The door flew open, rebounding against the wall with a reverberant crash, “You treacherous bitch. What in the name of the Gods are you playing at?”
Eliseth jerked upright, scrambling her wits to meet the ire of the Archmage, Miathan slammed his fist on the table, the gems that had replaced his burning crimson with rage. “You have one minute to begin restoring the winter in Aerillia—before I blast you to cinders!”
This was her moment! Eliseth willed her shaking body to stillness, and forced the illusion of nonchalance. “I don’t care if you do.” She shrugged. “Do you think I want to stay in this wrinkled, sagging shell? Do your worst, Miathan—ah, but I forget, you already have!”
“You call that my worst?” Miathan howled.
The Weather-Mage cringed and cowered as a roaring inferno leapt up around her. The flames closed in, reaching for her greedily. Eliseth felt their searing heat, felt her hair frizzle and flame. Her skin was beginning to blister and crack. She clenched her fists so hard that blood ran through her fingers as her nails cut into her palms; clenched her teeth so hard to stop herself from screaming that she thought her jaw must surely break, “It’s just an illusion,” she told herself.
“An illusion!” But oh—the unspeakable pain!
“Restore the winter!” the Archmage roared, his voice cutting into the depths of her agony,
Eliseth shuddered, ignoring the insistent voice. Everything was at stake—everything, I must endure, she told herself, I must! But it was too much—how could anyone endure such suffering? The mind of the Weather-Mage twisted and writhed in panic within its cage of tortured flesh, desperately seeking to end the agony.
And then—something changed.
Eliseth’s senses reeled as her vision blurred and doubled. Though she could see the inferno surrounding her, and beyond that the gloating of the Archmage, she also viewed the scene from above, as though she down from overhead. The Magewoman, needing all her strength to fight the pain, closed her eyes against the dizzying distraction—and suddenly, she understood. As though her eyes were open, she could still see the second scene—the view from above! In trying to flee the agony, her mind was trying to flee her body! Her crone’s mind had almost lost the solution, but her instincts had not led her astray! Eliseth laughed aloud as she gathered her remaining wits and slipped easily free from her outward form.
Oh, blessed relief! The Weather-Mage paused, conscious only of the absence of pain, steadying and balancing the energies that formed her inner self. Then a howl of thwarted rage drew her attention. The flames had vanished. Hovering close to the ceiling of her chamber, she looked down to see Miathan, white with fury, standing over the discarded shell of her body, heaping curses on her head.
Eliseth’s confidence returned in a glorious surge. Her inner being was not old and ugly! Here she was young and strong again, and beautiful as ever! If I could only stay like this, she thought. But without the arcane power generated by such as Miathan through the shedding of Mortal blood, a Mage could not sustain life outside her earthbound body for long. Due to the aged fragility of her mundane form, and the dreadful depletion of the energy she had squandered to withstand the Archmage’s onslaught, Eliseth could already feel herself weakening. She must go back, she knew, or remain lost and bodiless forever—but still she lingered, hoping to drive Miathan into a frenzy as he saw the last chance to restore his winter slipping away. Ah, now she had him where she wanted him! Eliseth smiled in satisfaction—then shuddered at the thought of abandoning this glory to cage herself once more in the weak and aching body of the crone, “But it won’t be for long,” she assured herself, as she swooped, closed her eyes—and sank back into the shackles of her earthbound form.
The Weather-Mage opened her eyes, and Miathan’s tirade choked off as though he had been throttled. Fleetingly, Eliseth wished he still possessed his eyes: not through any kindly feeling, but because the expressionless gems that had taken their place rendered his face unreadable. But whether it was due to relief or anger, the Weather-Mage gave thanks for his hesitation, and was quick to take the initiative.
“You’ve had your vengeance, Archmage; will you not be content? I defied you, and I have paid. Won’t you put the past behind us? For still you need my help, A bargain, Miathan—my youth for your winter. We must trust each other now, for with your aging spell, you’ll always have a hold on me—as I have the winter that is so essential to your plans. How can such cooperation not benefit us both?”
“I’d sooner bed a viper than trust you again!” Miathan spat. The Weather-Mage hid a smile. He’s beaten, she thought triumphantly. She said no more; only waited for his rage to cool. His surrender had come sooner than she’d expected, and Eliseth wondered just what had passed during his communion with the High Priest of the Skyfolk.
“Very well,” Miathan snapped at last. “But be warned—one more attempt to thwart my plans, and I will use the Caldron to blast you so far from the living Universe that not even the Gods will be able to find you!”
The Archmage raised his hands, his face taut with concentration. A wave of weakness flowed over Eliseth; her body seemed to blur and shimmer; there was a flash of excruciating pain as the old bones straightened; a tingling sensation suffused her skin as the sagging flesh filled out again with the healthy bloom of youth. Powerful blood coursed like wine through her veins, restoring suppleness and strength to stiff old muscles,
“Thanks be to the Gods!” Eliseth leapt to her feet, flinging off her swathing cloaks
“You’d do better to thank me!” the Archmage told her flatly, “Count yourself fortunate, Eliseth, that I still need your aid to accomplish my plans!”
“Whatever I can do to help you, Archmage, I will,” The Weather-Mage did her best to sound chastened, Miathan gave her a long, hard look, “Very well,” he snapped. “To begin with, you must undertake a task that I had planned to entrust to Bragar. Since your meddling killed him, you must take up his work in his stead, He scowled at her. “At least it should keep you from mischief for a while!”
Eliseth went to her cabinet and poured wine for both, Miathan took the goblet without thanks, and sipped before continuing: “I wanted Bragar to investigate the disappearance of Angos and his men. We must assume they are dead
—and since their last message said they were tracking the rebels toward the Valley, I suspect that Eilin had a hand in the matter—possibly aided by D’arvan!”
Eliseth’s fists clenched with rage at the thought of the ones who had slain her lover Davorshan, but despite her anger at his murder, she felt a shrinking knot of fear within her. She discounted Davorshan’s weak-willed twin as a threat, but the Lady of the Lake had destroyed a Mage far younger and physically stronger than herself, and seemingly, had slain about two dozen hardened mercenaries! Eilin was Aurian’s mother, and obviously, they had underestimated her power. The Magewoman shivered. Is this some new plot of Miathan’s invention, to get rid of me? she thought.
“You want me to go to the Valley?” she asked quietly,
“No!” the Archmage barked. “Use subterfuge—use spies,” he went on. “You’re good at such underhanded work] But whatever you do, find out what is happening in that Valley.
“The only reason I do not ask you to go yourself,” Miathan continued, “is that I need your skills to restore winter over Aerillia—but is it possible to keep the worst of the storms away from the southern part of the mountains?”
Eliseth looked at him through narrowed eyes. Now what is he up to? she thought. She frowned, trying to reconstruct the area in her memory, for her ancient charts had been lost in the destruction of her weather-dome. “I think so,” she said at last. “The range broadens south of the country of the Winged Folk—if I monitor the air mass carefully, those mountains form a natural barrier . . .” She frowned. “Why?”