Beyond the North Wind by Gillian Bradshaw

Author:Gillian Bradshaw [Bradshaw, Gillian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History - Greek, Fantasy
Published: 1993-04-01T05:00:00+00:00

The Prophecy

7

(“What is it?”) flickered Avalanche in a whisper.

(“Quiet!”) ordered Aristeas, because Colaxis had begun to read the scroll. Aristeas, looking over her shoulder through the magic smoke, began to read aloud.

“Go to the queen and give her this reply:

You will hold wide lands beneath the northern sky.

Your people all will tremble at your voice,

and your heart victorious in power will rejoice,

until the day when from Ionian shores

comes one to force obedience to my laws.

Then sealed eyes shall break in weeping springs

when tortoise-shell with parting sorrow sings.”

“O Lord Apollo!” said Aristeas, laughing in wonder, and added the Greek victory cheer “Io Paian!”

Colaxis jumped as though she’d heard him. She clutched the scroll and looked around wildly. “Someone is spying on me!” she whispered. “Someone . . .” Her face set. “Is it you, magician? Then take that!” She reached into the black chest and seized a jar of carved bone, wrenched off the lid, and scattered the contents about her with a whirl of white cloak and red hair.

There was a crack like thunder, and from the well the fire shot up suddenly as high as the roof of the assembly hall. The watchers flung themselves backward. Aristeas’s hair was singed, but the main force of the fire blast engulfed the magician who had cast the seeing spell—Blizzard. The white griffin was swallowed by a cloud of flame. She fell onto the pebbled floor, her beak gaping soundlessly in agony, and the fire from the well followed her, bending down as though it wanted to consume her. The hall was full of shrieks and frantic shouts for someone to fetch water. Aristeas seized his lyre and played three chords, and the seeing spell broke.

The fire sank down to the coals again, but it had done its work. Blizzard’s plumage was burning. She screamed, rolling over and over on the floor, scattering fragments of burning feathers; there was a terrible smell. The First Ones scattered, some running to fetch water, others, led by Avalanche, trying to scrape gold dust and pebbles over their twisting, shrieking colleague to smother the fire. Aristeas tore his cloak off, threw it over Blizzard, and dropped on top of it. Blizzard screamed again and clawed at him wildly, then lay still, panting.

Aristeas climbed back to his feet and pulled his cloak off the other magician. The fire was out, and she lay limply, scarcely recognizable as a griffin. Her white feathers were scorched and blackened right down to the blistered skin. Nightfall and Driftfeather hurried up with gold basins of water in their beaks and began splashing it over her, and she shuddered weakly and gave a little chirrup of pain.

Aristeas picked up his lyre, sat down against the rim of the fire well, and began to play the healing spell yet again.

There was a long silence filled only by the cool sound of the lyre. When Aristeas had finished playing, Blizzard was the first to stir. She climbed to her feet, stretched one wing uncertainly, looked at it—and then, incredibly, laughed.

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