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                                               Aurian
                                            Maggie Furey


                                                  Chapter                 1

                                        THE      LADY        OF      THE       LAKE

Ho, little girl!"

Aurian jumped, the blue fireball dropping from her hands to the
dry leaves of the forest floor. She scuffed hastily at the
smouldering leaves with her foot, the extinguishing spell
forgotten in her panic. Her mother had forbidden her to come out
here on her own, and it was too late to hide. Aurian turned to
run, but the strangeness of the intruder in the glade stopped her
in her tracks.

She had never seen a man before. He was tall and broad, clad all
in brown leather beneath his heavy cloak, and bearing a huge sword
at his side. The brown hair on his face looked distinctly odd,
reminding her, together with his brown eyes, of the animals that
were her friends. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched, and
Aurian backed hastily away from the looming figure, another
fireball beginning to form between her fingers. The man looked at
her thoughtfully then sat down on the ground, his hands clasped
round his knees. Now that he was nearer her own level, he looked
far less threatening, and Aurian began to feel a little more
confident. These were her mother's lands, after all. "Who are
you?" she demanded.

"I'm Forral—swordsman and wanderer, at your service, little lady."
He inclined his head gravely in the nearest thing to a bow that he
could manage from his sitting position.

"Yes, but who are you?" Aurian insisted, still keeping a safe
distance between them. "What do you want? You're not supposed to
be here, you know. The animals were supposed to keep you out."


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Forral smiled, "They didn't bother me. I don't hurt animals—they
don't hurt me. It's a good way to live."

Aurian, despite her mother's warnings, found herself warming                                                           to
the man. It was a good way to live, and she liked his smile.                                                           It
seemed only fair to warn him what her mother would do to him                                                           if
she found him wandering around her lands. "Look—" she began,                                                           but
he was already speaking.

"Can you by any chance direct me to the Lady of the Lake?"

"Who?"

Forral waved his hands in a vague gesture. "You know— the Mage.
The Lady Eilin. If I'm not mistaken, you must be young Aurian, her
daughter. You're the image of Geraint."

Aurian's mouth fell open. "You knew my father?"

Forral's face was shadowed with sadness. "Indeed I did," he said
softly. "Your father and mother both. Geraint gave me my start in
life. I was an orphan, only about your age, when he found me. He
got me into the swordsman's school at the Garrison in Nexis, and
was a friend to me in all the years that followed." He sighed. "I
was away soldiering in foreign parts, across the sea, when your
father died. News of—the accident— never spread that far. I've
only just returned, and when I heard—" For a moment, he struggled
to find his voice. "Well, I came at once. I've come to offer my
services to your mother."

"She won't want you." It was out of her mouth before Aurian
realized her tactlessness. It seemed an awful thing to say, when
he had come so far. And she liked him already. In all her nine
years, Aurian could remember no other human company save that of
her mother, and Eilin had little time to spare for her daughter.
She was too preoccupied with her Great Task. With only her animal
friends for companionship, Aurian's life was a lonely one.
Desperately she cast around for a way to explain, so as not to
hurt her new friend's feelings. "You see," she said, "my mother


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never has visitors. She's so busy that she hardly even sees me."

Forral looked her up and down. Had Aurian had a normal upbringing
she might have been embarrassed by the torn gray shift that she
was wearing, the tangles in her red curls, the smears on her face
and the dirt ground into her bare knees. As it was she returned
his gaze unselfconsciously.

"Who looks after you, then?" he asked at last.

Aurian shrugged. "Nobody."

The big man frowned. "Then it's high time somebody did. Speaking
of which, are you supposed to be doing that?" He pointed at the
forgotten fireball that still danced over the palm of her hand.
Aurian snuffed it hastily and hid her hands behind her back,
wishing that she could hide her guilty expression so easily.

AURIAN -3

"Well . . . not exactly," she confessed. "But it was an
emergency." She bit her lip. "You won't tell on me, will you?"

Forral seemed to be thinking it over. "All right. I won't tell on
you—this time," he added sternly. "But don't do it again, do you
hear me? It's very dangerous. And don't think I didn't notice what
you were up to when I came into this glade. It wasn't an emergency
then, was it?" Aurian felt her face turn crimson, and Forral
grinned. "Come on, youngster, let's go and see your mother."

"She won't be very pleased," Aurian warned him, but she could tell
he didn't believe her.

