Exodus of the Xandim (GOLLANCZ S.F.) (14 page)

Some of her friends had taken years to do it, approaching the process day to day, step by step, gradually finding themselves with different challenges and concerns, changing relationships and
new, seemingly ever-increasing, responsibilities as the reins of their life were transferred from the grip of their parents and teachers into their own, often unsteady hands. Iriana had observed
them: Chathak leant heavily upon his effervescent sense of humour to cope with the changes; Ionor used his devastating intelligence and Yinze, her beloved foster brother with the handsome face and
flashing smile, had charmed his way effortlessly through any difficulties. Thara managed by being sturdy, practical and down-to-earth, helped along by her expansive belly laugh, sparkling eyes, and
those lush curves that had men flocking from miles around. Melisanda, tall, fair and willowy, with her thoughtful grey eyes and her wry observations on life, had developed a fount of compassion, a
boundless empathy with those in pain, and her mind and hands worked in tandem to create Healing magic of great power and exquisite skill.

Then there was Avithan.

In many ways, his climb to adulthood had been the most difficult of all. How could it not be? As the son of the Archwizard, his responsibilities – plus a heavy burden of expectation on the
part of his parents – had descended upon him early. The pressure on him to conform to his father’s wishes had been immense, yet somehow he had always managed to take his own path which,
though it may have disappointed Cyran, had never put them into overt conflict.

Iriana had never felt that she’d matured in the same way as the rest of her friends. Though she had excelled in her studies and her magic was probably the most powerful in a group of very
talented Wizards, it had seemed as though her foster mother Zybina and Cyran’s soulmate Sharalind were determined to keep her a child for ever. Her struggle for independence had been hard
fought and long. Out of the whole group, Iriana was the only one who had not travelled, or tested herself and her powers in any way, and that knowledge had eroded her spirits and gnawed at her
confidence.

Now that had all changed.

Iriana had every reason to be proud of herself. She had passed beyond the boundaries of the world and the reality she had always known. She had found a new and wonderful friendship with
Corisand, the astonishing Windeye of the shapeshifting Xandim, whom she had known now in both her human and equine forms. She had finally found the freedom, excitement and adventure she had always
dreamed about.

Not bad for a blind Wizard girl who had been overprotected by well-meaning people all her life.

So why was she so sad?

Her victories had cost her dearly. She had lost three of the beloved animal companions who had acted as her eyes: Boreas, the great eagle, lost when he had taken a mate. Seyka, the beautiful
white owl who had helped the Wizard guard the camp at night, slain by the Phaerie assassin who, not so many nights ago, had almost succeeded in wiping out Iriana and her companions. Dailika, the
mare she had trained to carry a blind girl in safety and confidence, whose strange, peripheral equine vision she had shared on so many occasions; fled in terror and madness after Iriana had turned
her into the weapon that had ended the cruel life of that same assassin. Was Dailika dead now, killed by her injuries or some wild beast? Did she wander the forest, lost in a nightmare of terror
and madness? Or was she lying somewhere, injured and helpless, dying slowly, horribly by inches, waiting for Iriana to come and take care of her as the Wizard had always done?

It tortured her that she did not, could not, know.

Though Iriana did know the fate of her two lost Wizardly companions, it brought her no comfort. Esmon, Head of the Luen of Warriors, the kind, wise, amusing mentor who had taught her so much on
this first expedition, was dead now, his throat slit, his heart pierced by the assassin’s blade. She clenched her fists against the pain as she remembered having to perform his funeral rites,
flashing his body into flame with her magic and scattering his ashes to the winds.

Lost also, but still foremost in her thoughts, was Avithan, son of the Archwizard Cyran. They had been the closest of friends for most of her life, and recently, on this ill-fated journey, had
taken the first tentative step towards becoming lovers. Even Avithan, the stalwart rock of her existence upon whom she could always depend – though she would never admit that to him –
was gone now. Though she had managed to save his life in the assassin’s attack, he’d been so close to death that the powerful Cailleach, Lady of the Mists, had taken him back with her
to her own mysterious, timeless realm Beyond the World, with the faintest of hopes that she might be able to heal him there. Even if she did succeed, however, the chances that he would be able to
return were slim.

