Exodus of the Xandim (GOLLANCZ S.F.) (16 page)

The Stone, in its leather bag, still hung around her neck. Now that she was calm and could think again, she felt its energy beating against her breast like a second heart; the heart of her
magic. Pleased by the notion, the Windeye stretched out her thoughts to embrace the powerful artefact.

A tingling shock rushed through her, as though she had leapt into an icy mountain lake. Suddenly Corisand’s mind was inside the Fialan, in a crystalline labyrinth that pulsed and sang,
vibrating with a fierce intensity. Within this staggering emerald realm all awareness of the outside world and her external form vanished completely. Once more she was her true self, the Windeye of
the Xandim, and a heady elation rushed through her. With the help of the Stone of Fate, she could accomplish anything. Through the complex, crystalline structure that surrounded her, the path to
her own magic stood out clearly from Iriana’s powers like a luminous thread. All she had to do was follow. Easy. But even as she cast forth her awareness along that glowing pathway, something
stopped her. Forces warped, complex and terrifying. Others had been here before her; had created the Stone for their own purposes and left their magic deep within.

There was Ghabal, before insanity had twisted his mind: ancient, cunning and inexorable. And there was Hellorin, brilliant, ruthless and utterly without compassion, so long as he achieved his
own ends.

Corisand’s first instinct was to recoil, as though those perilous beings were actually present, and could see her. Then she got hold of herself.

Don’t be a fool! It’s just their magic that they stored here and left behind for anyone to use.

For me to use.

It struck her like a bolt of lightning – the answer for which she had been searching so long and hard. The Forest Lord’s power had forged the spell to enslave the Xandim, and what
his magic had wrought, it could undo. The key lay right here. All she had to do was find it. And if that spell was stored in the Fialan, why not others? If she could only discover Hellorin’s
flying magic, could unlock and master it, then the possibilities were endless. Her heart sang as, at long last, she began to reach towards the tentative beginnings of a plan . . .

Getting back into her human form would have to wait. There was no time to waste – no chance to think about the risks and the consequences. She had to do this now, for if she hesitated, she
would never find the courage again.

Corisand closed her eyes. Carefully, she searched the depths of the Fialan with her mind until she found the place within the crystal lattice where Hellorin’s magic was stored, seeming in
her mind’s eye like a strange, dark, convoluted snake. She recoiled, for its aura was repellent to her. This was the magic that had enslaved her people, and had chained her for so long,
helpless and frustrated, in her powerless equine form. No wonder that its very touch was so abhorrent to her, and in its own way, the Phaerie magic seemed to find her own presence inimical,
writhing away from her like an elusive serpent whenever she tried to capture it and use it for herself. But the Windeye had not come this far to be defeated now. She chased it down as it fled
through the intricate interstices of the crystal, until, reaching out with her thoughts, she finally caught hold of it.

The magic writhed and coiled, twisting in her grasp, trying to escape and elude her, its touch burning like acid, but Corisand would not let go. She chained it with her will, holding it tightly
with all her strength, seeking to understand it, trying to become one with it, until she mastered it at last. Suddenly, like a key turning in a lock, everything fell into place. Hellorin’s
spell of flight was hers. Harnessed side by side with her own powers, it waited obediently to do her bidding.

Now that the dreadful struggle was over, Corisand could open her eyes again and return to her the physical reality of her equine form in the external world. With a soaring sense of exhilaration,
she cast the flying magic around herself like a glittering mantle, cloaking herself in a many-hued starfall of radiance. Iriana, knowing better than to interrupt with questions when magic was being
worked, stepped back hastily, a worried look on her face. Dael, who had seen that Phaerie magic before and paid a bitter price for it, scrambled away from her with a cry of dismay.

The magic spread through Corisand like a gigantic wave, buoying her up so that her body grew suddenly light. With a joyful cry she bounded forward, stretched her limbs and leapt upwards –
and suddenly the ground dropped away beneath her and she was up and running through the air, the wild wind flowing around her like a river, streaming cold and fierce through her mane and tail.