They set off up the tree-covered slope; Forral led his tired horse
and the skinny, gangling child mounted bareback on her shaggy
brown pony. Cool autumn sunlight filtered through the naked
branches, gilding the deeply drifted leaves that crackled
underfoot. At the top of the long rise, the woods came to an
abrupt end. The child halted, her expression closed and grim.



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"Gods preserve us!" Forral gazed at the devastation below him,
hardly able to believe his eyes. The news of Geraint's accident
had come as a dreadful shock, but he had never expected anything
on this appalling scale! The vast, barren crater stretched beyond
the ridge, as far as the eye could see. It was almost more than
the swordsman could bear, to witness such proof of his friend's
violent end. Geraint had been the most brilliant and impetuous of
the Magefolk, favorite candidate to be the next Archmage. Arrogant
and stubborn, as were all his kind. Tall, redheaded Geraint of the
explosive temper, the expansive laugh, the endless joy in life,
and the kindness of heart to befriend a ragged young boy who dared
to dream, had killed himself down there.

Geraint had dared to dream, too, Forral thought sadly. Eight years
ago he had tried, using the ancient, half-comprehended magic of
the lost Dragonfolk, to harness vast amounts of magical energy in
order to pass instantly from world to world, with disastrous
results. It was said that Geraint had come perilously close to
destroying the world, and it was already clear that his name would
be cursed through generations of Mage and Mortal alike. Forral
preferred to believe that his friend, recognizing th^ danger too
late, had given his life to

I

confine the damage to as small an area as possible. Even so, the
deep crater below was at least five leagues across, its sides a
cracked and twisted mess of melted rock, its floor like rippled
black glass. Away in the distance, across the lifeless waste, the
swordsman's eyes caught the gleam of sunlight on water.

Forral had no idea how long he stood there, dismayed by the
horrific scale of the destruction Geraint had wrought. At last he
became aware of the child gazing up at him.

"My mother hasn't got this far," Aurian said in a small, flat
voice. "I told you she was busy. There's a lot to do."

The swordsman was filled with pity for the little girl, growing up
neglected and friendless in this bleak wasteland. Were the rumors


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true, that Eilin had lost her sanity with the death of her beloved
soul mate? An adept in Earth-magic, it was said that she had
buried her grief in her obsession to restore to fruitfulness the
devastation caused by Geraint's tragic mistake. For the child's
sake, he pulled himself together and tried to look cheerful, but
his heart was sinking as they went on their way.

They had some difficulty getting Forral's horse down to the floor
of the crater, but Aurian's surefooted pony had few problems. The
child could ride like a centaur, and was accustomed, no doubt, to
negotiating the slippery, folded terrain in the bottom of the
massive bowl. It must be terrible here in summer, Forral thought
as they rode along. Even now, the glasslike rock was throwing up
heat and shimmering reflections from the pallid autumn sun. Water
had"gathered in the bottoms of some of the deeper folds, but the
only sign of life was the occasional bird flying overhead.

Aurian finally broke the long silence between them. "What was my
father like?"

The question took Forral by surprise, and he was very much aware
of the plea that lay behind the words. "Hasn't your mother told
you?" he asked her.

"No," she replied. "She won't talk about him. She said that this
was all his fault." She gestured around her, her voice quavering.
"She said he'd done a bad thing, and that it was our duty to make
up for it."

Forral shuddered. What had happened to Eilin? What a terrible
burden to lay on a child! "Nonsense," he said firmly.


"Your father was a good, kind man, and a true friend to me. What
happened was an accident. He didn't do this on purpose, pet. He
made a mistake, that's all—and don't let anybody tell you
otherwise."

Aurian's face brightened. "I wish I could remember him," she said
softly. "Will you tell me about him, as we ride?"


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"Gladly," replied Forral.

About two leagues from the center of the bowl, the ground began to
level off to a smooth surface with a slight downward slope. Soon
the rock was covered with a thin layer of soil, and tiny,
struggling plants began to appear. By the time the lake came into
view they were riding on wiry turf starred with daisies, and
passing thickets of hawthorn, blackberry, and elder that were
bowed down beneath a rich harvest of fruit and alive with birds.
Groves of shapely trees stood along the green lake shore, some
still bearing apples and pears. Forral could not help but be
impressed by the scale of Eilin's accomplishments in eight short
years. A pity she couldn't have lavished the same attention on the
child.