At least he has a chance, Iriana told herself firmly. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. And without all the rest of it, the struggle and sadness and loss, she would have missed
so much. She remembered the joy of buying provisions for their expedition in Tyrineld market, and the bubbling feeling of excitement that had come from knowing that she was about to escape the city
and all her well-meaning but suffocating guardians at last, and have the freedom and adventure she had always longed for. She recalled the happy nights around the campfire, Esmon’s jokes and
all the valuable things he had taught her, the satisfaction of learning to use her special bond with her animals to safeguard the camp. The heady feeling of responsibility when Esmon had wanted her
to take night watches just like the others.

She remembered the night when Avithan kissed her, and everything changed between them, becoming special and precious and new.

I wouldn’t have missed any of it, she realised. And even though it all ended badly, with bloodshed and death and loss, I would pay that price, to have all the rest. Because of it
I’ve changed and grown – and I’m strong enough to go on from here, and face the next adventure.

She got to her feet and called Melik, scooping the cat up in her arms to sit in his usual perch on her shoulders. She had better go and find Corisand and Dael. They still had a lot to do and a
long way to go – and it was high time they got started.

Dael looked around the room and wondered where to begin. It was almost time to leave the tower that had been his home for the happiest months of his life, and he would have to
choose which of his belongings to take with him, and pack them up ready to go. It was proving to be a difficult task. Before he had come here, the very idea of his own possessions had been so out
of reach as to be laughable. All he had owned were the rags on his back and a blunt, rusty old belt knife that he had found one day beneath some bushes. Now he was surrounded by untold riches: an
entire collection of warm clothing, a thick new cloak, boots for his feet and a new, keen blade that hung from his leather belt.

His new wealth consisted of more than just clothes. There, propped in a corner, was his fishing gear, the hooks and rods and other assorted paraphernalia that Athina had created for him, and on
the table lay the books and scrolls that she had been using to teach him to read and write.

Dael sank down on the rocking chair by the hearth, his face in his hands. How he missed his beloved Athina, the Cailleach; builder of worlds and one of the most powerful beings in all Creation,
who had taken him in on a stormy night when he’d been injured, starving and close to death. She had created this chamber for him, the first room that had ever belonged solely to him.
Everything had been placed with a view to his comfort and pleasure, especially the cosy bed with its soft blankets and warm, down-filled quilt – again, the first real bed he had ever owned.
Her thoughtful touch was everywhere, from the bright magical lamps that bloomed into radiance at his touch, to the soft cushions on the rocking chair, to the thick, tufted rugs on the floor with
their bright and cheerful hues.

Up to the point where Athina had rescued him, he had existed in a world filled with insecurity, pain and fear. A lowly human slave in a world where magic and its wielders reigned supreme, he had
been at the mercy of careless masters and his brutal, vile-tempered father who had dragged him into a mass escape of slaves, who had left him to starve in the forest, at the mercy of the Phaerie
Hunt. He had been on the threshold of death when she had found him and taken him in.

She had healed him. She had saved him.

She had loved him, just as much as he had loved her.

She had left him – no, that wasn’t true. She had been forced to leave by her fellow Creators; forced to quit this world that she had formed, incredibly, from her powers and
imagination; a world that she loved so much she had almost sacrificed those powers in an attempt to save its denizens from their own folly. Dael would give all his new possessions, give the tower
and all its comforts, give the entire world just to be with her again, but Athina’s brethren would never permit her to return, and as a mere mortal, utterly devoid of magic, he could not
follow where she had gone.

She had explained it all to him before she’d left, and they had clung to each other and wept. An arbitrary twist of fate had brought them together, but now they were being cruelly and
permanently torn apart. Dael would live out the rest of his brief mortal life in a world which had made him little better than a beast of burden, and Athina would have all eternity to mourn his
loss.

