Exodus of the Xandim (GOLLANCZ S.F.)

by Maggie Furey

  She was delightful to look at, and always good company, but Yinze shook his head. ‘Not tonight thanks, Kea. I really am very tired.’ Though he was very fond of her, and grateful that she had cared enough about him to stand up to the bullies, he just wanted to be alone. Today Incondor had heaped further humiliation on him, in addition to that which he already felt over his continued inability to perform even the simplest Air magic. He just wanted to be left to lick his wounds in peace.

  ‘All right,’ the winged girl replied, but there was a forced edge of cheerfulness in her voice, and he knew that he had hurt her.

  Cursing his own clumsiness, Yinze took her hands. ‘I’m sorry, Kea. There’s no one I’d rather be with than you. But tonight I just need to be alone with my thoughts. I’m no fit company for anyone just now. All my attempts at your magic have been such a failure, and I hate myself for being so useless.’ He couldn’t believe he had finally said it out loud. She was the only person in Aerillia to whom he could confess such a thing.

  ‘I think you underestimate yourself.’ Kea kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Yinze. You’ll work it out. I have every confidence in you.’ With that she flew off to her own quarters, leaving him alone with the starlight blazing down through the frosty air.

  The Wizard watched her launch herself across the void, then turned and went indoors, closing his door against the chill, for dark clouds had smothered the glowing western sky, and there was a smell of snow in the air. Perhaps because he had been thinking so longingly of home his chambers, now so familiar, looked as strange as they had when he had first come here. The slightly curving walls with their heavy, woollen hangings to help conserve the heat and the tall, wide doorways that were designed to accommodate the folded wings of the usual inhabitants seemed alien to him, and he felt rootless and lost, and very far from home. The spindly furnishings were, for the most part, crafted of exquisite wrought iron, which was far easier than wood to obtain in these mineral-rich mountains, so high above the treeline. They were sparse and close to the wall, allowing plenty of turning space in the centre of the chamber for the sweeping Skyfolk wings. Also because of the wings, the braziers that heated the rooms were tucked safely away in the corners, and there was little clutter that could be knocked over or down. Any loose items were stored away in deep wall niches concealed behind the hangings. The chairs were backless stools, with cushioned seats of padded leather or wool, on which the natives of Aerillia could perch for hours with every appearance of comfort – unlike Yinze, who had been forced to purchase some of the rare, expensive wood and make a chair of his own, with arms and a back to support his aching spine.

  Yinze lit the lamps, added more charcoal to the brazier that heated the room, and sat as close to it as he dared until the shivering had subsided a little, and he could shed his outer layers of clothing. Suddenly he regretted sending Kea away, and almost went after her, but he didn’t want to risk running into Incondor and his cronies again. If he were to encounter them now, he might just forget Cyran’s restrictions, he thought grimly. How immensely satisfying it would be to pulverise those too-handsome features beyond all recognition. By pushing him off the ledge, the bullies had given him a real scare. His face burned with humiliation as he remembered how he had screamed as he fell, and disgraced himself by throwing up after he was rescued. He must have looked like a pathetic fool. But worse than Incondor’s actions had been his words about the Wizard’s failure to master Air magic, which had lodged in Yinze’s mind like a poisoned dagger.

  There was no defence against the truth.

  Right now, what he really wanted was a glass of wine – or something stronger. But brewed, distilled and fermented drinks were forbidden, and for the most part unwanted, among the Skyfolk. Flying required skill, precision and razor-sharp reflexes, because the slightest misjudgement could mean death. There was no place for fuddled wits in the sky.

  In every society, however, there were always rebels. Yinze had not been in Aerillia for very long when he first heard the rumours that there was covert use of the prohibited drug by some of the younger generation of the Skyfolk, and it had not been long before he discovered the truth of them for himself. Incondor, who had initially been very friendly and welcoming, had approached him covertly and asked him if, on his return to Tyrineld, he would be willing to provide a smuggled supply of wine and spirits. ‘We have many things of value here in these mountains,’ the young aristocrat had urged. ‘Jewels, gold, furs . . . I could make you very wealthy.’