The lake was large and round, formed by water draining into the
bottom of the crater. In the center stood an island, obviously man
(or Mage) made, that was connected to the shore by a slender
wooden bridge. On the island a tower rose above the lake like a
spear of light. Forral caught his breath. The ground floor was
surrounded by gardens and built of black stone, but above it was
an airy, glittering structure of crystal that soared high above
the gleaming wafers. The ethereal building was topped by a slender
glass spire on which a single point of light glowed like a fallen
star.

"Dear Gods, it's lovely!" Forral gasped.

Aurian looked at it dourly. "It's where we live." She shrugged and
dismounted, setting her pony free with a farewell pat.

Forral did likewise, on her assurance that his horse would stay
nearby where there was grazing. Leaving his saddle under a tree,
he followed the child across the bridge.

A white-sanded path led through Eilin's gardens, past neat rows of
late-season vegetables; herb beds laid out in a precise, intricate
mosaic of varied greens; and banks of fiery autumn flowers in
which sat a cluster of beehives, their occupants humming busily


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among the copper-gold blooms as they made the most of this last,
rare warm spell before winter. As he followed the child into the
tower, Forral reflected that the Mage had managed to support
herself and her daughter very well in their isolation, though he
wondered how Eilin obtained grain, cloth, and other necessities
that could not be won from the Valley's soil.

The outer door of the tower led straight into the kitchen, which
was obviously the main living area. Its walls were hewn out of the
dark stone of the tower's base, giving it a cavelike appearance
made cozy by the glow of the potbellied metal stove in the corner.
Colored rugs of woven wool brightened the floor, and there was a
scrubbed wooden table with benches tucked beneath. Two chairs with
padded seats were pulled up near the stove, and shelves and
cupboards lined the walls, making the most of the cramped space.
Two doors hid other rooms, and Aurian gestured to the one on the
right. "That's my room," she informed the swordsman. "She sleeps
upstairs, to be near her plants."

A delicate, twisting metal staircase led to the upper stories.
Aurian hesitated at the bottom, gesturing for Forral to precede
her. His boots striking bell-like notes on the vibrating metal
treads, Forral climbed the stairs, wondering at the look of
trepidation on the child's face.

Looking into the glass rooms of the tower as they led off the
staircase, Forral saw the practical purpose behind the building's
exuberant design. The chambers were filled with benches, on which
stood trays of earth planted with young seedlings that basked in
the warmth of the afternoon sunlight trapped by the crystal walls.
A fine spray, seemingly appearing from nowhere, filled the air
with moisture, and Forral's skin prickled with the thick buildup
of magic. He was positive that the plants were actually growing
before his eyes! When he finally found the Mage in one of the
upper rooms, she was too preoccupied to notice him.

"Go away, Aurian," Eilin muttered, without looking up. "I've told
you not to bother me when I'm working."

Eilin had aged, the swordsman thought. It surprised him. Magefolk,


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like Mortals, could be killed by illness or accident, but
otherwise they lived as long as they wanted, dying only
when they chose to leave the world and preserving their physical
forms at whatever age they wished. Forral remembered Eilin as a
vibrant young woman, but now her dark hair was streaked with gray
and her forehead was furrowed. Deep, bitter lines tugged at the
corners of her mouth, and she looked pale and pitifully thin in
her patched and faded robes.

"Eilin, it's me—Forral," he called, stifling his dismay. He
stepped forward, holding out his arms to hug her—and recoiled as
her face twisted with rage at the sight of him.

"Get out!" Eilin snapped. She bore down on the child, and hit her
across the face. "How dare you bring him here!"

Aurian dodged behind Forral. "It wasn't my fault," she wailed.

Forral, anger boiling inside him, turned to put an arm around her.
"Are you all right?"

Aurian nodded, biting her lip, her pale face branded with an ugly
red mark. Forral saw tears in her eyes, and gave her a quick hug.
"Go downstairs and wait for me by the bridge," he told her softly.

When the child had gone, the swordsman turned back to Eilin. "That
wasn't very fair," he said coldly.

"There's no such thing as fair, Forral—I found that out when
Geraint died. The wretched child should have told you that I never
see anyone!"

"She did. And I ignored it. Do you want to hit me now?" He was
fighting hard to keep his anger in check.

