Free Exodus of the Xandim (GOLLANCZ S.F.) by Maggie Furey Page A

itself in such dreadful darkness, a strange sensation swept over him. It felt like the lift of spirits that accompanied the first day of spring, the approach of
dawn after a long and troubled night, a door opening to let in sunlight. It was as if the missing piece of a puzzle had clicked back into place, and without question, without doubt, he knew that
one of his own had come back.
    For one heady instant Cyran thought that Avithan had returned. Then that mysterious blaze of life, that sense of an unknown presence, steadied and clarified, and he knew the truth. Emotions
warred within him: amazement and disbelief that such a miracle could have happened, joy and relief that one of the young Wizards had been saved, followed swiftly by disappointment, black and
bitter.
    Why Iriana? Why did
she
have to be the one who had survived?
    Why couldn’t it have been Avithan?
    The Archwizard hated himself for harbouring such shocking and unworthy thoughts. He had known the girl all her life, because his soulmate Sharalind had been such close friends with
Iriana’s foster mother Zybina. He was very fond of her, and he admired the cleverness and courage with which she had surmounted the disadvantages of her blindness. Yet she was not, and never
could be, his son, and her return could in no way compensate for the loss of Avithan.
    Cyran suddenly roused from his thoughts to see Nara and Baxian hovering expectantly, close by. From their expressions, it was plain that they too had sensed Iriana’s impossible return, and
were bursting to ask him about it. He was glad they had been sensitive enough to allow him a moment to get his emotions under control. Even as Baxian opened his mouth to speak, the Archwizard held
up a hand, stilling the words. ‘No, I cannot understand it either,’ he said shortly. ‘It appears that we have been vouchsafed a miracle today – yet how, why and whence has
Iriana returned? Our first step must be to find her quickly, for she may need our help, and there are many questions we must ask her.’
    He rose to his feet, brushing leaf litter from his robes. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let us eat and sleep, and we will set off at dawn to start our search. There is no time to
lose.’
    If the others noticed him frowning, though they had been granted such seeming good fortune, they forbore to mention it. Though Iriana had returned, she had appeared to be alone. Cyran had a
right to grieve.
    The group of young Wizards left behind in Tyrineld thought of themselves as the survivors now, a change in circumstances that had left shadows of sorrow on their faces and a
heaviness in their steps. Before Yinze, Chathak and Ionor had gone away, it had been their habit to meet together every evening. In the summer, their favourite place had been at the women’s
house, in Thara’s lovely garden. All seven of them: Chathak, Yinze, Ionor, Iriana, Thara, Melisanda and Avithan, would sit around the long wooden table near the fountain; eating, drinking
cool, sparkling starwine and endlessly talking. Somehow, no matter how many times they met like this, they never ran out of things to say, their words well seasoned with laughter and smiles. While
the stars came out and the moon cast a shining silver track across the ocean they would linger, giddy with the scent of the datura flowers that glowed in the moonlight on the bush beside the wall,
and watching the flickering flights of the bats as they flashed by, feeding on the moths that were attracted by the shimmering globes of magelight that Avithan suspended in the trees.
    Tonight they were together again; hopeful, perhaps, that this scene of such good memories would give them some comfort in these dark and sorrowful times, for their happy group had been
fractured, and what should have been joy at their reunion after being separated for so long had been replaced by worry and sorrow. There were two spaces at the table now. Avithan and Iriana had
been snatched away from them