Round and round the pathway twisted, cut smooth into the craggy cliffs as though the basalt had been soft as butter. The way seemed endless. The Mage was giddy and gasping for breath by the time he reached the summit, where the path ended abruptly at the face of one last, sheer pinnacle—and the black mouth of a cave. Anvar felt the tingle of magic in his fingers, and lifted a hand that was limned, once more, in flickering blue Magelight, and illuminated his way into the cavern.
It was as well that he had the light. A few short paces within, the cave ended abruptly in a solid wall—and a gaping pit that plunged down into darkness at his feet. His heart hammering wildly, Anvar knelt gingerly at the brink. The glowing blue light reflected off the edges of a spiral of steps, cut into the rock and leading down and down into the core of the isle.
“I don’t bloody believe it!” Anvar exploded in a flash of temper to rival the worst of Aurian’s rages. Cursing viciously, he set off down the stairway, dwelling on dark and baleful thoughts about the benighted idiot who couldn’t just make a tunnel straight through the rock at the base of the island.
Anvar’s grousing was cut short as he realized that he was no longer within the isle at all. At the bottom of the steps, he found himself in the midst of a forest. A perfect forest—carved in stone! The Mage stopped dead, gaping. The illusion was flawless. Each bough, each twig, each delicate jade leaf was perfectly and intricately carved, right down to the tiniest detail. Stone birds perched here and there, caught with throats swollen in mid-song, their wings half opened as though poised to take flight. Minute stone caterpillars looped along the slender twigs. Blossoms of translucent quartz opened in shining clusters along the boughs and a cool, silvery light filtered down between the trees, its source obscured by the lacework of leaves above.
The voice, when it came, was feminine, and most unusuaclass="underline" not old, not young, it managed to sound lilting and melodic, yet deep, harsh, and rasping, all at the same time.
“Welcome to the wood in the heart of the stone—or the stone in the heart of the wood! Which is it?” The weird voice chuckled. “Come, young wizard! Follow your nose, for in this place, all paths lead to me!”
The sense of power in that voice was overwhelming. Though all of Anvar’s instincts were screaming at him to turn and flee, as far and as fast as possible, he knew there could be no returning. With a little shrug, he began to walk, on and on, between the endless ranks of trees.
Stone trunks, stone branches, birds and insects—all were clearly and eerily outlined in that deceptive dappled light that came from somewhere beyond the wood. The Mage felt overawed by the vastness of this place; as though he were a little child strayed into some great ruler’s pillared hall. Though the magic of this timeless place kept him from being troubled by hunger and thirst, his legs were growing weary and his feet throbbed in his boots. Anvar strove to ignore the discomfort. He must keep his mind alert and ready for the coming confrontation.
The trees came suddenly to an end. Anvar stumbled out into a vast open space—a gigantic cavern, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell, for the place was so huge that its boundaries—if boundaries there were—were lost in the farthest shadows. The ground, furred to resemble moss by tiny, prickling spikes of crystallized minerals, swelled upward in a gently curving slope from where he stood. At the summit was the most gigantic tree that Anvar had ever seen, its girth greater than the massive weather-dome at the Academy, its trunk far taller than the Mages’ Tower, soaring up and up to finally be lost in the shadows far above. And Anvar had found, at last, the source of the diffuse silver light that had illuminated the forest. Though all the space around was enfolded in the wings of shadow, the tree itself glowed richly from within, as though filled with captured moonlight.
The immensity of this ancient titan outraged Anvar’s senses. In order to maintain his reeling wits, he looked only at the lower part of the tree, concentrating on details. Stone or wood? Even as the Mage drew closer, it was impossible to tell. The fabric of the tree had that same dense gray graininess of the carven Door Between the Worlds, which had led him to the Well of Souls.
“Well perceived, O Wizard! The Portal to the Well of Souls was indeed made from a bough of this tree. But how came you to tread that perilous road? And why are you still here to remember it?”
Anvar, startled by the voice, looked up into the tree.
And there, at about the height of three men from the ground, where nothing had existed save the plain and featureless trunk, was a door—a circular door that resembled a knothole in the wood. A rough stairway, seemingly a natural part of the tree, rather than steps that had been cut there, slanted in a curve up to the portal from one of the immense roots. The stairway curved out and widened at the top, to form a ledge or platform outside the door.
The door swung slowly open. There, framed in the shimmering golden light that shone from the tree’s interior, was a ... Anvar blinked, and rubbed his eyes. The figure was an eagle—no, an ancient crone . . . No. It was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
The deceptive figure was clad from head to foot in a cloak of black feathers, cowled and fringed with white. For an instant, Anvar’s vision blurred and he perceived an eagle once more, then his attention shifted and he saw a woman, with the face of the carving he had last seen in the tunnel that led to the Timeless Lake, What he had mistaken for a cowl of white feathers was her swirling mane of snowy hair. Her eyes . . . Anvar had expected them to be hawk-dark, or eagle-gold, but instead they were pale, almost colorless, matching and blending into her white face and wintry hair, They fixed upon the Mage with unnerving regard.
“Well? I asked you a question. How came you to pass Death’s portal, and survive?”
In the face of the Cailleach’s impatience, Anvar scrambled together his scattered wits. He bowed low before he answered. “Madam, the answer to your question I think you know already, Did you not search through all the contents of my mind, while I was captivated by your image in the tunnel?”
“Captivated, eh?” The moonstone eyes held a gleam of approval—and something more. “As well as being perceptive, you have a clever way with words, young Wizard. And you are right, of course. Otherwise, I might have thought you had come to relieve my lonely exile.” Her brief smile was cut off before it could reach her eyes, and her expression grew cold. “As it is, I am well aware that you have come to steal the Harp from me.”
“Steal, Madam?” Anvar strove to keep his fear from showing on his face. “That is harsh. I had hoped, yes, to persuade you to give it to me. It was made by Magefolk in the mundane world, and there it truly belongs. I desperately need to take it back with me, to save my world from evil.”
“What, all by yourself? Are you some mighty hero, then, all set to save your world?” There was no disguising the mockery in her tone.
Anvar, almost stung to making some rash retort, controlled himself just in time. It would not do to forget how powerful, how dangerous, this creature truly was. “Not a hero,” he told the Cailleach. “I never wanted this—any of it—except my powers, and Aurian. Especially Aurian. But it’s better than using the Harp for destruction, is it not? It’s better than letting such a thing of wonder molder here, unloved and unused, far from the world of its creation. Even now, I hear it, calling out to me like a lost child, begging me to take it home.” As he uttered those last words, he realized that they were the truth. The thrilling starsong had not died with the bridge, but still murmured softly, somewhere in the back of his mind. But now the music carried words: half comprehended yet coming clearer all the time.