  Yinze, with Cyran’s warnings ringing through his mind, had refused to become involved in such a scheme, and Incondor’s animosity had originated from that rebuttal. From that day onwards the bullying had begun, and it had continued, and escalated, ever since.

  So his goblet of wine was out of the question, but the Wizard suspected that it was just as well. He felt a gnawing in his stomach; partly strain and anxiety, but partly hunger. The meal he had eaten earlier with Ardea’s other students was gone. It was a long time until breakfast, and he craved the comfort of something warm in his belly. He went to the door that led into the small kitchen and his housekeeper’s quarters, and called, ‘Kereru, are you there?’

  ‘And where else would I be on a cold night like this, with a blizzard in the offing?’

  She was plump for one of the Winged folk, and her grey hair and wings had a sheen of iridescence in the lamplight. Her kindly smile was, as always, a balm for his wounded feelings. ‘Kereru, I—’

  ‘I have some soup ready,’ she interrupted. ‘It’ll be just what you need – considering.’

  ‘You saw?’

  ‘Out of the window.’ She frowned. ‘You mark my words, one of these days that boy is going to come to a bad end.’

  ‘The sooner the better, if you ask me,’ Yinze said ruefully. ‘Oh,’ he suddenly remembered. ‘I’m sorry, Kereru, I never cleared up the mess I made on the platform.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that now. The storm will scour it all away.’ She smiled at him. ‘Aerillia housekeeping at its best – oh, and while I remember, Parea found your woollen hat for you. I know how attached you are to it.’

  She took the damp purple cap from her pocket and laid it on the table, then went off to fetch his soup, reappearing moments later bearing a tray loaded with a steaming bowl, a plate of bread and the delicious sheep-milk cheese made by the Skyfolk, and a pot of fragrant liafa, a bitter, stimulating drink made from berries, that was the Aerillian equivalent of taillin.

  Not for the first time, Yinze thanked providence that Kereru had been allotted to him. She always had a way of making him feel better. He thanked her with a smile. ‘I think I’ll have to take you back with me to Tyrineld,’ he told her.

  The smile dropped from Kereru’s face. ‘Just to make me a servant in a different place? And what possible good would that do me? No, wait – I forgot. It wasn’t me you were thinking of, was it?’

  Shamefaced, Yinze looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Kereru, I’m sorry. I’m dismayed that I never thought . . . I’ve been too busy adapting here and settling in, too caught up with my own problems to think much about the Forsaken. Coming as an outsider to Aerillia, I just accepted the way things were.’ He reached over and took her work-roughened hand. ‘Please, Kereru – will you stay and have some liafa with me? Tell me how it is that some of the Skyfolk are forced to labour so hard for others?’

  Gently but firmly, Kereru removed her hand from his. ‘I don’t have to sit down. I can tell you in two minutes. About six hundred years ago, there were no Forsaken – until a group of Skyfolk got religion. One of them claimed to have had visions which told him that one day there would come a Dark God who would raise the Children of the Skies to a position of dominion over all the other Magefolk, and that his coming would change the world for ever.’ She shrugged. ‘You can see, can’t you, why that would seem a very attractive proposition to a lot of folk? The prophet – Malkoha, his name was – soon rose to a position of
eminence. People flocked to him, and his followers overthrew the King of that time, and built their dark temple right on the pinnacle, where the palace stands now.’

  Pulling out a chair, Kereru sat down after all, as if barely aware of what she was doing. ‘And that was where Malkoha made his mistake. He got carried away with his success, I suppose, and he must have been a twisted soul. Out of the blue, he declared that the Dark God required human sacrifices, and before long, that temple of his was swimming in blood. That certainly had a way of bringing most folk to their senses,’ she added wryly. ‘The old king and his followers suddenly found themselves very popular again. The people of Aerillia fought Malkoha’s followers, and dreadful battles raged across the skies. Eventually, the prophet was defeated and executed – though to the very last, he insisted that the Dark God would strike his enemies down and restore him to eminence.’

