“Nonetheless,” Eliizar insisted, “they exist. Their citadel is high in the inaccessible peaks, where men cannot climb.”
“How do you know it’s there, then?” Yazour countered.
“It is there,” Aurian interrupted, surprising them both. “I have it on the best authority.” She smiled, remembering her friend the Leviathan, and looked dreamily away to the north, as though trying to see across the intervening miles to the soaring lands of the Skyfolk.
Aerillia, the city of the Winged Folk, was carved out of the highest peak of the northern mountain range. The palace, an airy confection of hanging turrets and terraces, was situated on, and within, the topmost pinnacle, and Raven’s tower room commanded a breathtaking view over the entire city. She was looking out of the window now, gazing over the snowy crags below at the lights that twinkled sharply in the clear icy air. Her shoulders were slumped in dejection, causing her great wings to droop, their glossy, iridescent black tips trailing unheeded on the floor.
“Raven?”
The Princess spun round, scowling. “Go away, Mother! I refuse to marry the High Priest, and that is my final word on the matter.”
“It is not!” Grief and strain had etched new lines on Flamewing’s face, but the Queen’s voice still carried its customary ring of authority. She paced the small circular room, her red-gold wings rustling, her expression defensive and angry. “You will do as you’re bid,” she told her daughter. “You are a Princess of the Blood Royal, Raven, daughter of a Queen. You were brought up to recognize that you have responsibilities to your people and to the throne—one of them being that you must marry to advantage—”
“Whose advantage?” Raven cried. “Mine? Yours? If I marry that corrupt old monster, who will really benefit? He will, and that’s all! He can do nothing to help us, Mother. He’s deceiving you, and all our people. He has no influence with the Sky God. Have his sacrifices made any difference? All those lives—the lives of our people, which we swore to protect— wasted, and still this dread and untimely winter is upon us. And now his price for our salvation is my hand. Which coinci-dentally will put him up an unassailable position of power. GUI you not see that he’s a fraud? How can you be so dense?”
“How dare you!” The sound of the blow seemed to echo in the silence that followed.
Raven staggered, horrified, her hand pressed to her fact and tears in her great, dark eyes. Never before had Flamewing raised her hand to her beloved daughter. “Mother, please.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You know the way of our people. We mate for life. If I wed Blacktalon, I will spend the rest of my days in misery with someone I fear and loathe. Though princesses must marry suitably, never has one been asked to submit to this. I beg you, do not force me to marry him. He is evil, I know it.”
Flamewing sighed. “Child, never in our history since the Cataclysm have we suffered peril like this. Never has there been such sudden and intense cold. Nothing will grow on our terraces. All the animals are dead, or have left for warmer climes. This winter kills everything it touches. Blacktalon’s intercession is our only hope. Our people are dying, Raven! I am more sorry than I can ever say, but I have no choice. Tomorrow you will wed Blacktalon, and that’s an end to it. Now—he wishes to speak with you, and you will be civil to him. Your people need you, Raven. You were brought up as a Princess—now you must act like one!” She swept quickly out of the room, as though the sight of her daughter together with the High Priest was more than she could bear.
Blacktalon’s head was bald, and painted all over with arcane designs and magical symbols. His face was haggard and cruel, with its hooked nose and burning, fanatic’s eyes. His wing feathers were a dull and dusty black, and his robes matched their color exactly. His arrogance in the presence of a royal princess was so obnoxious that Raven wanted to strike him. “I have come to make my felicitations to my bride on the eve of her wedding,” he said, leering. “How lovely you look, my dear. I can hardly wait.” He reached out greedy hands to touch her.
Raven backed away hastily, drawing her dagger. “Get away from me!” she spat. “I’d rather die than marry you, you filthy old vulture!”
„ The High Priest smiled, but there was no humor in his face. “Lovely,” he said. “Such a little spitfire! How glad I am that you feel this way. It will make your conquest all the more enjoyable.”
“Don’t count on it,” Raven retorted through gritted teeth.
“Oh, but I do, my dear. Once you are mine, a few sound thrashings will soon take the edge off your temper!”
Raven gasped. “You would never dare!”
“I would hardly dare offer violence to the Princess, no.” Blacktalon shrugged. “How I chastise my mate, however, is my own affair—as you will discover. Pleasant dreams, my little bride. Sleep well—while you have the chance!”
After Blacktalon had left, Raven wasted few minutes in weeping. Time had suddenly become too precious for that, for she knew now that her only hope lay in escape. It took her about an hour of pacing back and forth behind her locked door to formulate her plans. She knew it would never occur to them that she might run away. The Winged Folk were prohibited by an ancient law from leaving their mountain kingdom. Raven had often wondered why, but no one seemed able, or willing, to tell her the answer. But if anyone should leave, they were automatically condemned to death should they ever try to return, and the prohibition was so ingrained that no one from the winged race would normally even consider the notion. The very thought of what she was about to do set Raven’s hands shaking so much that her preparations took twice as long as they should have done.
“I have no alternative,” Raven told herself firmly, as she put bread and meat from her uneaten supper into a small bag which tied to her belt, and fished her crossbow out from its hiding place under the bed. She braided her unruly cloud of fine, dark hair and dressed in her flying clothes—a black leather kilted tunic that left her limbs free for easy movement and leather sandals with thongs that cross-tied to her knees. She decided not to bother with anything else. Raven’s race was impervious to normal cold, and she hoped to move quickly away from the chill of this unnatural winter. Thrusting her dagger into her belt, she went to the window. Launching herself from the sill would cause her no problems. She had been doing it since childhood, when she had first discovered the lure of unauthorized flights. For once, she was glad that her mother had insisted that she .lake her share of the tedious burden of palace administration. She knew the position of every sentry in the city and, more important, how they might be avoided.
Another of the unpredictable blizzards had blown up, and Raven flinched at the violence of the storm outside. But though it was folly, she would have to set out now, or not at all. If she should be caught, the consequences did not bear thinking about. As she climbed onto the windowsill Raven hesitated, overcome by the magnitude of the step she was about to take. If her mother had been right after all, she was betraying her entire race. Furthermore, if she left the mountains her life would be forfeit. There could be no returning. Thoughtfully, she touched the side of her face, where the imprint of her mother’s hand still burned, and remembered the cruelty in Blacktalon’s eyes. That was enough. Taking a deep breath, Raven leapt from the sill and spread her great dark wings, catching the air beneath them to halt her plummeting fall. Swooping round the shadowed side of the pinnacle-palace like a hunting bat, she launched herself away from her home and the lands of her people.
Flying in the teeth of the blizzard was even worse than she had imagined. Visibility was poor to nonexistent in the whirling white cloud. The strong wind gusted and eddied, buffeting her mercilessly, and on several occasions, almost hurling her violently against the walls of the city’s delicately wrought towers. If she’d had time to spare for thinking, Raven might have comforted herself with the thought that her escape must certainly go undetected, but it was taking every scrap of her concentration merely to stay airborne and to avoid crashing into obstacles. Her sense of direction was hopelessly confused, and she could only pray that she was keeping a level line of flight and, more important, not going round in a circle that would eventually return her to the city—and Blacktalon,