The Windeye, lounging comfortably on the floor in front of the fire, smiled as he looked up at Aurian and Anvar, who were seated on the bed, with Wolf in Aurian’s lap, listening in wide-eyed amazement to Basileus recounting the history of the Moldai. Shia and Khanu had not yet returned from visiting Hreeza on Steelclaw, and Bohan was asleep next door. Parric and Sangra, unable to participate in the weird, four-way mental conversation of Mages, Moldan and Windeye, had gone off together to drink to the memory of Elewin. Chiamh, who had heard Basileus tell his tale before, was barely paying attention to the Elemental’s words. Instead he was peering with rapt fascination at the game the Magefolk were idly playing between themselves as they listened to the Moldan speak.
Aurian would lift her hand to let a small green fireball materialize like an unfolding blossom above her palm and, with a quick, flicking gesture, would launch it into the air. Obeying the dictates of her will, it would dive and dodge in a swift, twisting path between hangings, sconces, and furnishings. Anvar would follow suit with an incandescent globe of his own in blue fire, and would send it after Aurian’s fireball, trying to catch the glowing sphere as it darted to and fro across the chamber—the difficulties of fine control being compounded, of course, by the fact that both Mages were also paying attention to the Moldan’s words. Aurian was using this game to help her soul mate improve his facility with Fire-magic—never his strong point, and a form of power that could not be boosted by the Harp of Winds, whose element was Air. Chiamh, squinting critically up at Anvar’s wavering, sloppy efforts, which had a tendency to weave and plunge erratically around the room emitting a trail of cobalt sparks, decided that the Mage was badly in need of the practice.
As the Moldan’s tale unfolded, however, the participants gradually forgot about their game, and left their fireballs to bob aimless and neglected, clustering like a swarm of fireflies against the ribbed stone of the ceiling. There was no doubt that Aurian and Anvar were both enthralled, and Chiamh admired both the power and the cunning of the Earth-Elemental in being able to distract Aurian, in particular, from asking some very awkward questions. The Windeye only hoped that this fortunate state of affairs would last; but knowing the Mage as Chiamh had already come to know her, he suspected that she would not stay distracted for long.
Aurian, in fact, had a whole series of questions that she wanted to ask Basileus. Though she was still annoyed by the Moldan’s refusal to disclose the substance of his private conversation with Chiamh, she trusted the Windeye and was beginning to trust Basileus; moreover, she recognized immovable stubbornness when she saw it. As Anvar had slyly reminded her, such obduracy was part of her own character. Though the Moldan had assured her that what he had discussed with Chiamh was a matter for the Xandim, and noth-ine to concern her, it was her nature as a Mage to be curious and to want to meddle, nonetheless. That same curiosity, however, had led her to shelve the matter for the time being (she would probably stand a better chance of prying the information out of Chiamh, anyway) in favor of the incredible experience of conversing with a being who was as old as the hills themselves.
“And you say this mad Moldan is imprisoned under the Academy?” she asked Basileus in shocked tones.
“Indeed he is—and has been for many a long age. If Ghabal was mad before, I can scarcely dare imagine his state of mind by now.”
Anvar, who had been lucky to survive a confrontation with one of the powerful Earth-Elementals, and had also spent hundreds of hours down those very tunnels with Finbarr, was similarly horrified. “Gods, I hope Miathan doesn’t find it down there.” He shuddered. “Such a discovery might solve our difficulties where the Archmage is concerned, but it’ll leave us with worse problems than ever—if there’s even a city left to return to, that is.”
“Don’t go borrowing trouble,” Aurian warned him, referring not to the words that he had spoken aloud, but to the small, scared thought that she had picked out of her soulmate’s mind. Anvar, remembering his terrifying battle with the Moldan of Aerillia Peak, that had resulted in the Elemental’s death, had been wondering if Basileus knew what had taken place—and how the Moldan might react if he found out.
Before Anvar could reply, however, Aurian was sure she heard another mental voice—a thin, weak call that seemed to come from very far away.
“Did anyone else pick that up?” she asked sharply.
“Pick what up?” Anvar sounded puzzled.
“I could have sworn I heard, very faintly in my mind, a strange voice calling my name.”
“I heard nothing,” said the Moldan.
“Nor I.” Chiamh shook his head.
“I must have been imagining things.” Aurian rubbed her eyes. “Maybe it’s time we all got some sleep. We’ve another difficult day tomor—There it is again!”
Signaling the others to be silent, she closed her eyes, straining her mind to catch the elusive wisp of thought: that faint and faraway calling of her name. For a moment there was nothing. Had she imagined it? But no. Suddenly it came again:
“Lady… Lady Aurian? Oh, please be there. Please answer me—please.”
“There is someone there—and she’s calling for help,” Aurian told her companions. “It’s very faint, but with the Staff to boost my power, I can probably reach her.” Quickly, the Mage leaned back across the bed to reach the Artifact.
“Be careful,” Anvar warned. “What if it’s Eliseth? She might be trying to trap you again, as she did in the desert.”
Aurian scowled, not liking to recall the time the Weather-Mage had almost duped her into killing both herself and Anvar. “I almost hope it is Eliseth,” she said grimly. “Now that I have my powers back, she’ll find me a very different proposition from last time.”
As her fingers closed round the Staff, the Mage felt its power run glowing through her veins like molten fire. Her own magic blazed up fiercely within her, augmented by the strength of the Artifact. “Anvar, Chiamh,” she said quickly, “take hold of the Staff so you can link your minds to mine. Whatever this is, I want you to hear it, too.” As she felt their thoughts join her own, she closed her eyes and concentrated all her power on the faint and faraway whisper of thought.
When Aurian stretched forth her consciousness toward the distant cry, the mental voice seemed to leap toward her, as though the caller had been shut away in another room, and a door had suddenly been opened between the two. The summoner sounded desperate now, and close to tears.
“Here I am.” Aurian cut through the anguished pleading. “Who are you?”
“Lady Aurian? Is it really you? Oh, thank the gods! I didn’t think I’d ever find you. Lady—it’s me, Zanna. Vannor’s daughter…”
“What? How in the world have you managed to reach me like this?”
“Through a crystal, Lady. The ones you used to summon the servants in the Academy. I disguised myself as a servant and came here to spy on the Magefolk, but now the Archmage has captured Dad…”
With mounting horror, Aurian listened to Zanna’s story. How long had it been, she wondered guiltily, since she had spared even a thought for Vannor? She had always been fond of the merchant, and the thought of him, helpless and suffer ing in the cruel hands of Miathan and Eliseth, made her blood run cold. And as for Zanna… The Mage was utterly staggered by the courage and daring the young girl had shown—and appalled to discover that she herself had set the example that Vannor’s daughter had been trying to follow. Why, she’s little more than a child, thought the Mage—and was rapidly forced to revise her opinion as Zanna told her how Janok had met his end.