Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“D’Arvan?” Anvar interrupted in perplexity. “D’Arvan is here?” It was becoming more obvious by the minute that this must be a dream!

“You know my son?”

“What about Aurian?” The two strangers spoke together.

Anvar looked from face to eager face. “I don’t think I know anything, anymore,” he sighed.

An expression akin to pity softened the stern, sculpted face of Anvar’s rescuer. “Here ...” He handed the Mage a brimming crystal goblet of wine. “Drink, eat, refresh yourself. You are still not quite recovered from the shock of the Moldan’s attack. I will tell you what you want to know, and then . . .”—his expression grew hard again—“you will answer our questions, Mage. I am especially anxious to learn how you came by one of the Artifacts of Power.”

“And where my daughter is,” Eilin added urgently.

The explanations took some time. Anvar, desperately anxious now to return to Aurian, was forced to take comfort from the Forest Lord’s assurance that time held no sway here in this Elsewhere that was the Phaerie realm—and in truth, he wanted to learn what the Archmage had been up to in Nexis, in the absence of himself and Aurian.

If the Mage was staggered by the tale of Davorshan’s death, and what had happened subsequently to D’Arvan and Maya, he was more shocked by Eilin’s news that Eliseth was still alive. “Are you certain?” he asked the Earth-Mage.

“Aurian and I were positive that we’d killed her.”

Eilin nodded. “I have seen her, in Hellorin’s window that looks out upon the world. I imagine that you must have felt the death of Bragar—I saw the Archmage conduct his burning.” She leaned forward anxiously. “But how did you come to believe you had slain Eliseth? Tell me of yourself now—and of Aurian.”

The Earth-Mage cried out softly in astonishment as Anvar told her that he was Miathan’s son, a half-blood Mage, who had started off as Aurian’s servant, until he recovered his powers after he and his Lady had fled to the Southern Lands. Anvar wished, however, he had remembered that Eilin would not know about Aurian’s pregnancy, and Miathan’s curse on the child. He never thought to prepare her, but simply blurted out the news. Witnessing the shock and distress that he had caused, he cursed himself for a clumsy fool.

The Forest Lord gave her wine, and comforted her, and when Eilin had recovered sufficiently for him to continue, Anvar brought his tale up to the present—his defeat of Blacktalon in Aerillia, and the trap that the Moldan had set for him. “And now,” he finished, looking pleadingly at the Lord of the Phaerie, “if you could only return me to my own world, I must get back to Aurian. Surely the child must have come by now, and she—” The look on Hellorin’s face stopped him in mid-sentence. To Anvar, the room suddenly seemed very cold. “You can get me back, can’t you?”

Hellorin sighed. “Alas, I cannot send you back to your own world. It is beyond my power. But . . .” A gleam brightened his fathomless dark eyes. “I can send you beyond. Along the darkest road, Between the Worlds, to the Lady of the Mists. I warn you, the way is fraught with peril; but she has the power to return you, if she will—and she also holds the Harp of Winds: one of the lost Artifacts that you seek!”

Excitement quickened Anvar’s blood. The Harp! Another Artifact! Already he knew that he would dare the danger and take that darkest road—but as he nodded his assent to Hellorin’s questioning gaze, it was not the Harp that occupied his thoughts. It was the thought of returning, as quickly as possible, to Aurian.

Would that I could weep! But when Aurian blasted my eyes, she destroyed all hope of healing tears. Miathan sat before his fire, weary, stooped, and suddenly feeling every year of the double century he had lived. Until their last confrontation, the Archmage had been able to delude himself concerning the magnitude of Aurian’s hatred. But no longer—the look in her eyes had pierced him and driven him back like a spear through the heart. How could he win her back in the face of such deep and deadly loathing?

Now that he had been forced to face the truth, the magnitude of Miathan’s errors appalled him. I should never have killed Forral, he thought. That was my first and greatest mistake—and my first step on the path that led us to this wretched day. The Commander was a Mortal—much though it galled me, I need only have waited . . . Had he not fled with Aurian, Anvar would never have regained his powers. He would have remained here, a lowly servant, and under my control. And the child—had it been born with Aurian’s powers, it might have become a great Mage, an asset to our depleted ranks . . . But here, Miathan’s spirit revolted within him. He simply could not countenance Aurian’s half-blooded Mortal mongrel joining the exalted Magefolk ranks; no more than he had been able to bear the notion of Anvar—Yet—and Miathan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to face the truth—Aurian and Anvar were practically the only Magefolk he had left. Thanks to his blunders on the night of die Wraiths, Finbarr and Meiriel were gone, and D’arvan—well, he had been little use in the first place, but he was lost now for certain, Davorshan was dead, and Eilin had vanished from all knowledge. The only Mage that Miathan had to support him was Eliseth, and the Weather-Mage was not to be trusted, Aurian was now his only hope—the only full-blooded Mage that he still might influence—and besides, she was Aurian, and he had desired her from the first. I must win her back, Miathan thought desperately. I must—but how? Not by killing Anvar, that was certain, even if the Mage could be found. That would finish his chances completely. No, repugnant as the notion might be, Anvar must be spared—for the time being, at least. That should earn him Aurian’s gratitude, and later, he could think of a way to come between them. And the child? Miathan shuddered, but pulled himself together. He glanced across at the secret hiding place behind the wall, where the tarnished, corrupted remains of the Caldron lay concealed. Was there a way to reverse the curse? Could he find it in time?

“Curse you a thousand times over! How could you let her escape you!” The door slammed hard against the wall, shuddering and rebounding on its hinges. Eliseth stood there, white with anger. “Damn you!” she spat. “I should have known all along that you intended to betray and supplant me!”

The years fell from Miathan’s shoulders like a cloak. Springing up straight and tall, he flung a bolt of power at her that cracked across her face like a whiplash, leaving an ugly, livid mark. “Be silent! For all your machinations, I am still Archmage here!

Eliseth staggered, half turning, flinging her arms across her face. When she lowered them, tears of pain were in her eyes, but she gathered herself to face him squarely, her lovely features contorted with rage. “Archmage of what?” she sneered, “Have you looked out of your windows lately, Miathan? Have you ever thought, in all your endless travels of the spirit, to look down and see what is happening in your city? In the lands you now rule? You are Archmage over a handful of ignorant, grubbing Mortals—starving, sullen, and bitter with resentment. Is this the power you sought so avidly and at such cost?” She laughed shrilly. “While you waste your time mooning over that bitch like some drooling, foul-minded dotard, your new-won empire is falling apart around you!”

Inwardly, Miathan recoiled from the venom in her voice. He was careful, however, to let no trace of his dismay extend to his countenance. Rage, normally a flash-fire explosion of wrath, was building within him like a slow red tide, steeling his will and swelling his powers. For a moment he lingered, savoring the sensation.