Eilin turned away, avoiding his eyes. "I want you to go away. Why
did you come here?"

"I came as soon as I could, when I heard what had happened to
Geraint. I wish it had been sooner. It might have saved you from


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turning into a bitter old woman."

"How dare you!" she cried.

"It's the plain truth, Eilin. But I came to offer you my service
for Geraint's sake, and that still stands."

Eilin stalked away to the far side of the room, her movements
jerky with anger. "Curse you, Mortal! Fickle and faithless, like
all your kind. What use is your service now? Where were you and
your service eight years ago, when I needed you? You were
Geraint's friend—he listened to you. With your help I might have
dissuaded him from his insanity. But no—you had an itch to
wander—to see the world. Well, I hope the experience was enough to
recompense you for the death of a friend. Your service comes far
too late, Forral. Get out of here, and don't come back!"

Hardened warrior though he was, Forral flinched from Eilin's
bitter words. His grief at Geraint's death was still raw, and her
accusations contained just enough truth to hurt. Perhaps it would
be as well if he did go ... Then Forral remembered the child.

"No." He squared his shoulders. "I'm not leaving, Eilin. It's
obviously been bad for you to be alone like this, and the child
needs someone to care for her. You might as well get used to the
fact that I'm staying, because there's nothing you can do about
it."

"Oh, can't I?" She whirled, and Forral saw too late that she held
her staff in her hand. The floor seemed to drop away beneath him,
and a loud roaring filled his ears. His vision exploded in a burst
of colored lights and he gasped with pain as a brief wrenching
sensation tore through his body. Then the ground came up to hit
him, hard.

Forral opened his eyes gingerly. He was lying on a smooth carpet
of turf—on the other side of the bridge. He stared across the calm
waters at the island with its tower and gave himself up to some
serious swearing. The child came running across the bridge, her
bare feet echoing on the planks. She skidded to a halt beside him.


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"She threw you out, then.'-^iShe didn't sound in the least
surprised, but he read anxiety in her face. He sat up and groaned.

"What the bloody blazes was that?"

"An apport spell." Aurian sounded proud of knowing the right word.
"She's good at those—it's how she moved all the soil into the
Valley. She's had a lot of practice."

"An apport spell, eh?" Forral frowned, running his fingers
distractedly through his curling brown hair. "Aurian, how far
could she move me with that spell?"

The child shrugged. "About as far as she did, I think. You're
heavier than the loads she usually moves. Why?"

"I want to be sure she can't hurl me right out of this valley.
It's an unpleasant way to travel!"

"I think she expects you to ride the rest of the way," Aurian said
seriously, and Forral burst out laughing.

"I just bet she does! Well, she's in for a surprise. Aurian, how
would you like to help me set up camp?"

The child's face lit up with incredulous delight. "You mean you're
staying?"

"It'll take more than a few wizardly shenanigans to chase me off,
lass. Of course I'm staying!"

Aurian had the happiest afternoon of her life. She and Forral set
up his camp in a copse of sturdy young beeches that grew to the
left of the bridge. She worried about his choice of spot, knowing
he'd be safer out of her mother's sight, but Forral simply
laughed. "This is exactly what I want, youngster. Whenever Eilin
looks out of her windows she's going to see me —right here. I
intend to be a thorn in your mother's side until she gives up this
nonsense."


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The camp looked good, Aurian thought. She wished she could live
here. Forral had slung a rope between two sturdy trees and untied
a rolled sheet of oiled canvas from behind his saddle. He hung
this over the rope so that both sides reached the ground, then
pulled the two sides apart and weighted them with stones to form a
rough tent.

"But the wind will blow through," Aurian objected.

Forral shrugged. "I've put up with worse." He was cross, though,
when she told him that he couldn't burn any of the wood in the
Valley. Her mother had set. spells to protect it, and brought in
fuel for the tower from outside. Aurian had a terrible time
convincing him of the danger, but to her relief he finally gave
in, though with ill grace. "I can live without a fire for now, but
Eilin had better hurry up and come to her senses before winter,"
he growled.

When her mother called her in at dusk there was trouble, of
course. Eilin, gazing tight-lipped out the window at Forral's
camp, forbade Aurian to speak to him, or go anywhere near him. But
the swordsman's cheerful defiance had filled Aurian with newfound
courage.