A great wave of fury at the unfairness of it all swept over Dael. A savage oath, howled in anguish, tore out of him as he leapt to his feet and overthrew the table, scattering pens and
parchment. The ink hit the floor in a great dark splatter that obscured the brilliant colours of the rug. He stared in horror at the destruction. Without Athina, was he already reverting to the
half-wild, hating, skulking creature that once he had been?

No. He set his jaw. It wouldn’t happen. He would not permit it. He owed his benefactress far better than that. Slowly, carefully, he began to clean up the mess, and as he picked up the
small collection of volumes that had taught him more about the nature and history of his world than he could ever have imagined, he vowed that somehow he would find room to take them with him. He
wouldn’t go back to the way he had lived before Athina had taken him in. She had given him his independence and his courage, and he was going to damn well fight to keep them.

‘And I’ll do more than that.’ Dael stopped what he was doing and stood very still, a new fire of resolution burning in his heart. ‘I escaped from the Phaerie. I survived
against all odds. I found a wonderful home with the most extraordinary being who ever graced this sad little world. She saw someone, something within me that I never could have imagined in a
million years. And now I’m going to be that person. I won’t let her down. And if Athina can’t come to me, then I’ll find a way back to her. Somehow, somewhere, there
must
be a way, and I’ll find it, even supposing it takes me the rest of my life.’

Corisand had very little to pack. Just a coat that had belonged to Athina, some clothing borrowed from Iriana and shrunk by magic to suit her shorter, more compact stature, a
cloak and Dael’s spare pair of boots that had been similarly altered to fit. She’d found a belt knife and eating utensils, which she was still learning to handle, in the tower kitchen,
and blankets upstairs. She had come here with nothing but the beauty of her dappled grey hide and a burning desire in her heart to save her enslaved people, and she was aghast at all the
paraphernalia she suddenly required. After all, until three days ago she had been a horse, or at least had taken the form of one, and her requirements had been comparatively few. Born of the
shapeshifting Xandim, she had finally discovered her ability to change to human form, and with this new body had come all sorts of wants and needs. Clothing, blankets, eating utensils . . .

She gave a snort of disgust that sounded very like the horse from which she had so recently been transformed. All her life she had thought of these bipeds – in her own experience these
were the Phaerie who had enslaved her people, though now she understood that they came in other kinds too, such as the Wizard and the mortal that made up the odd little group of which she was now a
part – as being all-powerful. Who could have guessed that their bodies would be so feeble and frail? They couldn’t run as fast as a horse, or jump as high and far, they couldn’t
travel long distances without a lot of rests involving all the fuss of camps and fires, blankets and tents to sleep in, pots with which to cook their food, cups, bowls and a bewildering array of
implements with which to eat the stuff . . . Really, there was just no end to it.

Of course, she had one other possession. While she’d been thinking, Corisand’s eyes had automatically come to rest, as they so often did, on the staff of dark, polished wood with its
pair of twining serpents that no longer held the glowing green Fialan, the Stone of Fate. Now the Fialan lay glowing on the tabletop beside the staff, and from where she stood, six feet away beside
the bed, she could feel its power beating against her skin.

She and Iriana had won the artefact in the otherworldly realms of the Elsewhere, having battled their way through dreadful obstacles and dangers, and brought it back to their own world in
triumph. It was thanks to the extraordinary power of the Stone that Corisand could hold her human shape here, finally breaking the spell that the Phaerie Lord Hellorin had been using to enslave her
race in their equine form. As a human, she could finally access the magic that was her birthright as the Windeye, or Shaman of the Xandim, and now she planned to use these hard-won powers to rescue
her people from their long captivity.

In the meantime, however, Corisand had another challenge before her: one she could not put off any longer, though it made her afraid to the very depths of her soul. Since returning from the
Elsewhere, she had stayed in her new human aspect, terrified that if she reverted to equine form she would once again be unable to access her magic. Unable to change back. All her life she had been
trapped as a horse. Powerless, frustrated, unable to be all she could be; unable to help her people. She was the Windeye. She had inherited the burden on the death of her sire Valir, and in that
hour her thoughts had changed from the drives and instincts of an animal. In a flash she had known the history of her race: their abilities, their potential, their betrayal and enslavement.