Dread had settled like a cold stone in Aurian’s belly. She would keep silent no longer. “A Mage, you say?” she interrupted. “An old man, with gems for eyes?”
“Indeed, it is just as you say. I had a feeling you would know him. He has no eyes, just shining jewels, which is why the Xandim call him the Blind God, though somehow he still sees. ...”
“Blind God?” Aurian snorted. “Well, I see his arrogance has not been blunted by the years—nor by what Eliseth did to him. I was hoping she’d finished him for good. . . .”
“No you weren’t.” Forral looked at her shrewdly. “I know you better than that, Aurian. You wanted to finish him yourself.”
“And?” the Mage challenged.
“Yes, yes,” Forral grinned. “You know that I want to finish him, too. You must admit, love—I’ve a damned good reason.”
“So what is this cult of the Blind God, Basileus?” Chiamh interrupted.
“At the full of the moon, and at the dark of the moon, one of the Xandim—usually a criminal, or one who has earned the displeasure of the Herdlord and the Council of Elders—is brought up to the Field of Stones and sacrificed.—The Xandim purportedly earn the favor and protection of the Blind God—not to mention immunity from his wrath—though it seems to me that the Council and the Herdlord perpetuate this brutality to get rid of those against whom they bear grudges. The god, on the other hand, gains ...”
“Don’t call him a god,” Aurian said tightly. “His name is Miathan, and I know what he gains. The monster is feeding on the life force of his victims to increase his powers.”
“Well, he won’t be doing it much longer,” Forral said grimly.
The Mage nodded agreement. “There’ll never be another chance like this. It’s time to complete our unfinished business with the Archmage.”
Forral was awakened by a cold nose poking in his ear. He jumped up, reaching for his sword—and found that his assailant was only Wolf. The swordsman sat down again and took deep breaths to slow his racing heart. “Ho, Wolf,” he said tentatively in mind-speech. “What’s the matter?”
The wolf whined and stretched out its forelegs, dropping its nose down to its paws and cocking its ears. “Are you really my father?” it asked.
The question, coming out of nowhere as it did, took Forral completely unawares. “Yes,” he said firmly. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
Wolf gave a little whine- “I don’t understand. Grandma Eilin said you had brown hair, and a beard. She said you were dead. Everybody said that—except Shia, and she won’t even talk about it.”
“Hasn’t your mother told you all about this?” Forral asked in some surprise.
“I should have thought . . .”
“Well, it was my fault, really. I wouldn’t talk to her at first, because I thought she didn’t want me—then when I got on the ship, there was just no time. She never really had a chance to explain.”
“All right,” he said to his son, “I’ll explain instead. This is what happened.
. . .”
It took some time to tell the entire tale. Wolf was full of questions, and Forral found himself having to reach back into his memory to relate incidents even as far back as Aurian’s childhood, to clarify his relationship with the Mage. When he discovered that the Archmage who had put the curse on him was the same Miathan who had killed his father, Wolf started to growl softly. “One day,” he said, “I’m going to kill him.”
You won’t have to, my son, Forral thought—because I intend to kill the bastard myself.
The Mage awakened in the night to find Chiamh shaking her shoulder gently.
“What?” she muttered in sleepy irritation. “What’s wrong?”
The Windeye held a finger to his lips for silence. “Come with me,” he whispered.
The Mage sighed, fastened her clothing, and strapped on her sword.
“Make sure you bring the Staff,” Chiamh whispered. With a shrug, Aurian slipped it through her belt as usual, and slung the harp on her back for good measure, before slinging her cloak around her shoulders and pulling on her boots. Then, walking softly and carefully so as not to wake the others, she got out of the cave, following the Windeye and wondering in the name of perdition was going on. As they left the cavern, they came across Shia, on guard at the entrance. “Where do you two think you’re going?” she asked.
“Just up to my Chamber of Winds,” Chiamh replied. “What?” Aurian hissed aloud.
“Oh no we bloody aren’t!” She turned to go back into the cave, but Chiamh caught hold of her arm. “Truly, this is important,” he insisted. “Come at here where we can talk.”
The Mage went with him as far as the pool, with its water like a drift of pale smoke and its roiling surface aglimmer with a filigree of moonlight. Here she stopped and swung round to face the Windeye, hands on hips. “Well?”
“Listen,” Chiamh said urgently. “I don’t know much about this Miathan, but I do know one thing—you should not try to fight him without the Staff of Earth.—I’ve been talking to Basileus about the trouble you were having with the Staff—and he thinks we can put it right.”
For an instant, Aurian wasn’t sure she had heard him properly. Then the anger took over. “You talked to Basileus?” she said in a voice that was deceptively calm and quiet. “You discussed my private business—my personal shame—with that Moldan?”
“Curse it, what was I supposed to do?” the Windeye flung back at her. “He knew, Aurian. He asked me. He’s an Earth-elemental—he could sense immediately that something had happened to the Staff.”
“Well, if he knew, why the suffering blazes didn’t he ask me?”
“Because he wanted to know whether he’d be able to help you before he talked to you,” Chiamh told her patiently. “He didn’t want to get your hopes up for nothing.”
“Get my hopes up?” Aurian blazed. “I’m not a bloody child!”
“Then stop acting like one, damn it,” Chiamh roared at her. “Don’t you hear what I’m saying? Basileus can help you. Or would you rather throw away this one priceless opportunity to save the Staff through your accursed, stubborn, stiff-necked Magefolk pride?”
The Mage shut her mouth with a snap. She had never heard the Windeye lose his temper before. The shock cooled her anger instantly, as though he had thrown icy water at her, instead of hot words. “I’m sorry, Chiamh,” she said. “I’m acting like a fool. It’s just that—” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “I’m truly ashamed of what I did.”
The Windeye caught hold of her hands. “If the Staff’s powers return, will you finally believe you can forgive yourself?”
The ghost of a smile crept onto the Mage’s face. “You know what? I think I might.”
“Good. In that case, let’s make a start.” Chiamh gestured toward the pinnacle.
“The first thing you must do is climb up to the Chamber of Winds.”
Aurian’s face fell. “Must we? Surely we could fly—it would be a whole lot safer.”
“No,” the Windeye told her firmly. “That wasn’t what Basileus said. He said that if you want to redeem yourself you must meet this challenge, and conquer your own fear. And if ill notice, I didn’t say ‘we.’ I’m sorry, Aurian. I’m afraid it’s something you must do on your own.”
28
The Pinnacle
After Aurian had left the cavern, Shia found herself becoming more and more unsettled. At first, she told herself that her mood was distress at the mystery of her vanished people—or maybe it was unease for Aurian, who had gone wandering off into the night with the Windeye. What was Chiamh up to, trying to get Aurian up on top of the pinnacle at this hour, in the dark? Full well he knew how the Mage felt about high places!