> "I will talk to him, and you can't stop me!" she blurted out.
Eilin stared at her in amazement, her face darkening with anger.
Aurian's rebellion earned her a thrashing, but it only

I

increased her determination. When it was over she turned on her
mother. "I hate you!" she sobbed, "and you won't stop me from
being friends with Forral no matter what you do to me!"

Eilin's eyes blazed. "Don't count on it. He won't be here for
long."

"He will! He promised!"



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"We'll see about that," Eilin said grimly.

Early next morning, Aurian let herself out of the tower and crept
across the bridge. She had bread tied up in a cloth for Forral's
breakfast, and cheese from her mother's goats that grazed the lake
shore. When she reached the copse, she stopped dead. The
swordsman's camp had vanished beneath a dense cluster of bristling
vines that had sprung up overnight. Her mother's work, of course.

"Forral," Aurian called frantically, tugging at the unyielding
creepers, "Forral!"

After a moment, there came a rustling from within the thicket,
followed by copious swearing. It took the swordsman the better
part of a morning to hack his way out. When he finally emerged,
green and grimy, the vines began to collapse in on themselves, and
within minutes they had withered away to dust.

Forral looked at Aurian. "This is going to be tougher than I
thought," he said.

The following morning the vines were back. Aurian stole Forral an
axe from her mother's storeroom. The next day it was a blackberry
thicket with long sharp thorns. Forral suggested that Aurian
gather the berries before they vanished, and when he had hacked
himself free, they had them for breakfast. It began to turn into a
game between them, and Aurian's loneliness vanished in her new
friend's company. In those few days she found herself laughing and
smiling more than she had done in her life. She introduced him to
her animal friends. Shy birds, elusive deer, or fierce wildcats
from the forest—they all flocked happily to Aurian and she reached
out to them with her mind, relaying their simple emotions to
Forral. She was disappointed that he couldn't communicate with
them himself, though. She thought everybody could do that.

The swordsman could do many other things, however. He was a genius
at inventing games, and had a fund of stories
about his life as a soldier, or about princesses and dragons and
heroes. Forral was Aurian's hero, and she adored him. She never
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trouble, but to her relief, the Mage had decided to ignore the
swordsman's presence and Aurian was no longer forbidden to see
him. Instead, Eilin found many long and onerous tasks in the
garden to occupy her daughter's time, but they went twice as fast
with Forral helping. Aurian knew better than to broach the subject
with her mother, and contented herself with stealing food for him
whenever Eilin's back was turned.

The Mage, however, had not given up. On the fourth day, Forral's
shelter was surrounded by a forest of stinging nettles. Forral
looked very grim when he emerged, and Aurian, handing him dock
leaves for his stings, was afraid he would decide to leave after
all. But as he rubbed the soothing leaves over his blotched hands
and face, the swordsman glared at the tower. "We'll see who gives
up first," he muttered through clenched teeth. "She's bound to run
out of ideas sooner or later."

As autumn gave way to the first frosts of winter, matters
continued in a similar vein. Eilin's specialty was Earth-magic,
and she tried to dislodge her unwelcome guest with all the powers
at her command. One night the level of the lake rose mysteriously,
and Forral's camp was flooded. One afternoon he and Aurian
returned from a walk to find the goats eating his blankets and
gear. Eilin even tried to set the birds that roosted in the grove
to attack him, but Aurian scolded them firmly and soon put a stop
to that. She had jess success with the ants, however. The day they
struck, it took hours to get them out of Forral's clothes and
bedding.

One gray, chilly morning, Aurian went out with Portal's stolen
breakfast and a flask of her mother's blackberry wine to help him
keep out the cold. As she reached the other side of the bridge, an
anguished yell came from the camp. When Aurian arrived, panting,
there was no sign of the swordsman. Trembling, she peered into his
shelter.

Forral was sitting bolt upright, paralyzed with terror and covered
in hundreds of writhing snakes which were so thickly intertwined
that it was impossible to tell where one began and another ended.
Aurian, wondering where her mother had found them all, felt sorry


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ipr-.fhe poor things. It was too cold for them

12 • MAGGIE FURZY

to be out and about, and not surprising that they clustered around
the one source of heat—Forral's body. But the swordsman was her
friend, and he needed her help. Aurian sighed and reached out with
her mind to the serpents. "Shoo," she said firmly, speaking aloud
for Forral's benefit. One by one and with great reluctance, the
snakes disentangled themselves and slithered out of the tent.