  Again, there was that wry expression. ‘His miracle didn’t happen of course. He was beheaded on the steps of his own temple, and his body thrown to the great cats who inhabit the Shattered Peak to the north. But what became of his faithful followers? Well might you ask. They, and all their descendants, were sentenced to an eternity of labour for the good of the other Skyfolk, to expiate their crimes, and their first task was to tear down Malkoha’s temple. Henceforth, and ever after, they were to be known as the Forsaken. Each child born to them was taken by so-called healers, powerful telepaths who could alter those infantile minds from within, blocking their magic for ever.’

  ‘But that’s so unfair,’ Yinze protested. ‘Why do they still allow it?’

  ‘Mostly, I think, because it’s convenient. No society can function without people to do the drudge work. The only way for one of us to escape our lot is to wed with someone who is not of the Forsaken – though such cases happen only rarely, and do not meet with approval in our society. Then our children will become normal members of the Skyfolk, with all their magic, but we will not. That is what happened to your Kea’s forebears – her grandmother was one of the Forsaken, noted for her beauty, who had the good fortune to wed with a young artisan. But though we will escape servitude in such a joining, and our children will have their powers, we will not. They have gone for ever.’

  When Kereru had gone, Yinze found he had little appetite for his cooling soup. For the thousandth time, he considered the ways in which the Winged Folk used their Air magic. On a large scale, they could herd clouds for considerable distances, to bring rain for their crops, or give dry and sunny weather for their harvest; and on a small, domestic level, they could send warm air from around their braziers wherever they wished inside their dwellings. They could make large, fast changes in air pressure to blast tunnels in the mountains so that their human slaves could mine metals and jewels. They could use their magic to hunt, giving an extra impetus to arrows or spears, or simply knocking down earthbound game with very localised, high-pressure waves, or creating fast-moving swirls of air to trap their winged prey.

  Unlike Earth magic, the powers of Air held no particular healing applications, but the Skyfolk could keep the lungs of a very sick or injured individual working, and change the composition of the air so that the patient could breathe more easily. On the other side of the scale, air could be used in battle, either using powerful concussive blasts to take out a large number of enemies at once, or using high-pressure jabs of air to knock a foe out of the sky. Indeed, this was a favourite form of entertainment, with hotly contested tournaments taking place in the High Arena.

  Which was interesting, but none of it was getting Yinze any closer to his goal. In all his life, he had never felt so beaten down. He, who had always succeeded in his aims, was staring failure squarely in the face. Outside, the stars had vanished and it had started to snow. He could hear the wind picking up, whistling and whining around the walls of his dwelling. It had a nasty, sneering sound, as though it was mocking his failure to master it. It occurred to him that sound, carried as it was on the air, had the effect of making the air manifest, giving it a presence and almost a personality . . . For an instant the wisp of an idea touched his thoughts, and he tried to follow it through before it slipped away.

  In how many ways did air actually make its presence known? He could feel it against his skin as he shivered in the draught that blew under the door; he could see it interact with physical objects, such as driving the snow past his window, or blowing Kea’s hair out behind her like a banner . . .

  Forget about Kea.

  It really was alarming how fond of her Yinze had become; how attractive he was finding her nowadays. She’s not even the same species as you, he told himself firmly. Yet the physical similarities between all races of humanoid form – Wizards, Winged Folk, Phaerie and even the despised sub-race of mortals – were sufficiently pronounced to permit sexual congress, and sometimes actual cross-breeding . . .

  Don’t even think about it!

