Daylight glimmered ahead. Too far ahead; Anskiere knew he could not reach the cave mouth. He stopped. From his sleeve he pulled the tiny feather Tathagres' sorcerer had used to taunt him. The quill glowed blue in his hand as he tossed it into the air.
"Fly," he said, and placed his will upon it.
The feather shimmered into light. From its center flew a living tern, fragile and white as porcelain in the darkness.
Copyright Janny Wurts. Text excerpt from the HarperCollins paperback edition of "Stormwarden."
