As Miathan came closer, he could see two figures in the airy vantage point that crowned the spire. One, he realized after a moment, was a Xandim. He seemed to be watching over the other who lay immobile on the cold stone, clearly deep in trance. In trance? A quiver of anxiety tinged with rare anticipation ran though the Archmage. None of the Xandim possessed the powers of magic! Then Miathan drew near enough to recognize the distant form. Aurian?—He intended to return to his body, but the shock of seeing her was so intense that he never got there.
Bit by bit the serpents tore away Aurian’s inner form, ignoring her struggles.—The Mage thrashed and struggled, but there was no escape from her attackers—nor from the agony they inflicted as they tore her asunder.—Gradually she found her consciousness drifting and fading, as her memories were torn away one by one, along with every scrap of pride, of stubbornness and belligerence: all the good things and all the bad. Somehow, though, she never lost consciousness completely. No matter what was taken she always retained a last, deep spark of awareness—and that was how she knew when the serpents had reached the core of her at last. She watched, detached now and at peace, as though from a tremendous distance, as they tore away the last tattered remnants of her old self—to reveal at the center of her being a sparkling green crystal, just large enough to fit into a Mage’s palm.—Then, with tails entwined and jaws interlinking around the gem, the serpents formed a circle and began to spin, creating a whirlpool of magic whose core was in the exact center of the spherical chamber, within the ring formed by their bodies. Bit by bit, the tatters of the Mage’s incorporeal form, which had been drifting around the chamber like slips of cloud, began to gather and converge once more, whirling and spinning and conjoining—until Aurian suddenly found herself back together, glistening and newborn and beautiful, renewed and remade by the Serpents of the High Magic, which still encircled her glowing form like a diadem, holding the crystal of the Staff in their jaws.
“Very impressive, my dear.” Aurian spun at the sound of the dry, sardonic voice. There, in the form of a roiling black cloud shot through with bolts of crimson lightning, was the Archmage Miathan.
Having delivered the Mage to her fate, Chiamh returned to the Chamber of Winds, where he slipped back into his corporeal form. Even though his own neglected body was shivering with the night’s bitter cold, he took off his cloak and covered the still, pale form of Aurian where she lay. “I feel dreadful about this,” he told Basileus. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into it. Poor Aurian! She’s going to suffer dreadfully. Maybe I should just go back and see ...”
“No. Windeye! You were told how it must be. This is a trial that Aurian must face alone.”
“But...”
“Do you want her to fail? Because that is what will happen if you go back there and intervene. And you would intervene, my friend. Having seen the intensity of her suffering, you would not be able to help yourself. Leave it now,” Basileus added in kindly tones. “So long as she has the courage and the strength and the purity of purpose, she will survive, and emerge triumphant.”
Reluctantly, Chiamh was forced to accede to the wisdom of the Moldan, but he simply couldn’t leave the poor Mage to her fate without at least bearing witness—and there was one way he could do that, at least. As the familiar, melting coldness of his Othersight sank through his body, he turned to gather a silvery skein of wind between his fingers, and began to stretch and mould it into a silvery mirror. Then, kindling the disk to life with his Other-sight, he bent his will upon Aurian, and peered into the depths.
The Windeye cried out in horror and dismay. “This isn’t what you said! You said she could remake the Staff. Instead it’s killing her!” So intense was Chiamh’s distress that he lost control of the mirror, and it dissolved to formless mist between his fingers.
“Patience, Windeye. Let us hope Aurian will prevail. Instead of the Mage remaking the Staff, the Staff is remaking her. I did warn you—you should not have watched.”
Too distraught to form another mirror, Chiamh sat down beside the Mage’s still body and stroked the tangled hair away from her forehead. What have I done? he thought desperately. What have I done? Then the Windeye stopped breathing.—Beneath the cloak, bright enough to glow even through the thick woven fabric, a brilliant green light, pale and flickering at first, then growing strong and steady.
“Thanks be to the goddess . . .” Chiamh lifted the cloak gently aside. There, still clasped tightly to the Mage’s breast, was the Staff of Earth—and the great green stone between the jaws of the snakes was gleaming brighter than it had ever done before.
Forgetting to breathe, the Windeye leaned forward, expecting Aurian to open her eyes and return to him at any moment. He waited and waited—but nothing happened. The Mage made no movement, and her pale face might just as well have been carved from stone.
29
A Long-Awaited Meeting
Forral awoke to the alarming realization that half his companions were missing. Where were the two cats? Where were Aurian and the Windeye? He leapt to his feet.
“Hush—do not wake everyone! Your friends are all quite safe.”
“What? Who in the name of creation is that?” But Forral already had a good idea, thanks to his previous experience of mental communication with Shia.
“Are you this Basileus that the Wind-eye was talking about?”
“Indeed. You would have heard me earlier, when we were all talking, if you had tried a little harder.”
“I suppose so,” Forral admitted. “I just can’t get used to this business of mind-speech. The power seems so much a part of Anvar—it belongs to him, not me. I don’t really like to use it. It feels like going into his house while he’s out, and using his be longings.” He hesitated for an instant-
“Basileus—did you know Anvar?”
“Of course. He was very brave, though he did not believe himself to be especially courageous. He ...”
“Where is everybody?” The last thing Forral needed right now was to hear a whole list of Anvar’s virtues.
“The Windeye and Aurian are on top of this pinnacle, in Chiamh’s Chamber of Winds.” There was a stiff hint of reproof in the Moldan’s voice. “They are restoring the Staff of Earth. It would not be wise to disturb them, but they should be returning soon. The two cats are . . .” The Moldan’s low-pitched mental tones turned shrill with horror. “They are gone, they are gone! It is too late to stop them. In their folly they have gone to Steelclaw!”
“What? What does that mean?” Forral demanded.
“It means that your presence here will be—or already has been—discovered by the Blind God!”
“Miathan, eh?” the swordsman growled. “Good. He can come here as quick as he likes.”
“You fail to understand, human. It is unlikely that he will strike at the Mage here, in this mundane world where she has the assistance of her companions. At present she is in the Elsewhere, Beyond the World, the realm of the mind and the spirit, where once the Phaerie were exiled. She has just been through a tremendous ordeal to recover the Staff—it is likely that she will be wearied and disoriented. If he moves quickly, and catches her now, in this vulnerable state, she will not stand a chance. Oh, if only Anvar were here!” the Moldan cried. “Another Mage might tilt the balance...”
“Bugger Anvar,” Forral growled. “He isn’t here but I am—and in his body I surely must have access to his powers, or I wouldn’t be talking to you now.—What must I do, Basileus? Show me how I can get to Aurian and help her.”