Deliberately, he let his smile reach his face. “You would make a fitting consort for an Archmage—if you prove that I can trust you.” With that he released her.
“Liar’ Eliseth breathed—but there was a new light behind her eyes.
The Archmage shrugged. “Time will tell,” he said. “For both of us.”
As he heard the door close softly behind her, Miathan chuckled. Had she taken the bait? Time would tell, indeed. Hearing the Weather-Mage come storming down the stairs, the little maid fled on silent feet, back round the curve of the staircase. Flinging herself through Eliseth’s open door, she grabbed her rag and began to polish the table industriously, breathing deeply and schooling her features into their usual, expressionless mask, while elation bubbled over within her heart. She had come up to clean Eliseth’s chambers as usual, but hearing voices from the floor above, she, had crept as close as she dared, to listen. And by the gods, the risk had proved worthwhile!
Eliseth came stamping into the room, holding a hand to her face. “Inella!” She recoiled at the sight of the forgotten maid, and then collected herself. “Is this all you’ve done, you idle slattern?” She aimed a blow at the maid, who ducked adroitly. Eliseth scowled, but seemed disinclined to pursue the matter further. “Fetch me some wine,” she snapped, and vanished into her bedchamber.
“Yes, Lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy at her vanishing back, and ran to do her bidding. Though her face remained expressionless, her heart was singing. The Lady Aurian had escaped! By the gods, such news was worth the risk of being here!
23
The Bridge of Stars
Iscalda, terrified by the ravening wolves, had fled the tower. Not even her love for Schiannath could override her animal instinct to escape so many foes, Down the hill she raced, flattening her ears at the cries of the startled guards who were battling the wolves. Hands reached out to grab her as she thundered past the beleaguered men, but she was moving too fast to be caught. Across the flat ground toward the cliffs, then through the narrow stony gates of the pass, Iscalda sped across the snow as though her feet were winged. The white mare had no idea where she was going. She simply knew she must flee, as fast as possible, far from the howling pack and the scent of blood. Her hoofbeats echoing hollowly in the narrow slot between the cliffs, Iscalda hurtled through the pass, up and along the ridge beyond, and down into the valley on the farther side.
Concerned only with her fears, she was not looking out for danger. No sounds reached her ears, above the drumming of her hooves. So it was that Iscalda rounded a rocky outcrop that thrust far into the valley floor, and ran headlong into the troop of riders.
Xandim! These were her people! Even as she reared and tried to plunge aside from the leading horses, Iscalda recognized old friends and companions. Shamed by her exile, ashamed to be seen in such a state of unreasoning fear, she whirled on her hind legs and tried to race back the way she had come. But a horse, black as midnight’s shadows, leapt out from the knot of riders and raced after her. One terrified glance over her shoulder told Iscalda the worst. Phalihas was after her! In her consternation at seeing her former betrothed once more, she gave no thought to the strange figure perched astride his back.
The mare was trembling with weariness now. As the white heat of panic cooled from her blood, her sweating limbs began to stiffen in the chill of the mountain night. The black horse was gaining: she could hear his hoof-beats coming closer and closer, and from the corner of her eye she saw his great dark shape move up beside her shoulder. Suddenly a hand reached out, and caught the rope that the wretched Khazalim had fastened around her head! Her head wrenched cruelly, Iscalda came bucking and skidding to a halt in a spray of snow,
“Whoa, whoa now. Easy, lovey—there’s a girl,” The rider, still clinging tightly to the rope, jumped down from the Herdlord’s back and came round to her head,
Iscalda leapt back with a snort of surprise. This wiry little man was no Xandim! Why had Phalihas consented to carry such a creature? The stranger continued to stroke her gently, and the mare stood trembling, her ears twitching at the sound of that rough voice that crooned soothingly in some foreign tongue, She rolled one white rimmed eye to look round at the Herdlord, and wondered, with a flash of anger, why Phalihas had not reverted to human form.
“He cannot. He is bound with the same spell as you.”
Iscalda let out a squeal of rage as the Windeye came into view. The Outlander who had been riding Phalihas dodged to one side as her forefeet flailed around his ears. Iscalda jerked the rope from his hands and charged at Chiamh, teeth bared, eyes flaming. The Windeye did not flinch. Instead, he held up his hand, and began to speak the words of a spell
. And Iscalda was sprawling, facedown in the snow, as her four legs suddenly changed to two. Stunned, she struggled up on her elbows, looked down at her hands-two human hands—and burst into tears of utter joy. When she lifted her head again, she saw a hand extended to help her up. Chiamh was looking down at her, his expression both apologetic and compassionate. “Phalihas is no longer Herdlord,” he said softly. “I have waited so long for this day! You’ve been on my conscience ever since you were exiled. Welcome back to the Xandim, Iscalda.”
Iscalda ignored the outstretched hand, and looked at him coldly. “And Schiannath?” she demanded.
The Windeye nodded. “Schiannath’s exile is also revoked.” Narrowing his nearsighted eyes, he peered around him.
“Where is he?”
“Light of the Goddess!” Iscalda scrambled to her feet. “I left him in the tower, with that woman!”
“Woman?” Chiamh’s gaze suddenly became intense. “A captive?”
Iscalda nodded. “How did you know?”
But the Windeye was no longer looking at her. “Parric!” he yelled. “I think we’ve found her!”
Schiannath, in his equine shape, met the Xandim army on the ridge. He had finally bested his second winged opponent on top of the tower, only to look down, alerted by the commotion below, to see the wolves wreaking carnage among Harihn’s struggling guards—and the white shape of Iscalda, streaking away into the woods. With an oath, he had scrambled back down the side of the tower, forgetting Aurian and Yazour—forgetting everything in his anxiety for his beloved sister. Once away from the guards and wolves, he had changed into his equine form, and galloped after her, following the line of tracks that stitched the long, clear sweep of snow between the bottom of the hill and the pass. As he breasted the top of the ridge Schiannath stopped and stared, amazed at the array of horses and riders picking their way up from the floor of the valley. While he was still hesitating, unsure whether to stay or to run, he heard a clear voice calling his name. A beloved voice that he had never thought to hear again, “Iscalda!” he cried, forgetting, in his joy, that he still wore his equine shape. The word came out as a long, high-pitched whinny, and Schiannath changed hurriedly back to his human form as his sister came running up the hill toward him.
It was too much to take in all at once. Schiannath, an outlaw no longer, looked incredulously from face to face, as the Windeye began to explain the changes that had been taking place among the Xandim since his exile, Iscalda, nestled into the curve of his arm, was grinning more and more broadly at her brother’s bemused expression.
Suddenly a balding, bandy-legged little man thrust his way to the front of the crowd. “Where’s Aurian?” he demanded sharply. His words, despite clearly being in a strange tongue, were somehow understandable, and Schiannath realized that the Windeye must be using some form of spell to translate the foreign speech,