The broad skies beckoned, a road that could take her anywhere she wished, and a joyous feeling of power burst through her. As a simple horse, before she had become Windeye, the flying was what
she had lived for – but oh, how different, how wonderful it felt to be flying free, running with the wind, uncontrolled and unconstrained, going where her own will and wishes might take her,
instead of being subservient to the demands of the Forest Lord, her former rider.

A sudden glimpse of the treetops, flashing by far below her, brought her back to her senses with a jolt. She hadn’t realised she’d come so high! For an instant, panic flashed through
her, the magic faltered and she began to drop like a stone. Then shock drove back the terror, and the Windeye snatched once more at the reins of the spell, and held on tight. The terrible fall
stopped abruptly, and she lurched to a bone-jarring halt in midair.

Corisand took a few moments to breathe deeply and calm her racing heartbeat. That was quite enough for a maiden flight, she decided. She ought to be returning to the others, for they must be
wondering what had become of her. She turned to go back – and realised to her horror that she was utterly lost. In the excitement at getting the spell to work and the exhilaration of the
flight, she had not been paying attention to her surroundings, and had come too far. Beneath her, the forest stretched in all directions, a cloak of green that obscured any landmarks. Of the tower,
of her friends, there was no sign.

Too late, the Windeye realised her error. Before, when she had ridden with the Wild Hunt of the Phaerie, she’d had Hellorin to guide her, the huntsman and the other horses to follow. She
had never flown alone before. This time it had been her responsibility to keep track of her location, to note the position of the sun and direction of the wind, and to keep checking below her for
any landmarks.

Corisand cursed herself for a fool – but she would get nowhere by staying up in the air, stewing in self-recrimination. It was no good waiting around for anyone else to help her. Only she
could get herself out of trouble. The lake would be a much bigger landmark from the air than the tower. Maybe if she flew higher, she could catch a glimpse of it.

As she ascended, the trees grew smaller and smaller beneath her. If she went any higher she would penetrate the thin, high layer of grey cloud cover – already she could feel the cold, damp
mist of it chilling her body and catching in her throat as she breathed – and lose sight of the ground altogether. Now that the excitement had cooled from her blood, she felt a little clutch
of alarm at how far away she was from the ground. Before it could grow into panic, she took herself sternly to task.

‘What does it matter?’ she told herself stoutly. ‘If you fell from a quarter of this height you’d be killed anyway – but you’re not going to fall and
you’re not going to die. You’re going to find that lake and get back home.’

It was strange how quickly Athina’s tower had come to feel like home, and horses did have an instinct for finding their way back to the stable. As best she could, Corisand attempted to
calm the whirl of thoughts that had been in her head since she’d become the Windeye, and tried instead to tune in to the old, equine instincts of days gone by. She filled her mind with images
of the tower and the lake, of Iriana, Dael and even the blue-eyed cat Melik. In a little while she thought she felt it – a slight tugging sensation that came from further to her left than she
had been expecting.

The Windeye set off steadily, following that faint tickle of awareness which insisted home lay
that
way. Then she saw it – a bright flash on the ground far away. Surely that must
be light on water? And so it proved. As she drew closer she could see the lake, and then the tower, tall and graceful on its island.

The relief was like a deep breath of fresh air that swept away all her worries and doubts. Her heart singing, she swept down to the green sward on the border of the lake where her friends stood
waiting, too stunned by what she had accomplished to speak – though that would not last long. As her feet touched the ground once more Corisand could hardly wait to tell them what had
happened. In joy, in hope, in expectation, her link to her own magic blazed fierce and bright – and without warning she was back in her human form, sprawling on her face in the grass having
once again made the abrupt, unexpected transformation from four legs to two.

The Windeye leapt to her feet, noting in passing, with some relief, that she’d been right and her clothing
had
transformed with her – but that was of little importance now.
Her face alight with joy, she ran to embrace her friends. ‘Iriana, Dael, I’ve found it. I’ve found the answer!’

