Children were everywhere, their noise almost deafening in the constricted passages as they played underfoot in the corridors, hurtling past Chiamh like screeching projectiles. Grandsires and grandams, dragging bags and bundles of belongings that turned the passages into a maze of obstacles, raised their voices in querulous protest against the youngsters, and did nothing but augment the din.
The news that foreigners had been caught in Xandim lands had spread like wildfire, arousing great curiosity. In addition to those who sheltered within the fastness, many others had come in the hope of seeing the strangers, and to witness the trial that would take place on the morrow. Through overheard snatches of talk, Chiamh discovered that the outlanders had already been brought here, and imprisoned in the dungeons to await the Herdlord’s justice. It was with a tremendous sense of relief that Chiamh finally reached his chambers, after several false and confusing turns. He stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the musty odor. His rooms had not been cleaned since his last visit, several moons ago. His feet smeared trails in the dust that coated the floor, and the Windeye sneezed, and sighed. This would never have happened to his Grandam. Her chambers had been in the outer part of the keep, where there were windows to let in sweet breezes and the cheerful light of day. He, Chiamh, was forced to content himself with this obscure rat hole deep within the bowels of the cliff, but ... The Windeye allowed himself a smile. At least this chamber was conveniently close to the dungeons—and right now, that was exactly what he needed. Once he contacted the prisoners, he might find out at last their connection with the Bright Powers—and also, he hoped, some clue as to the part of Schiannath the Outcast in what was to come.
The Windeye remembered with shame his part in the exile of the warrior and his sister. When Schiannath’s challenge had failed, he had been cast out, according to tradition—but Iscalda, devoted to her brother, had insisted on joining him. Chiamh had been forced to use his powers to erase both their names from the wind—and (supposedly) from the memory of the tribe. The Herdlord had added a cruel twist to the punishment of Iscalda, his betrothed who had abandoned him out of loyalty to her brother. There was an ancient spell, passed from Windeye to Windeye, that could prevent the change from horse back to human, trapping the victim in its equine body. The Herdlord, wild with rage at her defiance, had insisted that this binding be placed on Iscalda.
Chiamh tore his thoughts from the memory. Though the deed had been forced upon him by the Herdlord, what he had done still filled him with shame. But dwelling on it would not bring him any nearer his goal of finding the prisoners! Chiamh walked over to the wall and ran his hands over the stone, seeking a crack in the smooth surface. Though the building was made from a single, seamless rock, these chinks were everywhere. The Windeye suspected that the fastness was ventilated through these tiny gaps that honeycombed the stonework. His nearsighted vision was little use to him, but over the years, his hands had developed an uncanny sensitivity to the air currents that were the tools of his power—he only had to find the slightest draft—
Once again, the Windeye felt the familiar melting coolness as his Othersight took over. This time, so intent was he on his work that he never thought to be afraid. Ah, now he had it! He could see the draft—a tiny, curling slip of silver . , , Chiamh poured the mystic aware-of his Othersight into the moving thread of air, and began to follow it, his consciousness leaving his body to slip like an eel through the tiny chink in the stone, following the stream of air through a labyrinth of minuscule passages.
Chiamh crept slowly forward, feeling his way blindly through tiny fissures in the rock. He followed the minute changes in the flow, moving always toward the noisome and damp. At last, after several false that led him to chambers and cells, his patience was rewarded. He felt a tingling sensation, as the air around him vibrated with the odd burr of voices
in a foreign tongue. Triumphant, the Windeye slipped his consciousness through a chink in the rock—and found himself in the deepest part of the dungeons, confronting the outlanders of his Vision.
Back and forth, back and forth, Meiriel paced the narrow limits of her cell. There was no light—they had put her here, condemned her to the torture of endless darkness in this subterranean tomb with its door that was locked and barred with magic. Them, Eliseth and Bragar. The Healer clenched her fists until the nails cut into her palm, and a bubbling snarl came from deep within her throat. They held the power now—they and the blind, twisted creature that had murdered Finbarr.
Meiriel’s lips stretched back in a feral snarl. “I know you, Miathan,” she hissed. “You cannot deceive me I see everything, down here in the dark. I see you writhe in the agony of those black charred pits in your head—the blacker pits in your soul! I see the child in Aurian’s womb—the monster you created—the demon that I must destroy . . .
During a wild and eventful lifetime, the Cavalrymaster had discovered that all prisons look very much alike. Parric, no stranger to the cells of the Garrison in his younger days, might have been transported back in time by the damp stone walls; the smoldering, smoking torch; the verminous, fetid straw in the comer. But thanks be to the Gods, they were all together! Had he been imprisoned alone, and left to contemplate the fate of his companions, he might have given way to his fear. As it was, he could look at the others for the first time in days, though the sight was not reassuring. Sangra’s face was blotched with dirt and bruises; she looked resolute but grim in the dim light. Elewin, his eyes dark circled, was coughing blood. And Meiriel—Gods, if only she would stop that endless pacing! She was muttering about death and darkness, her expression fell and fey with madness. Now, Parric was angry. More than that, he was furious and frustrated. He forgot his own peril—he only saw his companions, and how they suffered.
“Let me out of here!” The Cavalrymaster hammered on the unyielding door. “Curse you, let me talk to someone!” He spun, and rounded on Meiriel. “You speak their language! Tell them, you bitch! Tell them we aren’t their enemies!”
“Are you not?” The voice was soft and elusive—and it seemed to come from everywhere.
“Great Chathak!” Sangra breathed. “Is that real?”
Parric gaped. The dungeon, already chill, had turned suddenly colder. Wind blew through the cell, clearing away the noisome damp. There, in the corner, stood a young man, perfectly ordinary—except that the Cavalry-master could see, quite clearly, the guttering torch and rough stone walls of the prison—right through his body.
Parric stepped back, his scalp crawling, his mouth gone dry. A ghost? Normally the Cavalrymaster would have scoffed at such nonsense—but after living through the Night of the Wraiths in Nexis, his belief in the Unseen had altered. His bowels tightened, and chills chased across his flesh. He found himself reaching reflexively for the sword that had been taken from him by his captors.
“Who are the Bright Powers?” the apparition demanded and Parric was puzzled, for the words seemed to be in his own Northern tongue. Yet, watching the Ups of the spectral figure, it was quite clear that it was speaking another language. Parric frowned. It seemed as though the words, on leaving the lips of the ghost, were somehow twisting themselves in the air, to come to his own ears in a form he could understand. The apparition was still speaking, however, and Parric forced his attention away from the mystery in order to concentrate on what was being said,