“I must know!” the specter insisted. “Who are the Evil Ones, who ride the North Winds with winter in their train?”
“The Archmage Miathan is evil.”
Parric was relieved that Meiriel had snapped sufficiently back to reality to speak up at last. The supernatural was the province of the Magefolk—and an answer was more than he could have managed, in that moment.
The apparition frowned. “What is the Archmage Miathan?”
The Cavalrymaster was glad to leave it to Meiriel to explain the Archmage. Unfortunately, the ghost seemed scarcely satisfied by her rambling account of Miathan’s perfidy.
“Explain!” it demanded. “You have spoken of the Dark Ones, but what of the Bright Powers? Who are the Bright Ones, whom you have come to assist?”
“I don’t know about any Bright Ones, but I’ve come looking for the Lady Aurian.” Finally, Parric found his voice. He looked to Elewin for assistance, but the old man was too far gone in fever to reply. The Cavalrymaster was forced to take on the burden of the tale himself, but it wasn’t easy. He found himself prey to a growing sense of unreality as he sat in a dungeon in a foreign land, telling a ghost of his friendship with Forral, and Aurian, who was carrying Forral’ s child when the Commander was murdered by Miathan. Stumbling over his words, he told how Aurian and her servant Anvar had fled Nexis, and were thought to be here in the South. Finally, he told the ghost how he and Vannor had formed their band of rebels—and how he had left them to undertake this rash, impulsive quest to find Aurian. When he had finished, Sangra spoke. “Now we’ve answered your questions, what about answering ours? Who are you? How can you walk through walls? Why—” But the ghost had vanished,
As Chiamh made his way back to his chambers, following the fresher currents of air through the crevices in the stone, his mind was awhirl with excitement. Though he still had gained no clue as to Schiannath’s part in this business, he had finally heard most of what he wanted. The Dark Powers, the Bright Ones—at last, all had been made clear, and he knew now, more than ever, that he had to rescue these strangers from his own people. But how . . .
Lost in thought, the Windeye was not concentrating on what he was doing. Engrossed in a series of plans of increasing complexity and impracticality, it took him some time to realize that he should have returned to his chambers long ago. Chiamh came out of his reverie with a jolt—to discover that he was utterly lost in the trackless labyrinth of crevices within the body of the fastness. He had no idea where he was—and no means of returning to his body.
4
News from Wyvernesse
When the Archmage had left once more to supervise his Southern pawns, his departure came as a tremendous relief to Eliseth. Though Miathan was gone only in spirit, the atmosphere in the Academy was considerably lightened by the absence of his brooding thoughts, and the Weather-Mage could relax at last. Within the sanctuary of her chambers, she felt her face with anxious fingers. Her skin was smooth now; taut and silken where it had been rough and sagging before. Suddenly, she wished she had not smashed all the mirrors. What a joy it would be to see herself, and not that hideous old hag! Thank all the Gods—but then again, why thank them? Eliseth had saved herself through her own cleverness.
Nonetheless, the Mage was quick to keep her word and restore the winter—a simple matter, though her weather-dome had been destroyed in the backlash of the battle with Aurian. Her spells had not had much time to unravel, and it had taken only a little effort to rebuild them, working from the open rooftop temple on the Mages’ Tower, from which the ashes of Bragar had now been cleaned.
Her work completed, Eliseth wandered downstairs, enjoying the supple response of her young-again body, savoring the peace of the silent tower, When she came to Miathan’s door, she stopped. His body would be lying beyond, untenanted and helpless while his mind was away in the South, overseeing his plans for Aurian’s capture. Eliseth stood at the door, studying the honey-rippled pattern of the grain. The temptation was overwhelming. It would be so easy ... As she lifted her hand to the latch, a blast of tingling cold smote her palm. From the corner of her eye, Eliseth glimpsed the illusory shimmer-haze of a Wardspell. She snatched her hand back with an oath, rubbing the palm against her skirts, I should have known, she thought. The old wolf would never put enough trust in me or anyone else, to leave his body unguarded in his absence She wondered what spell Miathan had placed on the door, what fate would have been hers, had she been foolish or unwary enough to lift the latch. It would be something unspeakable, Eliseth was sure. Now that Miathan wielded the power of the Caldron ...
Shuddering, the Weather-Mage moved hastily away, and continued her descent. The next rooms she belonged to Aurian. After a moment, Eliseth pushed open the heavy door. The rooms were tidy—as tidy as Anvar, then the Mage’s servant; had left them on the night he had fled Nexis with his mistress, Eliseth wrinkled her nose at the smell of mildew, The dank air of the room was with neglect; the void of the ash-furred hearth was cold and gray. Cobwebs and dust shrouded the furnishings like a ghostly veil, and the moldering cushions had been nibbled by mice. The Weather-Mage smiled. If the Archmage had his way, Aurian would soon experience similar desolation within her soul! It’s as well I didn’t kill you, Aurian, Eliseth thought. Miathan can make you suffer more intensely than II Turning on her heel, she left the dreary chamber without a backward look, seeking her own rooms on the floor below. While the Mage had been busy above, one of the few remaining menials—a ragged, pinch-faced brat, had been cleaning her rooms. As Eliseth entered, the child shot her a scared look from beneath a curtain of snarled brown curls and bobbed a sketchy curtsy, her cleaning rag clutched tight in grubby fingers. “I—I filled your bath, Lady,” she whispered nervously. “I hope I done right.”
The scullion had done a fine job of restoring the chamber. The broken mirrors had gone, and not a particle of glass remained on the gleaming floor. The furnishings had been dusted, and the liquors and goblets put away. The stains from her thrown cup had vanished from the wall and a fire flamed bright in the clean-swept grate. Eliseth nodded approval At last! she thought. One of these slatterns knows how to work. She dismissed the girl, sending her back to the kitchen with orders for a meal to be prepared.
When Eliseth entered her bathing room she was further gratified. A fire had been lit in the squat iron stove, the tub was filled with steaming water, and soap and scented oils had been laid out for her. Fresh-laundered towels had been hung to warm near the glowing stove. The Mage was delighted. What a difference these attentions make! she thought. Her maid had been slain by a Wraith when Miathan’s abominations had run amok, and since then they had been so short of help at the Academy that she’d never found another. But this girl had potential . . . Eliseth smiled. Perhaps my luck is changing, she thought. She pulled off the robe that she had worn as an ancient crone, and her darkened into a scowl at the reminder. Spitting out a curse, she crumpled it into a ball and thrust it into the stove, slamming the door on it as it burst into flames.
As she slipped into the scented water, regret for the loss of Davorshan twisted like a knife within Eliseth’s soul. She missed the Water-Mage keenly. Under her tutelage, he had grown ever more talented, in magic and in her bed, proving a willing, useful tool in her schemes until Miathan had sent him to kill Eilin, and he himself had been slain. Eliseth was glad of Miathan’s sanction to discover the identity of his murderer, for eventually she meant to avenge him. But in the meantime, Eilin’s Vale remained a mystery fraught with direst peril. How to find out what was going on there? As the Mage lay musing in the soothing water, the seeds of a plan began to form in her mind.