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illuminated the forest. Though all the space around was enfolded in the wings of shadow, the tree itself glowed richly
from within, as though filled with captured moonlight.
The immensity of this ancient titan outraged Anvar's senses. In order to maintain his reeling wits, he looked only at the
lower part of the tree, concentrating on details. Stone or wood? Even as the Mage drew closer, it was impossible to tell.
The fabric of the tree had that same dense gray graininess of the carven Door Between the Worlds, which had led him
to the Well of Souls.
"Well perceived, O Wizard! The Portal to the Well of Souls was indeed made from a bough of this tree. But how came
you to tread that perilous road? And why are you still here to remember it?"
Anvar, startled by the voice, looked up into the tree.
And there, at about the height of three men from the ground, where nothing had existed save the plain and featureless
trunk, was a door a circular door that resembled a knothole in the wood. A rough stairway, seemingly a natural part
of the tree, rather than steps that had been cut there, slanted in a curve up to the portal from one of the immense roots.
The stairway curved out and widened at the top, to form a ledge or platform outside the door.
The door swung slowly open. There, framed in the shimmering golden light that shone from the tree's interior, was a ...
Anvar blinked, and rubbed his eyes. The figure was an eagle no, an ancient crone . . . No. It was the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen.
The deceptive figure was clad from head to foot in a cloak of black feathers, cowled and fringed with white. For an
instant, Anvar's vision blurred and he perceived an eagle once more, then his attention shifted and he saw a woman,
with the face of the carving he had last seen in the tunnel that led to the Timeless Lake, What he had mistaken for a
cowl of white feathers was her swirling mane of snowy hair. Her eyes . . . Anvar had expected them to be hawk-dark, or
eagle-gold, but instead they were pale, almost colorless, matching and blending into her white face and wintry hair,
They fixed upon the Mage with unnerving regard.
"Well? I asked you a question. How came you to pass Death's portal, and survive?"
In the face of the Cailleach's impatience, Anvar scrambled together his scattered wits. He bowed low before he
answered. "Madam, the answer to your question I think you know already, Did you not search through all the
contents of my mind, while I was captivated by your image in the tunnel?"
"Captivated, eh?" The moonstone eyes held a gleam of approval and something more. "As well as being perceptive,
you have a clever way with words, young Wizard. And you are right, of course. Otherwise, I might have thought you
had come to relieve my lonely exile." Her brief smile was cut off before it could reach her eyes, and her expression grew
cold. "As it is, I am well aware that you have come to steal the Harp from me."
"Steal, Madam?" Anvar strove to keep his fear from showing on his face. "That is harsh. I had hoped, yes, to persuade
you to give it to me. It was made by Magefolk in the mundane world, and there it truly belongs. I desperately need to
take it back with me, to save my world from evil."
"What, all by yourself? Are you some mighty hero, then, all set to save your world?" There was no disguising the
mockery in her tone.
Anvar, almost stung to making some rash retort, controlled himself just in time. It would not do to forget how powerful,
how dangerous, this creature truly was. "Not a hero," he told the Cailleach. "I never wanted this any of it except
my powers, and Aurian. Especially Aurian. But it's better than using the Harp for destruction, is it not? It's better than
letting such a thing of wonder molder here, unloved and unused, far from the world of its creation. Even now, I hear it,
calling out to me like a lost child, begging me to take it home." As he uttered those last words, he realized that they
were the truth. The thrilling starsong had not died with the bridge, but still murmured softly, somewhere in the back of
his mind. But now the music carried words: half comprehended yet coming clearer all the time.
The Cailleach raised an eyebrow. "The Harp sings to you?"
But Anvar heard the tremor of doubt behind her mocking tones, saw her eyes flick away, infinitesimally, before coming
back to pierce him. And yes, the Harp was singing to him, with the crystal starry music of the bridge, from the
hinterland beyond his consciousness. And it told him how to answer her. "Of course it sings to me. You know it does.
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