Chiamh sighed. He could not help but envy Parric’s talk of home. Because of his powers he had always been an outcast among the Xandim, and had never really felt as though he’d belonged anywhere—at least, not until these new Outland companions had arrived from the north. Suddenly he wondered what would happen if Aurian should defeat her foes and complete her quest. What would he do then? There was no going back to what he’d been before. For the Windeye, the future looked unbearably lonely.
“You will contrive,” the kindly voice of Ithalasa intruded into Chiamh’s bleak thoughts. “Who knows what the fates will hold for you? But whatever happens, and wherever you go, there will always be a welcome for you with Aurian and Anvar. Besides”—and Ithalasa chuckled—“through some freak of interbreeding in the past, you seem to hold some of the powers of the Magefolk—and after this sad business there will be few of that race left indeed. Will it not be your duty to find a mate, and father children, to carry those powers on into the future?”
Abruptly, the Leviathan changed the subject—and just as well, for Chiamh’s mind was reeling at his unexpected suggestion. “Windeye, I cannot pass those reefs that guard your destination. Will you ask the humans what they want me to do?”
Parric cursed when Chiamh passed on the news. “It looks as though we’ll have to swim for it.”
“Never mind,” said Sangra, “we’re wet enough already—another soaking won’t make any difference.”
“I know that—but arriving like a washed-up piece of flotsam in the Nightrunner cavern isn’t exactly the triumphal entry I’d expected,” the cavalrymaster grumbled. “Besides, its going to take days to dry my gear out—and this bloody seawater is playing havoc with all my knives.”
Sadly, Chiamh said good-bye to Ithalasa, and passed on the farewells and thanks of the others. Then he slid, for the last time, down the Leviathan’s curving sides and joined Parric and Sangra in the icy water. As soon as they were clear, Ithalasa turned and headed back toward the open sea, diving swiftly and striking the water with his elegant, curving tail in farewell. The Windeye watched him go, treading water until the Leviathan vanished completely beneath the waves. He only prayed that Ithalasa would not be called to account by his own people and made to suffer for assisting Aurian and her companions. But Chiamh had little time to think of such matters, for as soon as the weary travelers swam into the maze of rocks that filled the little bay, they were met with a hail of arrows that came hurtling down with increasing accuracy from the cliffs above.
“Gods!” Sangra cried, and dived beneath the water. Parric saw Chiamh flounder in panic, getting a mouthful of sea. Keeping his wits about him, the cavalrymaster dodged into a narrow space between two rocks, to protect himself from the deadly bolts that rained down on all sides. Rashly, he stuck his head out, and an arrow whistled past his ear, too close for comfort. Damn! They were getting the range now. “Hoy!” he bawled in his best parade-ground bellow. “Don’t shoot, you bloody idiots! It’s me—Parric!”
The barrage of arrows faltered—and then stopped completely. The cavalrymaster heaved a sigh of relief, and looked round anxiously for his companions. They seemed to be all right—save that Sangra was holding Chiamh’s head above the surface while he spluttered and coughed up water. Then Parric heard the creak of oars, and a small boat emerged into the sunlight from the shadows of the narrow cavern entrance. At the tiller was a blond-haired smuggler lad he vaguely recognized and to his delight it was Vannor’s young daughter, her hair cut short like that of a lad, who rowed the boat, wielding the oars with an expert flourish.
Giving her entire attention to the business at hand, the girl held the small craft steadily in place while the lad reached down to help Chiamh and Sangra clamber in. Parric swam toward them, knowing that there was very little space for a boat to maneuver between the submerged reefs, and clambered carefully aboard.
Only then did Zanna give her oars to her companion. “Parric!” she exclaimed delightedly, squirming round to hug him. “I’m so glad you’ve come back safely.”
“And I’m glad to see you, lass.” He ruffled her cropped hair affectionately. “I see that you’ve become a warrior, as you always wanted. A lot of the women cut their hair short on campaign. It’s the mark of a true professional.” He chuckled at Sangra’s indignant exclamation. It had been a standing joke at the Garrison that, throughout all her years as a warrior, no one had managed to persuade her to part from her long, gold braids. “Short hair saves a lot of messing about,” Parric continued blithely. “Why, even Aurian herself has cut her hair since you saw her last. Said it was too hot for her down in the far south.”
“Really?” Zanna cried.
Parric grinned at her expression of delighted amazement. Of course—he had forgotten that Aurian had always been very much of a hero for the young lass. Clearly, the knowledge that she was keeping such exalted company meant a lot to Zanna. “Really,” he assured her. “And it looks as good on the Mage as it does on you. By the gods, lass—but you’re a sight for sore eyes after only having Sangra and a bunch of foreigners to look at for months.” He glanced at his companions with a teasing twinkle in his eye. “Zanna, this is Chiamh—but I’ll introduce you properly when we’ve landed.” As they passed into the narrow, echoing tunnel that led into the cavern, his expression darkened with a scowl. “And where the blazes is that bloody idiot Yanis?”
“Waiting on the beach,” Zanna told him. “He said he wanted to give you a fitting leader’s welcome.”
“I’ll give him a welcome he won’t forget in a hurry,” Parric growled. “Has the fool forgotten how to use his eyes?”
Zanna chuckled as they emerged from the tunnel into the vastness of the cavern. “I’m afraid that was our fault.” She glanced at the young smuggler, with an expression in her eyes that made Parric wonder. “We were out riding on the cliffs,” she went on, “and when we saw you on the whale—well, we thought it must be the Archmage.” Her voice sank to a haunted whisper, and there was a shadow of terror in her eyes that the cavalrymaster could not account for. But there was no time to inquire further, for at that moment a familiar voice came booming out from the shore:
“Parric, you old bastard! Have the southerners had enough of you, then?”
“That’s Vannor!” The cavalrymaster’s eyes widened in amazement. “What are you doing here, you fat old money-grabber?” he bawled across the water—and suddenly his words tailed off at the sight of the merchant’s missing hand.
“Parric, be careful—please,” Zanna whispered urgently. “He still can’t accept it… He feels so useless now.”
“By all the gods,” Parric growled, his eyes bright with pain and anger. “Who did this to him? I’ll string the bastard up with his own guts…”
“I don’t think so,” Zanna’s voice was grim. “It was Eliseth.”
As the boat scrunched onto the shingle, Parric leapt out, brushing aside the Nightrunner leader who had stepped down to meet him. He went straight to Vannor and clasped him in a rough embrace, pounding the merchant on the back until Vannor yelled in protest.
“I never thought I’d be so glad to see your ugly face,” the cavalrymaster said—and then stepped back, his eyes going deliberately to his friend’s right arm, which ended in the bandaged stump. “Well, of all the bloody nerve!” he grumbled in injured tones. “Just because I’m a southpaw, suddenly everyone wants to get in on the act. The next thing we know, you’ll be wanting me to teach you all my tricks of fighting left-handed!”