  Yinze rubbed his hands over his face, as if to scrub away such thoughts. He’d been here too long, that was the problem. He was going native. If punching Incondor’s smug face would cause trouble, he hardly dared imagine what a scandal there would be if he slept with the talented apprentice of the foremost harp maker in Aerillia. The Wizard let out a low whistle of dismay at the thought of what Cyran would say, and – there it was again! That connection between air and sound. Experimentally, Yinze repeated the whistle, glad of a chance to distract himself from Kea’s dangerous charms. Again, that nebulous hint of an idea touched the edges of his thoughts, then flitted away like a butterfly – which put the image of wings into his head.

  Wings? Was that how he could make the connection between the tangible and intangible? Wings needed the air to function, yet they, in turn, acted upon the air and moved it, and as they did there was sound . . . Yinze cursed. The inspiration, so close, had slid beyond his grasp once more. He sighed with frustration, and noticed the soft whisper of sound it made. Sound? Why did his thoughts keep circling back to sound?

  And Kea. He just couldn’t keep her out of his head. With another sigh, Yinze gave up the unequal struggle. No wonder he was a failure. It seemed that he couldn’t concentrate on the magical conundrum before him for two minutes together. For all the progress he was making without her, he might as well have let the winged girl stay tonight. Perhaps talking through his frustrations with her might have helped to clear his mind. And failing all else, she could have played for him.

  He pictured her sitting in the lamplight, her wings like a cloak of shadows behind her, her long hair falling forward over her shoulder, that endearing little frown of concentration on her face as her nimble fingers moved effortlessly over the beautifully crafted instrument of her own making, coaxing a waterfall of delicate, evocative sound from the shining strings . . .

  And suddenly the answer was staring him in the face. Music. Or more precisely, a musical instrument. Wood and metal – substances of the Earth element which he could imbue with his own powers. The music he produced with them would provide his tangible link to the magic of Air.

  Excitement drove Yinze to his feet, and he began to pace. Could it work? Would it? Such a technique was unheard of among his own people, and the Skyfolk had never needed aids to manipulate their magic. Yet it might just give him the crucial link he had been needing so badly. Of course he’d have to learn a lot about harp making really fast, but didn’t he have the best possible person in the world to help him with that?

  With a whoop of joy, Yinze summoned his net bearers and ran to wrap up in his outdoor clothes once more. In less than ten minutes, plastered from head to foot with snow but grinning like a maniac, he was knocking on Kea’s door. She opened it, wrapped in her sleeping robe, blinking sleepy eyes against the wind-driven snowflakes. ‘Yinze! Do you know how late it is?’

  Ignoring her protests he took her in his arms and danced her around the landing platform in a dizzy whirl. ‘I’ve got it!’ He covered her startled face in kisses. ‘At last I have the answer.’

  2
>
  ~

  WINDSINGER

  ‘What do you think?’ Uncharacteristically nervous, Yinze held the harp out to his mentor. Ardea, tall and bony, her hair a shock of white, looked down her long, thin nose at his creation, turning it from side to side to examine it more closely. The instrument glowed with the warm hues of polished wood in the bright sunshine of early summer that was pouring through the window. Looking at it, Yinze felt a surge of pride. These last few months of intense work, which had kept him so busy through the bleak winter and the promise-filled days of spring, had all been worthwhile. It was a lap harp, and beautifully wrought; light enough to be played on the move. Yinze of the dextrous, clever hands had carved the frame with all manner of birds, from the mighty eagle down to the tiniest wren. Wrapped about with spells, the warm gleam of its wood overlaid with the silver-blue shimmer of magic, it thrummed with power.

  Ardea raised her eyebrows as she continued her scrutiny and, though she was not one to throw compliments about lightly, Yinze could see that she was impressed. She stroked long, knob-knuckled fingers across the silver cascade of strings, producing a shower of pure and perfect notes, and he caught his breath as a wave of energy rippled across the room. The scrolls shifted and rustled in their racks, a cup and a quill went skittering across the surface of the table, and the weighty metal furniture shifted slightly across the floor, resounding with a deep, bell-like tone.