Forral's face was absolutely white, and his hand trembled as he
mopped his brow. She handed him the flask of wine and he drained
it without pausing for breath. Aurian, in the meantime, was busy
with her own angry thoughts.

"That does it!" she said suddenly, making Forral look up in
surprise. "How dare she! All those poor snakes!"

"Poor snakes?" the swordsman replied in a strangled voice.

"They'll din," she replied impatiently. "It's far too cold for
them. I don't know what she's thinking of!"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Poor snakes?"

Aurian peeped out of the shelter, where the snakes waited,
sluggish with cold and obviously hoping to be readmitted. "They
can't stay outside," she informed Forral.

"I hope you weren't proposing to move them back in here," he
replied weakly.

Aurian frowned, thinking hard. Then all at once, a wonderful idea
struck her. "I know!" Reaching out with her mind, she addressed
the snakes.

Forral joined her as she watched the last of the serpents making
its way across the wooden bridge. "Where are they going?"



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Aurian turned to him with a broad grin. "Where is the warmest
place you can think of around here?"

A slow smile spread itself across Forral's face as he perceived
her plan. "You dreadful child!" He roared with laughter and swept
her off her feet in a great bear hug.

They were halfway through breakfast when Eilin discovered the
snakes in her plant rooms. A shriek of outrage resounded across
the lake.

Aurian turned to Forral. "It looks as if I'm in trouble again,"
she said, grinning, "but it was worth it. At least Mother will
have to send the poor things back where they came from."

But Eilin had only to wait to regain her advantage against

Forral. A few days later Aurian awakened, shivering, in her little
room that led off the kitchen. She couldn't see out the window for
the thick blooms of frost that covered the inside of the glass.
"Forral!" she gasped. Snatching the blankets from her bed she shot
out of the room, not even waiting to put on her only pair of
shoes. Outside, the world was sparkling white and the air so cold
it took her breath away. Aurian ran.

It took her a long time to wake him. When Forral finally opened
his eyes, his teeth chattered, and his lips were blue. Aurian
helped him to sit up and draped her blankets around him, rubbing
his hands and feet. Then cupping her palms, she concentrated to
make a fireball.

"I told you not to do that!" he croaked angrily.

Aurian was stricken by the harshness of Forral's voice. The blue
flame died between her fingers, and tears sprang into her eyes. "I
only wanted to help," she quavered.

Forral put his arm around her shoulders. "I know, love. I'm sorry.
I'm worried, that's all. If your mother doesn't change her mind ,
. . Well, I can't survive a winter without hot food and a fire,


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just living on bread and honey and cheese. You can see that, can't
you? I might be forced to leave."

Aurian couldn't bear it. She flung herself into his arms, sobbing.
"Take me with you!"

Forral sighed, "I can't, lass. You belong with your mother, and
there are laws against stealing children. You don't want me to end
up in prison, do you?"

"Then I'll run away! I won't" sta/ here without you!"

The swordsman's arms tightened around her. "Don't do that!" he
said hastily, "Anything could happen to you. We'll give it a few
more days, shall we? Maybe things will change,"

Over the next few days the frosts were less severe, to Aurian's
relief. She left all her blankets with Forral, telling him that
she had others of her own and easing her conscience over the
barefaced lie by assuring herself that it was for his own benefit.
Shivering in her bed each night was a small sacrifice, if only
Forral would stay. Apart from nagging at her mother, which only
incurred Eilin's wrath, there was nothing more she could do. As
winter deepened, Aurian began to despair.

Then one night the snow came. When Aurian looked out above the
window at iuppertime the landscape had already been

obscured by the blizzard. She couldn't eat her stew, knowing that
Forral was out there, freezing, with no hot supper to warm him.
Once more she begged and pleaded with Eilin to relent, almost
hysterical with fear for Forral. Eventually her exasperated mother
locked her in her room. Aurian pounded on the door until her fists
bled and yelled herself hoarse. At last, exhausted, she threw
herself on the bed and cried herself to sleep.

It was still night when she awakened. Her throat was sore and her
eyes felt gritty, but the blood on her hands had dried. How long
had she slept? Aurian leaned on the windowsill and peered out. The
blizzard had worsened, and she could see nothing but driving snow.


