great voice thundered across the valley. “Moldan—do you dare?”

The monster recoiled. Great fangs flashed white as it bellowed its defiance. Though it was using mental tones, its thoughts were so powerful that Eilin could hear them clearly. “Stay out of my business, Forest Lord. Let the Phaerie seek their prey elsewhere! This Wizard is mine!”

“I think not,” Hellorin said quietly. Eilin took an involuntary step backward, her heart chilled by the depth of menace in those few soft words. “Would you pit your power against the might of the Phaerie?” the Forest Lord went on. “Give me the Wizard, Moldan, and slink back into your mountain—ere I blast you beyond the bounds of oblivion!”

“This prey is mine! Eilin heard a sudden note of doubt in the creature’s voice.

Hellorin smiled. “Put it down, then, Moldan, and fight me for it.”

“NEVER!” The word ended in a snarl.

The monster snatched the tiny figure toward its mouth, opening those dreadful jaws . . . And from Hellorin’s hand sprang a great bolt of blue-white fire that struck the Moldan, sizzling, right between the eyes. With a shriek, the monster dropped its prey. Eilin cried out in horror, but the Forest Lord’s great hand reached out and caught the falling figure, laying it gently aside on the grass, out of harm’s way.

The monster, meanwhile, seemed to be shrinking in on itself. Smoke and bluish flame leaked from its eyes, and the jaws stretched wide in an endless scream as its great tail thrashed in agony. Vivid lightning crawled, a lethal network, across its body, searing where it touched. With one last shriek, the Moldan toppled, falling into the swiftly racing river. The chill green waters snatched it greedily, and hurled it over the edge of the falls.

As if released from a spell, Eilin dashed forward and flung herself down on her knees beside the prone form of the Mage. For a moment, hope burned bright within her . . . But the figure was not Aurian. The Earth-Mage frowned in puzzlement, taking in the dark-blond hair, the blue eyes that flew open in that moment, their gaze wide and stark with terror. “I don’t know you,” she ac-

Anvar was aching, bruised, and chilled to the bone from his immersion in the river. His battered body would not stop shaking, and his thoughts were awhirl with shock. His mind simply refused to encompass the reality of what had happened. That vast shadowy figure, the giant hand that had caught him and borne him to safety . . . Surely it had been a dream—some kind of hallucination brought on by an extremity of terror. The words of this strange woman seemed so incongruous, so—so ordinary after his last bizarre and terrifying ordeal, that Anvar burst out into hysterical laughter. Her angry scowl and her exclamations of impatience only served to make him worse. Hugging the Staff, which he had clung to desperately even in the monster’s grasp, Anvar laughed until the tears ran down his face; until his ribs ached; until he ran out of breath and began to wheeze.

A shadow fell across his tear-blurred vision: another figure had joined the woman. Wiping a sleeve across his eyes, Anvar looked up—and recognized the gigantic figure, diminished now to almost human proportions, that had defeated the Moldan. The Mage’s laughter cut off abruptly. “It was real ...” he gasped. Above the stranger’s head, like an illusory shadow, hovered the image of a branching antlered crown. Then the Mage’s eyes fastened on that hand, the same size as his own now. The hand that had been vast enough to encompass his body . . . Slowly, he looked up from the hand to those fathomless, inhuman eyes. “Who are you?” he whispered.

The man did not answer him, but looked across at the woman instead. “My sorrow, Lady,” he said. “I had so hoped for you . . . But as this is not Aurian, then who—”

“Aurian?” Anvar’s fear was forgotten. “What do you know of Aurian?” he demanded.

The woman’s hand shot out to grasp his arm, her fingers digging like claws into his skin. “What do you know of her?” she rasped. Her eyes were blazing with a savage intensity. “Hellorin said you were a Mage, but I know all of the Magefolk. You aren’t one of them! What do you have to do with my daughter?”

“You’re Eilin?” Anvar gasped. “Aurian’s mother? Then where the blazes am I?”

“In my realm,” the deep voice of the man announced. He looked across at Eilin. “I think we had better take him home.”

With that, he laid a hand on Anvar’s forehead, and the Mage knew no more.

When Anvar awakened, he was curled in a deep, soft chair before a blazing fire. A blanket of some peculiar fabric, light but warm, was draped around him, and he was dressed in a shirt and britches made from similar stuff, their hue a shimmering, changeful grayish-green, with a leather jerkin on top. For a panic-stricken instant, he looked wildly for the Staff of Earth, but to his relief it was propped against the chair beside him. Only then did he notice the low table of food and drink set out before the fire, and the figures of his two rescuers seated opposite. Looking beyond them, Anvar’s eyes widened in amazement. “Why, it’s just like the Great Hall at the Academy,” he gasped.

The man chuckled from his seat across the hearth. “D’Arvan’s words exactly! Do you still doubt, Lady, that he is a Mage?”