~

A
t first, Sharalind wished that people would just leave her alone. That was the worst of being a Wizard. Everyone in the city had felt her
son’s passing. Everyone was shocked, stunned and grieving, and so they all believed that they shared in her own heartbreak, her own horror, her anger, despair and desperation – yet how
could they?

Only she had lost a son.

Their well-meaning attempts to take care of her, to comfort and cheer her, were as nothing in the face of that bleak and agonising truth, and all Sharalind wanted was to be left alone –
but that was not to be. In Cyran’s absence she found she had inherited his mantle as Archwizard, and gained a spurious authority over the inhabitants of Tyrineld. People, anxious and
uncertain, kept on coming to her, interrupting her grieving with an endless string of questions. ‘What shall we do about . . . ?’ ‘May we . . . ?’ ‘Should we . . .
?’ She had tried in vain to refer them to the Heads of Luens; they just kept on arriving in an endless stream. Sanction this, forbid that, advise on the other, until she wanted to scream at
them to go away.

Even the mortals wouldn’t leave her in peace. The domestic staff who cared for the Archwizard and his soulmate, and the tower in which they lived, were usually an unobtrusive background
fixture, going about their work quietly and efficiently without drawing much attention to themselves. Since yesterday – had this desolate eternity really only lasted such a short time?
– they had rallied round Sharalind, showing a care and concern that was surprisingly sincere. Though they still said little – for above all, they knew their place – they had gone
out of their way to make everything comfortable for her, trying to anticipate her every need with dogged persistence that defied every scolding and rebuff. Sharalind was very touched by their
loyalty, but frankly, they were beginning to drive her crazy.

She pushed away the tray of food they had left for her, allowing the slices of roast chicken and perfectly cooked vegetables to grow cold on the plate. Even the bowl of freshly picked peaches
failed to tempt her. She poured herself a cup of taillin and wandered restlessly across to the window, but there was no pleasure in the dazzling ocean and the golden sunlit day.

It didn’t seem right. There should be gales, hailstones, thunder and lightning now that Avithan was gone, and she was all alone – for Sharalind did feel alone. Having sent one
pathetic message to say that Avithan had been slain by the Phaerie, Cyran had remained away in the forest, desperately trying to find some kind of excuse, or scapegoat, for his own reckless folly
in sending those inexperienced young people out into such peril, against the advice and wishes of their mothers. As far as Sharalind was concerned, he was wasting his time. There was not, nor ever
could be, any form of mitigation for what he had done, and she would never forgive him as long as she lived.

Even her best friend Zybina was estranged from her now, though at first, when both Avithan and Iriana appeared to be dead, they had been united in their grief and a great support to one another.
But yesterday evening Zybina’s daughter had, by some miracle, been resurrected, and though Sharalind could tell herself until she was blue in the face that she was wrong to begrudge her
friend’s good fortune, it did not make her feel any less resentful. Her son, her true-born child, was dead while Zybina’s girl, not even her own but some miserable little foundling brat
from who knew where, had survived.

Why has her child, a mere foster child at that, been saved, and not mine?

She had found it impossible to forgive her friend’s good fortune. Furthermore Yinze, Zybina’s son, had returned from the lands of the Skyfolk, and was there to comfort her and grieve
with her.

She still has a son, but mine is dead. It isn’t fair!

Though Sharalind despised herself for such a mean-spirited attitude, the jealousy snarled and gnawed within her like some trapped beast, and would not be denied, and her bitterness had driven an
instant wedge between herself and her former friend.

She had often heard it said that there was no worse grief than to lose a child, that it left an indelible scar upon the heart that could never, ever be healed. She had sympathised with parents
in such dreadful straits, had even thought she knew how they must be feeling, but oh, how little she had truly understood!

She had never expected the anger.

Sharalind was filled, consumed, ablaze with a fulminating wrath: a rage, a fury that wanted to strike out at the entire world. At every helpful idiot who told her that time was a great healer,
all those well-meaning morons who insisted that everything happens for a reason. At Zybina, whose child had been saved, at Iriana, for being the survivor, at Cyran, who had sent her son out to die
– but most of all, at the vile, filthy, evil Phaerie, who had taken Avithan’s life.