“Enough.” Forral shuddered as the chill nontouch of Death clamped down upon his shoulders, hauling him away from the Well. “You have seen enough,” said the Specter. “Did I not warn you it would cause you pain? Come, now. You know that Aurian will be safe for a time in the forest. Be content, and leave the living to their own concerns.”
Hot words of protest formed on Forral’s lips, until he remembered his last sight of Aurian, curled up at Anvar’s side. He had told himself that he was only concerned for her safety—but Death was right. He knew she was safe now, and this further watching amounted to spying on her—which wasn’t doing either of them any good. Forral, grieving for the years together that he and Aurian had lost, suffered himself to be led away.
Aurian, who had been finding it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open, fell asleep at last. Perhaps it was the aftermath of the battle in the desert, or the natural consequence of such an emotional day. Perhaps it was the relative coolness of the forest, or Nereni’s highly spiced stew, that made the Mage dream of Eliseth that night. Perhaps it was more than that.
Aurian dreamed that the Weather-Mage stood on the top of the Mages’ Tower in Nexis, arms outstretched to the midnight skies, calling down the storm from boiling clouds that gathered above the city. In one hand she bore a long, glittering spear of ice. Snow swirled around her, mingling with the streaming skeins of her silver hair as she climbed up to stand on the low parapet that circled the top of the tower, the cold perfection of her face alight with exaltation. With a shrill, wild cry she leapt—out, out and up, as the ice-wings of the storm bore her aloft. And south she came. South across the ocean, south across the lands of the Xandim, riding toward the mountains on winter’s wings . . . Aurian awoke suddenly, shivering, her heart racing. “Stupid!” she told herself briskly. “It was only a dream! Nothing but a dream. Eliseth is dead . . . Isn’t she?”
Lost beyond his body in the depths of the fastness, Chiamh panicked, fleeing blindly through the labyrinth of fissures that ventilated the building. What would happen to his body if he couldn’t find his way back? Would it die? What if they found it, and thought he had died, and—
“Come now! Such a premise is utterly ridiculous.”
The first time he had heard the mysterious voice, it had almost scared him out of his wits—but this time it was very different. Chiamh had never been so glad in all his life, to hear another living creature. “Who are you? Where are you? Can you help me to get out of here?” he pleaded.
“Had you been concentrating, you would not need my aid.” the voice scolded. “However, since you seem to be the only one of your puny race who can hear me, I must assist you—but let this teach you to be more careful in the future! Watch the air, little Windeye—and follow my light!”
Chastened, Chiamh collected his wits, concentrating on the silvery strands of moving air. He followed them until he came to a dividing of the ways—and gasped as one of the strands split away from the others. Glowing with warm, golden light, the errant strand plunged sharply into a crack on the right. The Windeye followed, as it twisted this way and that through the network of fissures—until at last, with a squirm and a bound, Chiamh’s roving spirit tumbled out into the familiar dusty clutter of his own chambers.
Weak with relief, the Windeye returned to the familiar security of his body. As he rubbed his cold, cramped limbs with shaking hands, he realized that he had not thanked his mysterious benefactor, “Are you still there?” he asked tentatively, somewhat embarrassed to be speaking aloud to empty air.
“I am everywhere within these walls—and you need not speak aloud. Use your mind, as you have been doing.”
“I—I want to thank you for rescuing me,” Chiamh stammered. “I don’t know how you knew the way, but—”
“How could I not know the way?” the voice retorted. “Though when mortals start crawling around inside my body—”
“Inside what?” Chiamh gasped.
The voice burst into great peals of laughter. “Do your people lack all lore and legend, that they know not what they inhabit? Has the world forgotten the Moldai so soon? I am Basileus, little Windeye—the living soul of this fastness: Time ran slow for the Moldai; time ran fast. Time, in the sense that Mortals understood it, did not exist at all for these ancient creatures of living stone. The passing of a day was as the blink of an eye to them, but the days ran into one another in a changeless eternity. The roots-of the Moldai ran deep into the heart of the earth; their heads, decked all in caps of dazzling snow and veiled in skeins of cloud, were crowned with the very stars. Oldest of the Old were the Moldai, the Firstborn; as old as the very bones of the world. In the birth pangs of the world they had come into being and they did not die—save the parts of their bodies that were hacked away by lesser, heedless creatures.
“I can scarcely believe it!” Wishing that he had some specific point to look at when speaking to this peculiar entity, Chiarnh addressed the room at large. “Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine talking to a building.”
“I am not a building!. Buildings, as you call them, are hacked and murdered chunks of our flesh piled upon each other by Mankind!. I and my brethren are living entities—and we take on these shapes of our own accord!”
The ire of Basileus was awesome. The walls of Chiamh’s chamber shuddered, and the torches flickered in a sudden swirling draft. Fine dust pattered down from the ceiling. The Windeye hastened to apologize—he had already discovered that his new companion was inclined to be touchy.
It was truly a day of surprises! First, the Vision that had led to his discovery of the Bright Ones, then the arrival of the foreigners—and now this! Chiamh’s mind was reeling. On his return from the dungeons, he had groped his wry to the kitchens for some food, for he had not eaten since the previous night, and had traveled fast and far, both physically and with his Othersight, in the intervening hours. On returning with his food, the exhausted Windeye had slept for a while, but on awakening he had been swift to resume this bizarre conversation with Basileus,
One thing about mental communication—you could eat at the same time! Chiamh stuffed bread and into his mouth.
“You mentioned brethren—are there more of you?”
“Of course! All the mountains around us are Moldai! Your lack of awareness astounds me—especially since you have actually dwelt within another part of my body!”
Into Chiamh’s head came a vision of his own spire, with the Chamber of Winds on top. The Windeye frowned. “But how can be you, if this is you?” He gestured around the room, “How can you be in two places at once?”
Basileus sighed. “Raise your hand,” he instructed. “Is that hand a part of you?”
“Well, of course it is!”
“Good. Now raise the other. See, you have two hands, each of which is distinct and apart from the other—but both of them are equally pan of you!. My consciousness resides within the entire Wyndveilpeak—and the roots of a mountain—and a Moldan—go out a long way!. It is the same principle as you and your hands. Both this place and the tower are parts of me—as, indeed, are all the smaller dwellings on the hillside.”
“Really?” The Windeye’s curiosity was truly pricked. He had wondered about those mysterious structures for so long
. . . “Why did you build them?” He asked eagerly. “Are they dwellings, as they seem? Who were they for?”
The Moldan’s response made him regret his curiosity. Chiamh cried out, holding his hands to his head, as a wave of grief washed over him; a sorrow so profound that it was more than a mortal soul could bear. “Stop,” he cried, tears streaming down his face. “I beg you—no morel”
“It must be told,” the Moldan grated. “Only by the telling, do we obtain surcease . . .” In a voice that was heavy with sorrow, he spoke of the Dwelven, the Smallfolk, the companions without whom the Moldai were wrenchingly incomplete. “They were our brethren,” he sighed, “and for them we made dwellings from our bones. We nurtured them, we who were strong and wise but rooted and fixed. They cared for us, husbanding our lands and guarding us from human hewers of stone. On reaching maturity, each one would travel out into the world, returning, if they returned, with gifts, and tales of mighty deeds, and news of far-off places.” The Moldan paused. “The arrangement worked perfectly down the ages, until the Wizards—those you call the Powers—intervened.”