“Well?” Aurian prompted Chiamh, who had been sitting lost in silent thought. The Windeye turned his attention back to Parric’s question. “Yes,” he said. “With your approval another Challenger can step forward in your place—but he must fight for the leadership nonetheless, if he is opposed. Whom would you choose to lead in your stead?”
“Schiannath,” Aurian said firmly. “Apart from you, Chiamh—and obviously you can’t become Herdlord—he’s the only one of the Xandim on whose support I can count.”
“But wait,” Anvar interrupted. “I thought that Schiannath had tried to become Herdlord before, and been beaten. So how can he Challenge again?”
“Because Parric has nominated him,” Chiamh replied. “In essence, he is acting for another, not himself.” He continued: “There is no doubt that Schiannath will order the Xandim to aid you if he becomes Herdlord. At present, Lady, he connects you with all his recent good fortune. Anything that he can do to assist you, he will.”
“But I didn’t do anything for him, really,” Aurian protested.
The Windeye shrugged. “No? Had it not been for you, Parric would never have come to our lands. I would not nave been forced to take action against the Herdlord, and Phalihas would, in all likelihood, have maintained his rule. Schiannath would still be an exile, and his sister imprisoned in her equine form. Do not protest his devotion, Aurian. It is not unearned—and at the moment it is all to your advantage.” Though Chiamh had been striving to keep any part of his inner feelings from showing in his voice, there must have been something—the slightest trace of hesitation or a hint of bitterness—that betrayed him. Frowning, Anvar looked at the Windeye. “You said your advantage. Are you implying that it may not be to the advantage of Schiannath or the Xandim?”
Chiamh hesitated. Within the last few days, strong memories of his Seeing of long ago had begun to haunt him. So far, everything had come to pass as he had foreseen. He had assisted Aurian and Anvar and their struggle against the Evil Ones, and Schiannath, too, had played his part. There was only one part of the vision that had not yet become manifest: the chilling prophecy that the arrival of Aurian spelled the end for the Xandim race. For days now he had been struggling with his conscience, wondering whether he ought to let the Mages know what he had foreseen. Did Aurian not have enough difficulties to deal with already? Was it fair to increase her burden with the fate of a race that was not even her own? On the other hand, should he not warn her that there might be grave consequences to her actions? If he did not, and the worst came to happen, would he not share the blame? Yet if it was a true Seeing, could disaster be averted whether he spoke out or not? But Chiamh could feel Aurian’s eyes on him. Anvar, too, was frowning. The Magefolk would clearly not be satisfied without some kind of explanation.
“Very well,” the Windeye said at last. “I probably ought to tell you—not that it will make any difference—”
“No! Do not!”
Chiamh started as the voice of Basileus resounded sharply within his mind. Judging by Aurian’s astonished gasp and the widening of Anvar’s eyes, he guessed that the Mages had heard the Moldan, too. The Windeye saw the sharp glance that passed between them.
“Who the blazes was that?” Aurian demanded. “Surely it was the same being that defended me against Death. And why shouldn’t you tell us—whatever it is? If it’s something we need to know—”
“It is something you Magefolk do not need to know.” The Moldan’s mental tones were stern and implacable. “Little Windeye, you must not do this,” he went on, and from Anvar’s scowl and the angry tightening around Aurian’s eyes, Chiamh realized that Basileus was now addressing only himself, and the Mages could not hear.
“You and I both know what you foresaw,” Basileus continued in gentler tones. “When Aurian takes up the Sword of Flame, her actions may indeed put an end to the Xandim—but there is more at stake here than the fate of a single race.”
“That’s very well for you to say,” Chiamh retorted, so angry he barely remembered to keep from speaking the words aloud. “It won’t be your race that is wiped out!”
The Moldan sighed. “Young Windeye,” he said gently, “my race was incalculably and irretrievably injured long ago by the Wizards. The Moldai, of all the peoples of the world, know what damage they can wreak. To save the world from this new evil power that has arisen among them, I would gladly sacrifice myself, and what remains of my race. It may yet come to that—or it may not, for Moldai and Xandim both. Your Vision may have been obscure or misleading, and let us hope that it is so. But whether you were correct in your interpretation or not, you have no right to burden these Magefolk with your fears and doubts. If you reveal what you know, you may hinder them in their fight, and if the Evil One should prevail, then that will almost certainly spell the end for the Xandim race.”
Chiamh knew, to his sorrow, that Basileus was right. The Windeye had reached this same hard decision on that night, several moons ago, when he had discovered dread tidings of evil on the wind, and then seen those clear and shining beacons of hope in the south: Aurian and Anvar, with whose fate he had become so entwined. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the Moldan’s wisdom. “I understand,” he replied softly, still taking great care to shield his thoughts from the Mages. “The burden must be mine alone.”
The Weather-Mage cursed and threw down the crystal. This was getting her nowhere! She had not the slightest notion of what was taking place. A plague on Aurian—how had the bitch managed to foil the penetration of Eliseth’s Vision? Scowling, she turned to see the two mercenaries looking at her, obviously awaiting further orders. Between them, Vannor still stood frozen in her spell, though his face was gray and his expression blank. Yet though he clung to consciousness only because of her magic, the merchant’s eyes still smoldered with an unquenchable spark of defiance. Had his dogged resistance been the barrier that had foiled her attempt to spy upon her enemy? Well, she’d get no further use out of him tonight—that much was clear—but she would see his stubborn spirit well and truly broken before she attempted to use his energies again! With a wave of her hand she banished her spell, and the merchant’s knees buckled as blood began to ooze from the lump of mangled flesh and shattered bone that had been his hand. The mercenaries quickly grabbed an arm each and hauled him back upright.
“Release him,” Eliseth snarled at the guards. “Bind his hand—I don’t want him bleeding to death.” Scooping up her crystal, she stalked from the room as Vannor crumpled to the floor.
As the Weather-Mage descended the curving stairway to her rooms, her temper began to cool a little. After all, her efforts had not been entirely fruitless. She had at least discovered that Aurian was planning to return to the north—and that the Mage had enlisted the Xandim to help her. Eliseth nodded grimly to herself as she swiftly consumed fruit and wine to help restore the energies depleted by her magic. Very well. It was time to put some of her own plans into action. There was little she could do about Aurian’s mysterious southern allies, but the Mage would find little aid within her own lands, should she dare to return. And if Eliseth wanted to set a trap, then Vannor would be the perfect bait. She simply needed a Mortal agent to infiltrate the rebels, and she suspected that she knew the very man to do it. Without further delay she wrapped herself in her darkest, warmest cloak, picked up her staff, and left the tower.