Yes—it was working! Aurian’s determined summoning of light was beginning to send the darkness into a retreat. She actually could see it creeping back now: shrinking away from her radiant form.
Then suddenly the darkness was gone—and Aurian cried out in pain as she was pierced through and through by spears and splinters of viridian, emerald, and sea-green light. There was no way she could close her eyes—there was no way to escape the brittle radiance that pierced her like a thousand swords. Only when she had pulled her wits together and dimmed her own luminescence did the light soften, swirling around her like a snowfall of glittering green flakes.—At last the Mage could see herself as Chiamh had seen her—but in the form of myriad green reflections that curved away on all sides to a dizzying infinity.—When she had managed to make sense of the many conflicting, splintered reflections, she discovered that she appeared to be floating inside a massive hollow gem. And all this green ... It was as though she had been trapped inside the crystal that held the Staff of Earth’s power—or was she viewing the scene through the eldritch medium of the Othersight, and was this place truly something else entirely?
A flash of scarlet flashed at the edge of Aurian’s vision. She spun, trailing sunburst limbs of fire, and saw the red and silver Serpent of Might approaching her, swimming with swift ease through the scintillating green void. From the other side, the Serpent of Wisdom was also approaching, its green and gold markings far less easy to see as it blended into the emerald background. Aurian’s heart leapt to see them. At least she had not lost them in the darkness!
Even as she was wondering why they should be converging on her, the serpents struck, sinking their fangs into glittering, amorphous plasm that was the Mage. Rivers of fire raced along Aurian’s streaming limbs toward the central core of her being. She screamed, shrill and voiceless, as the agony spiraled through her. The serpents struck her again and again, clamping their fanged jaws into the insubstantial gossamer of her discarnate form, and tearing away great mouthfuls like shreds of glistening cloud.
Deep within another mountain, the Archmage was awakened from uneasy dreams.
“Trespassers! Intruders! We are invaded!”
“What in the name of perdition is wrong with you, Ghabal?” Miathan muttered irritably.
“Awake! Awake! We are attacked!”
Not again! Under his breath, the Archmage cursed. Lately, Ghabal’s madness had taken this form: every time a bird flew over, or a breeze brushed by his stony flanks, the Moldan was imagining invaders. “Come now—who could be attacking you?” he soothed. “The Xandim? That’s nonsense. They wouldn’t dare. Why, since the cats departed, no one save me has come closer to you than the Field of Stones.”
“Intruders! They set foot on me! They touched me!”
Miathan sighed. “All right—I’ll take a look. Will that satisfy you? Now, where were these so-called invaders?”
“On my western flank—they must have come across the Dragon’s Tail.”
“Very well.” The Archmage reached up to a shelf carved into the cavern wall beside his bed, and carefully, using both hands, he took down a large silver casket. Throwing back the lid, he reached inside and lifted out a great black gem, almost as large as his own head. The stone was unfaceted, like a black pearl—except that it lacked a pearl’s soft luster. Instead of reflecting light, the gem seemed to absorb it—indeed, when the Archmage withdrew it from its casket, the room seemed to grow darker, as though swarming shadows were creeping down the walls and out of the corners.
“Do you have to use that accursed stone?” the Moldan asked sharply. “It is an evil thing, filled with unquiet spirits.”
“Don’t be stupid!” Miathan snapped. The cold gems that were his eyes glittered with an avid light as his gnarled and knotted hands caressed the smooth lightless surface of the stone. “This is my creation, my treasure,” he crooned. “It will be my revenge!”
Long ago, Miathan had decided that, since he had no Artifact of his own—nor, as far as he could see, any chance of obtaining one—there was only one solution: he must try to make one.
In all the ten years that Miathan had been here, his defeat by Eliseth had never ceased to rankle. Though to date she had failed to discover his whereabouts, he would not be able to rest, he knew, while she was still at large in the world, for he would be forever looking over his shoulder.—Unfortunately, because she held the stolen Caldron of Rebirth, he still lacked sufficient power to overcome her, but soon that would change.
This audacious plan had the full support of the Moldan. “Once we wield such power, the world will fall to its knees before us!” Ghabal had crowed. Miathan had decided not to disillusion him—he needed Ghabal’s help in the matter of crystals, and the benefit of the Moldan’s experience concerning the storing of power in the lattices of stone. He had been experimenting for several years now, and had perfected a method of storing the accumulated life energies of his sacrifice victims in this smooth crystal. So far, though, he had failed to achieve the most important factor: the actual character and intelligence, the sentience, that all the original Artifacts possessed—or so he thought. The Moldan disagreed. It had taken an intense dislike to the stone, almost bordering on hysterical fear. Ghabal insisted that the gem was inherently evil, and filled with the vengeful spirits of the dead.
Arrant nonsense! Miathan thought. Clasping the crystal to his chest, he lay back on his couch, thankful that the cold stone was well padded with a thick layer of fragrant hay and herbs brought from the Xandim from the lowlands, then woven bags well-stuffed with feathers and fleece, brightly dyed woolen blankets, and a generous pile of sheepskins and furs, including the heavy pelts of several great cats who had not left the mountain in time. It wasn’t too bad, he conceded, this business of being a god. He might be stuck with living here in this mountain cabin, but at least he had the best of everything, food and wine included. The frequent offerings brought to him by the Xandim were sufficient to satisfy all his needs—save one. Revenge.
“Do you plan to seek out those intruders at any time this year?” Ghabal’s acid tones reminded the Mage of what he was supposed to be doing before he had lost himself in thought.
“All right, all right,” snapped Miathan. “I’m going.”
The Archmage lay back, covering himself carefully with a pile of furs. These days, his old body simply could not afford to lose too much heat while he was absent. Once settled, he closed his eyes and relaxed, until the interior of the cavern became clearly visible to him through his closed eyelids. Now that his inner form was discrete from its shell, he rose gently above his discarded body, and sailed through the wall of the cave and into the thick, dark layers of rock beyond.
Emerging on the shattered pinnacle of Steelclaw, Miathan pointed himself toward the west and swooped down over the Dragon’s Tail, and stopped there: hovering. To his utter astonishment, the Moldan had been right for once. Far below, on the mountainside above the ridge, were too small, familiar black shapes that he had not seen for some considerable time. Well! Miathan thought.—So two, at least, of the cats had returned to Steelclaw. How very fortuitous—he could do with some new furs.
Given the unexpected appearance of the felines, the Arch-mage wondered whether more of the creatures were wandering at large. A cat-hunt might be a useful way to test the powers of his new Artifact—and failing that, it would provide some entertainment, at least. Living up here in isolation, save for his deranged companion, meant that Miathan very rarely had such an opportunity to enjoy himself. Presumably, the animals had come from the Wyndveil, so he set off in that direction, heading roughly toward the Xandim Fastness.—When he reached the high valley with the barrows of the Xandim dead, the Archmage was astounded to see the glow that meant living beings on the top of the strange, high spire that stood at the valley’s head. What in the world is going on? he thought. Surely that place is taboo for the Xandim? Suspicious now, he crept closer, keeping his thoughts to a low, almost formless murmur to make sure that his approach was unobserved.