Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

The Weather-Mage, clearly expecting his usual swift response to such baiting, seemed taken aback. Her instant of doubt and hesitation was her undoing. Miathan snared her eyes with his glittering serpent’s gaze, holding her motionless and aghast as he began to intone the words of a spell in a whispering, singsong voice.

“No!” Despite his control of her will, the word, no more than a whimper, forced itself from Eliseth’s throat. Her eyes were wild and wide with terror, her slim white fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. As Miathan looked on, smiling coldly, her face began to change, its clear and perfect outlines starting to crumple, blur, and sag—until abruptly, Miathan cut the spell off short.

Eliseth, freed from the fetters of his will, sagged and stumbled, catching at the side of the door to keep herself upright. As she regained her balance, her hands flew instantly to her face—and her expression altered. Gasping, she flew across the room to the nearest mirror and stared at what she saw there,

Miathan chuckled, Ten years, Eliseth—ten small years, A droplet in the endless ocean of Magefolk immortality. But what a difference ten years make to that flawless face. Is your body a little less firm, perhaps? A little less straight and slender? He smirked. “It’s almost worse than being a crone, is it not, to see those relentless signs of disintegration and the marks of time,”

Eliseth faced him, speechless and trembling, and Miathan knew that he had cowed her. “The last time, when I aged you and you outfaced me, you could do so because you had nothing to lose. But I have learned from that mistake, my dear. This time it will be different,” His voice grew hard as stone, “Each time you transgress against my will, ten more years will be added to your age, I suggest you think about the repercussions very carefully before you dare to cross me again. And Eliseth—leave Aurian alone. If you so much as raise a finger against her, I will not let you die—but you will wish a thousand and a thousand times again that I had,”

As Eliseth, beaten, turned to slink away, he threw a sop to her with deliberate and malicious cunning. “Incidentally, I have not discarded you in favor of Aurian, whatever you may think. For all those ten additional years, you are beautiful still.” Crossing the room, he cupped her face in his hands. Eliseth glared back at him, but he saw the steely wall of hatred behind her eyes suddenly pierced by a sliver of doubt.

The Archmage smiled inwardly. “Yes,” he murmured, “you are beautiful, indeed. I may want Aurian to increase our dwindling race, and I may need her powers to further my plans, but she will always remain wayward and willful. I could never trust her, Eliseth, and so she must remain a prisoner—while you are free, to come and go and work at my side.”

Deliberately, he let his smile reach his face. “You would make a fitting consort for an Archmage—if you prove that I can trust you.” With that he released her.

“Liar’ Eliseth breathed—but there was a new light behind her eyes.

The Archmage shrugged. “Time will tell,” he said. “For both of us.”

As he heard the door close softly behind her, Miathan chuckled. Had she taken the bait? Time would tell, indeed. Hearing the Weather-Mage come storming down the stairs, the little maid fled on silent feet, back round the curve of the staircase. Flinging herself through Eliseth’s open door, she grabbed her rag and began to polish the table industriously, breathing deeply and schooling her features into their usual, expressionless mask, while elation bubbled over within her heart. She had come up to clean Eliseth’s chambers as usual, but hearing voices from the floor above, she, had crept as close as she dared, to listen. And by the gods, the risk had proved worthwhile!

Eliseth came stamping into the room, holding a hand to her face. “Inella!” She recoiled at the sight of the forgotten maid, and then collected herself. “Is this all you’ve done, you idle slattern?” She aimed a blow at the maid, who ducked adroitly. Eliseth scowled, but seemed disinclined to pursue the matter further. “Fetch me some wine,” she snapped, and vanished into her bedchamber.

“Yes, Lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy at her vanishing back, and ran to do her bidding. Though her face remained expressionless, her heart was singing. The Lady Aurian had escaped! By the gods, such news was worth the risk of being here!

Iscalda, terrified by the ravening wolves, had fled the tower. Not even her love for Schiannath could override her animal instinct to escape so many foes, Down the hill she raced, flattening her ears at the cries of the startled guards who were battling the wolves. Hands reached out to grab her as she thundered past the beleaguered men, but she was moving too fast to be caught. Across the flat ground toward the cliffs, then through the narrow stony gates of the pass, Iscalda sped across the snow as though her feet were winged. The white mare had no idea where she was going. She simply knew she must flee, as fast as possible, far from the howling pack and the scent of blood. Her hoofbeats echoing hollowly in the narrow slot between the cliffs, Iscalda hurtled through the pass, up and along the ridge beyond, and down into the valley on the farther side.

Concerned only with her fears, she was not looking out for danger. No sounds reached her ears, above the drumming of her hooves. So it was that Iscalda rounded a rocky outcrop that thrust far into the valley floor, and ran headlong into the troop of riders.

Xandim! These were her people! Even as she reared and tried to plunge aside from the leading horses, Iscalda recognized old friends and companions. Shamed by her exile, ashamed to be seen in such a state of unreasoning fear, she whirled on her hind legs and tried to race back the way she had come. But a horse, black as midnight’s shadows, leapt out from the knot of riders and raced after her. One terrified glance over her shoulder told Iscalda the worst. Phalihas was after her! In her consternation at seeing her former betrothed once more, she gave no thought to the strange figure perched astride his back.

The mare was trembling with weariness now. As the white heat of panic cooled from her blood, her sweating limbs began to stiffen in the chill of the mountain night. The black horse was gaining: she could hear his hoof-beats coming closer and closer, and from the corner of her eye she saw his great dark shape move up beside her shoulder. Suddenly a hand reached out, and caught the rope that the wretched Khazalim had fastened around her head! Her head wrenched cruelly, Iscalda came bucking and skidding to a halt in a spray of snow,

“Whoa, whoa now. Easy, lovey—there’s a girl,” The rider, still clinging tightly to the rope, jumped down from the Herdlord’s back and came round to her head,

Iscalda leapt back with a snort of surprise. This wiry little man was no Xandim! Why had Phalihas consented to carry such a creature? The stranger continued to stroke her gently, and the mare stood trembling, her ears twitching at the sound of that rough voice that crooned soothingly in some foreign tongue, She rolled one white rimmed eye to look round at the Herdlord, and wondered, with a flash of anger, why Phalihas had not reverted to human form.

“He cannot. He is bound with the same spell as you.”

Iscalda let out a squeal of rage as the Windeye came into view. The Outlander who had been riding Phalihas dodged to one side as her forefeet flailed around his ears. Iscalda jerked the rope from his hands and charged at Chiamh, teeth bared, eyes flaming. The Windeye did not flinch. Instead, he held up his hand, and began to speak the words of a spell

. And Iscalda was sprawling, facedown in the snow, as her four legs suddenly changed to two. Stunned, she struggled up on her elbows, looked down at her hands-two human hands—and burst into tears of utter joy. When she lifted her head again, she saw a hand extended to help her up. Chiamh was looking down at her, his expression both apologetic and compassionate. “Phalihas is no longer Herdlord,” he said softly. “I have waited so long for this day! You’ve been on my conscience ever since you were exiled. Welcome back to the Xandim, Iscalda.”