The Moldan’s capacity for destruction was tremendous—and the Archmage had divined that its powers could be unleashed in its absence, simply by means of imprinting its will upon the rocks in a spell that could be released at a time of its choosing. Miathan’s time spell could delay this until the appropriate instant, and the actual use of one of the Artifacts within the precincts of the Academy would provide the trigger. Once the High Magic had been actively summoned, part of it could be diverted away from its intended target into the Moldan’s destructive spell.
Miathan paused, considering, with his victim still trapped and helpless within the iron grip of his will. The spell he had in mind would most likely have a devastating effect upon the city of Nexis itself—but who cared about a pack of worthless Mortals? The Academy, where so much magic had been practiced for so many centuries, would possess its own resistance to the ill effects of the spell, but there was a chance—a chance worth taking—that the wielder of the Artifact, whether Aurian or Eliseth, might be weakened or at least sufficiently shocked and shaken into making mistakes that would betray them into his hands.
The Archmage’s thoughtful frown vanished, to be replaced by a cold and calculating smile. “Moldan,” he said in a wheedling voice that dripped with false solicitude. “How would you like to go home?”
The landscape around the lake was clenched tightly in a fist of ice—-and Yazour had never known that such horrors could exist. He was experiencing his first northern winter. There had been snow, of course, and raw, icy cold, during his crossing of the southern mountains with Aurian—but that, he had innocently assumed, had been due to the altitude. Certainly, it had never occurred to him that people could actually live through such misery for a considerable part of every single year.
Eilin was very understanding of his difficulties—in fact, she had anticipated many of them. As the days grew shorter and the weather became increasingly cold and grey, Yazour wondered why she’d suddenly taken such an intense interest in weaving. Once the last of the harvest fruits had been collected, the Mage seemed to be at her loom every hour of the day. As the early frosts crisped the air and the young warrior began to complain of the cold, Eilin would send him out to the part of the forest that had been blasted by Eliseth’s fire, where he would chop wood until his back and arms ached and sweat poured down his face. At first, Yazour had suspected that this was the Lady’s own subtle way of punishing his complaints about her miserable northern weather, and bore the discomfort in silence when the cold gnawed at his fingers and feet. It made not the slightest difference, however. Day after day she kept him chopping and with Iscalda’s help he hauled back load after load of logs until the pile reached high up the side of the tower.
“Surely we have sufficient wood now” Stamping numb feet, Yazour entered the cozy living chamber or the tower. Shutting out the chill of the deepening twilight, he hurried to warm his chilled and blistered hands at the glowing stove. Wolf followed him, yapping excitedly, and ran to Eilin. He loved spending his days with Yazour in the forest. With his thick grey coat to protect him, he never felt the cold at all.
Eilin looked up from her loom and fondled the young wolf’s ears. “Trust me, Yazour—we’ll need all you’ve cut and more before winter’s out.”
The Khazalim stared at her in disbelief. “But there is enough wood out there to last us for years.”
The Lady got up from her stool, stretching her arms above her head. Yazour had often heard her complain that long hours at the loom left a stiffness between her shoulders. Crossing to the stove, she poured him rosehip tea from the pot that simmered there, and added a generous spoonful of honey. Yazour held the cup in both hands, grateful for the warmth that was beginning to seep into his tingling fingers.
Eilin poked the glowing embers in the stove’s iron belly, and added another log from the basket. As she straightened up, her cheeks glowing from the fire’s heat, Yazour caught a glimpse of a fond and fleeting smile—which quickly vanished when she noticed he was looking at her. “Poor innocent lad,” she said, with a little shake of her head. “I’m afraid our winters are going to come as an unpleasant surprise to you. Still, I have some new garments for you that may help, a little.”
Following her gesture, Yazour noticed a pile of clothing stacked neatly on the chair by the fire.
“Go on,” Eilin urged. “Try them on.”
Though he knew she had been working hard, Yazour was amazed by the extent of the Mage’s labors. There was a warm, heavy cloak of oiled and tightly woven wool, new woollen jerkins, stout stockings to wear beneath his boots, and thick gloves to protect his chilled fingers. The warrior’s heart went out to the Lady in gratitude, but she dismissed his stammered thanks with a smile.
“Yazour, it was the least I could do. You stayed here to help me instead of returning to your homeland and your people—and don’t think I haven’t watched you shiver your way through these last two or three moons. Why, you’ve been looking as miserable as a wet cat ever since the leaves began to fall.” Again, there was that special smile for him.
“The farmers who graze their sheep on the moors around this Vale have been giving me fleeces for years,” the Lady went on. “I’m glad of an opportunity to put them to good use at last.” Her eyes went to the window. “And by the look of things, I wasn’t a minute too soon.” There on the sill outside, a thin layer of new snow was glimmering.
That night’s flurry was only the beginning. Day after day the snow fell harder and thicker, smothering the Vale in a chill white blanket. Wolf loved it—he could scarcely wait for each new day to begin so that he could bolt his breakfast and go charging outside to play. Iscalda was all right—when they had repaired the ground floor of the tower, Eilin and Yazour had built her an adjacent chamber with a connecting door to their own living quarters. They had plenty of fodder stored for her, and though the inactivity made her restless, she could at least wait out the winter in comfort.
Only Yazour was truly suffering. Though he wrapped up well in his new warm clothes, he could never seem to get warm. Soon he had a cold to compound his misery, and spent his days huddled miserably in front of the stove, coughing and sneezing and feeling utterly wretched. For the first time, he began to wonder if he had made a mistake. By the Reaper, but he was homesick for Taibeth....
Back in Yazour’s lost Taibeth, the air was sweltering and humid. Down among the mud-and-wicker shanties along the river’s edge, the thin, high wail of a newborn child shivered the air. A wasted young beggar girl, her dark eyes avid with need, reached out to an unexpected benefactor. Zalid, chief eunuch to the Queen, placed a bag of gold into her palm—and fingered the knife in his other hand, concealed beneath his cloak. Even as the girl’s hand closed round the heavy bag, the knife flashed out, burying itself to the hilt between her ribs.—With a stifled, choking cry she sank to her knees, then toppled to one side, her glazing eyes wide with incomprehension and shock. The body twitched for a moment, then was still. A few gold coins gleamed with a warm, pure light in the bloody morass of the earthen floor where the bag had spilled from the beggar’s limp grasp. Zalid picked them up with red-stained fingers and scooped them back into the bag.