Exodus of the Xandim (GOLLANCZ S.F.) (3 page)

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.’

~

‘W
hat 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.

‘Hmmm . . .’ Ardea’s dark, gimlet eyes flicked up towards the Wizard. ‘This is good work, and I can see how much thought and care you’ve put into it. You must have
had help – or did the Wizards train you in the art of harp making?’

‘I almost wish they had,’ Yinze admitted, ‘for I discovered a fascination with the craft. But no, I had no training in such work as this. Crombec taught me the basics, but
without his considerable aid, I would have lacked the skill to complete such a project. And—’ He felt his face growing warm. ‘Without Kea’s help I would never have
managed.’

His teacher raised a feathery eyebrow, and the Wizard caught the shadow of a smile. ‘I dare say,’ Ardea said. ‘The question is – does your harp work for you? Does it do
what you intended?’

Relief washed over Yinze. He knew how sceptical his mentor had been about this project. Now it seemed that she was prepared to give him a chance to prove himself. ‘Indeed it does, Master
Ardea,’ he said eagerly. ‘In my natural powers of Earth magic we deal with such concrete factors all the time, and I had begun to wonder if I would ever be able to grasp –
literally as well as figuratively – the more abstract energies of Air. But this harp allows me to use a solid object to make the air vibrate, forming sounds and giving me a bridge between
Earth and Air, between the seen and the unseen. I’m still working out all of the ramifications, but I already know that it’s finally giving me the control I’ve been
lacking.’

‘Demonstrate.’ Ardea thrust the harp back into his hands.

Almost limp with relief, for he had not been sure that his mentor would accept what must seem to her like a radical and unnecessary scheme, Yinze took back his creation and, because he preferred
to play standing rather than sitting, looped its strap around his right shoulder and under his left arm to hold the instrument in playing position in front of him, so that the soundboard rested on
his chest. The power he had poured into it during its making vibrated through his arms and into his body.

He had thought long and hard about what would make a good, dramatic demonstration of his control, and the potential of the harp. Taking a deep breath, he sharpened his focus on the instrument,
feeling the smooth curve of the wood beneath his hands. Then he touched the strings, the sleek pressure of the tensioned strands cool against his fingertips, and called forth a glissade of silvery
notes. Mingling his newly learned Air magic with his native powers of Earth, and using the music to form a conduit between both, he made the notes visible: a drifting rain of many-hued, crystalline
flowers that opened in the vault of the ceiling and floated gently down through the air, their glittering petals opening as they fell. They touched the ground lightly and lay there for a moment,
glistening like frost, before vanishing in a waft of glorious perfume.

Ardea applauded. ‘Very pretty,’ she said drily, ‘but can it do anything
useful
?’

What use is any of this blasted Air magic? Yinze thought sourly, but was careful to hide the thought too deep for her to find. Instead he smiled easily. ‘Of course,’ he said. He
began to play again, making the tempo more lively and forceful this time. Jaw rigid with concentration, he moulded the music, not making it visible, as he had done in his previous demonstration,
but using it as a focus for the Air magic. He let the power coil around him and tightened it until it formed a network around his body, then he let it spiral upwards, lifting him gently off the
ground and raising him up towards the ceiling.