Eliseth let her consciousness mesh with the power of the grail, until, with an abrupt and dizzying switch of focus, she viewed the scene through Vannor’s eyes, concealing a flash of cold hatred at the sight of Zanna. Well, now that the Weather-Mage had Vannor back under her control, there would be ample time and opportunity to deal with his daughter....
“I’m only too glad that it worked,” Aurian was saying to the woman.
“Hopefully, he should be fine, now.”
“I can never thank you enough.” Zanna tucked her arm through that of the Mage, and they walked away, almost out of earshot. “Now, do you know exactly what you’ll need for your journey south ...”
Eliseth could hear no more—but she had all the information she needed right there. Wrenching herself back into her own body, she emptied the water in the grail out of the window, and despatched a servant to find Skua and Sunfeather.—If she wanted to be secure in Dhiammara before Aurian reached the place, it was time to make a start. And the first obstacle that would have to be dealt with was Eyrie—the southern Skyfolk colony at the edge of the great forest, and the place that was currently harboring Queen Raven herself.
Eliseth smiled coldly. The colony and its human counterpart set up by Aurian’s former companions would make a superb supply base for defenders of Dhiammara—and the Skyfolk and their human friends would make useful slaves.
The hawk had flown wide and far before Anvar remembered who he was, where he had come from, and why he must return. He did not reach this awareness all at once—instead, the information filtered, very gradually, into his consciousness, like bubbles of air rising from the bottom of a pool. Only when some vague sense of identity had awakened within him could he begin to work out what was wrong. It was a difficult process, as if each thought was a tiny, glittering bead that must be taken out and examined in detail before it could be strung with the others on a thread of consciousness. The efficiency of his thinking, however, improved with practice, until finally he decided his difficulties stemmed from the fact that the vast, complex entity that was the spirit of a human and a Mage fitted ill inside the bird’s small body and even smaller brain.
All the time Anvar had been deliberating, he had been flying steadily along the coast, with the ocean on his left wing and the land on his right. Suddenly he became aware of what he was doing. I’m flying! I don’t know how to do this!—It’s impossible! The thoughts scarcely had time to flash into his mind before land, sea, and sky were whirling across his vision in a disorientating jumble as he plummeted, tumbling end over end in an uncontrolled and helpless fall.—Anvar’s mind froze in panic—and instinct saved him. Clearly, the automatic reflexes for flight were contained within the hawk’s wings and brain. His wings flashed open, catching the wind beneath them and tilting to swoop him up at a dizzying angle, so close to the surface of the sea that one wingtip actually caught the top of a wave.
Gods—that was too close! As he careened unsteadily on his way, the Mage ordered himself not to think of the technique he was using—in fact, preferably not to think about the whole business at all. It proved easy enough, for his brain only seemed capable of dealing with one subject at a time. To be on the safe side, however, he flew inland—almost drowning himself again with his first attempt to turn—and once he had solid ground beneath him he flew as low as he dared, to reduce the chance of his hurting himself should worse come to worst.
That was how he came to see the rabbit—several of them, in fact, in a grassy hollow a short distance back from the brink of the cliff. A red spike of hunger flashed across his brain. Instinct took over once more. He didn’t have far to drop—he simply selected his prey, angled his wings, and tucked them close to his sides, letting his momentum drive him, talons extended, into the fleeing rabbit. He hit the beast, knocking it off its feet, his wings extending at exactly the right instant to take him up again, a fingertip above the grass. Then he was turning at an impossibly steep angle, and gliding back to the ground to finish his stunned prey with a sharp blow of his beak.—Dipping his head, he began to tear through fur and into the still-warm flesh.—He was halfway through the grisly meal when the sense of wrongness overtook him. No, this isn’t right! This is not what I eat! Not raw! He remembered a face—a human face, with blue eyes and blond hair. Me? Hands, brown, with fingertips callused, not from a sword, but from harp strings. A harp—there had been a wonderful harp....
Then Anvar saw another face, its sculpted features as aquiline as those of the creature he had become. There was tangled hair of a deep copper shade, and intense green eyes. . . . Aurian! The next minute, the clifftop was empty, and a hawk was streaking along the coastline; the sea on its right wing, the land on its left, heading back with all speed the way it had come.
“If we make all speed we can get there in about three days, my Lord. Much quicker, if this wind swings round instead of staying set against us. Your sailors wouldn’t have the skill to get into our anchorage, and in any case the keels of your ships will be too deep, so we’ll drop anchor in the next cove and bring the soldiers in overland.”
From his great chair, high on its dais, Lord Pendral looked down at the unkempt, unshaven smuggler. This was a pinch-faced, unprepossessing wretch, to be sure—but there were two details about him with which the High Lord of Nexis could readily identify: the all-consuming lust for vengeance, and the glint of pure, unadulterated avarice in Gevan’s eyes. The man’s arrival had surely been sent by the Gods themselves—but if Pendral’s success as a merchant had taught him one important thing it was not to appear too keen, too soon. “You seem to have thought it all out.” He laced his ring-encrusted fingers across his ample belly and narrowed his eyes at the ruffian. “And just what do you expect from me in exchange for this information?”
Gevan’s eyes shifted away for an instant, and flicked back to the High Lord.
“I want to be a merchant like yourself, my Lord—successful and respected. I want my own crimes to be pardoned, I want five hundred gold pieces to start up in trade, I want a warehouse of my own down on the wharves—and when you destroy the Nightrunners, I want my pick of their vessels.”
Pendral’s eyes widened. “Indeed? You don’t want much, do you?”
Gevan shrugged, and was about to spit on the highly polished floor—until Pendral fixed him the gaze of a snake about to strike. He swallowed the mouthful hastily. “My Lord, think what the Nightrunners cost you and this city in trade each year. Without my help you’ll never find them—no one ever has.—And as I told you, right now they’re sheltering the thief who stole your jewels. Surely it would be worth anything to you, to lay your hands on him?”
Pendral nodded. Why delay on this matter, he thought. The mere mention of the thief set his guts roiling with rage—and he was anxious to strike as soon as possible lest the slippery wretch should take himself elsewhere. “Very well—
I agree. You shall have what you desire—and what you so richly deserve.”
The treacherous smuggler was effusive in his gratitude; and, as Pendral had expected, he was far too stupid to notice the implicit threat—or promise—that lurked behind the High Lord’s words.
Aurian slipped out of the room, leaving Vannor to his reunion with Dulsina and Zanna. When she returned to her quarters, she was pleased to find Shia and Khanu there. “What have you two been doing?” she asked them. “I haven’t seen much of you this last day or so.”
“Mostly, we’ve been hunting on the moor,” Shia told her. “We don’t like being cooped up with all these humans.” She gave the Mage a piercing look. “Where is the other one?”