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She gulped back a sob. Forral would die out there, and she would
be left here with her cruel mother who had killed him. It was more
than she could bear. She wished that she were dead, too. At least
she'd be with Forral. The idea frightened her, but the more she
thought about it, the more it made sense. Her mother wouldn't miss
her. Aurian made her decision. She would go and find Forral, and
they could die together.

The window catch was frozen shut. Aurian hammered at it with her
shoe, muttering Forral's favorite curses, but it refused to budge.
Then it occurred to her that if she was going to die, she wouldn't
need the room again. Picking up a stool, she drove it through the
window with a satisfying crash. Wind and snow came howling into
the room, and a piece of flying glass cut her forehead. Wiping
blood out of her eyes and praying that the storm had masked the
noise-|rom her mother, she laid her pillow over the jagged shards
of glass in the bottom of the frame and climbed out.

The snow was drifted deep below the window, and Aurian sank in
almost over her head, gasping. The cold was intense. When she
floundered out of the drift the wind hit her, flaying her face
with flying snow. But it wasn't so deep here, and she could
struggle forward with difficulty on feet that were already numb.
She struck out toward the bridge, slipping and falling and picking
herself up, bending into the gale that wiped out her footprints
behind her.

Aurian stopped, uncertain. Where was the copse? She should have
reached it ages ago. She was sure she had been going in the right
direction, but the swirling snow made it

is

impossible to see. I'm tired from crossing the bridge, she
thought. That's why it's taking so long. The memory made her
shudder. She'd been forced to slide across the slender, slippery
span inch by inch, clinging to the frozen rail with numb fingers,
terrified that the wind would blow her into the lake. Now she
could hardly keep her frozen body moving, and she couldn't feel
her hands and feet. Aurian was suddenly very frightened. She


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wasn't sure that she wanted to die after all, but she did want
very much to reach Forral. A tear froze on her face. "Don't be
stupid," she scolded herself. "The sooner you get going, the
quicker you'll find him." Bracing herself, she set off into the
darkness once more.

It was so cold that Forral had stopped shivering. It was a bad
sign. His shelter had blown down in the storm, but he had managed
to snatch the tarpaulin just before it blew away. He huddled in
the lee of a tree with the canvas wrapped round him, toying with
the idea of breaking into the tower. But it was useless, he knew.
Eilin would only throw him out again. If she hadn't let him in by
now, he had to face the fact that it was hopeless.

"Forral, you're a fool," he muttered. "What a senseless way to
die." He felt himself drifting into sleep, and knew that it would
finish him. He wished he could have said goodbye to the child. The
thought of Aurian nagged at him, keeping him from the sleep that
tugged so strongly. "Got to say goodbye to Aurian," he mumbled.
Hooking aryarm over a low branch, he struggled stiffly to his
feet. What was that? A faint, ghostly glimmer flickered through
the whirling snow. Someone was coming toward him, carrying a
lantern.

As the figure drew nearer, the swordsman recognized the slender
silhouette of Eilin, her hair soaked into whipping, snakelike
tendrils, her cloak blown back from her shoulders, her brown robe
flattened by the wind against her bony frame and whitened by a
dusting of snow. The glimmer that he'd mistaken for a lantern was
the bluish-white glow of a pale, cool ball of Magelight that
hovered over the head of her staff,

"Forral, she's gone. Aurian is gone!" Eilin tugged at his arm,
distraught. The swordsman stared at her. Somehow his brain
wouldn't focus*on her words.

Eilin cursed and fumbled beneath her cloak, bringing out a small
flask which she unstoppered and forced between his lips. The
liquor seared a trail of fire down Forral's throat, making him
gasp for breath. He had no idea what the stuff was, but it was


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effective. Within minutes he felt his limbs beginning to tingle
painfully as the feeling returned to them. His mind was clearing
rapidly.

"What did you say? Where's Aurian?"

"I told you! She's gone! I locked her in and she broke the window.
There's blood everywhere and she's out in the storm and—"

"This is your fault!" Forral slapped her out of her hysterics,
feeling grim satisfaction at her gasp of pain. With an effort he
checked the urge to throttle her. They had to find the child.
"Come on," he shouted, plunging ahead into the blizzard, leaving
Eilin floundering behind. Common sense told him that he would
never find Aurian in this blinding storm—that it was already too
late—but he cast the thought savagely away from him. It hurt too
much.

"Forral—wait!" Eilin cried, but the swordsman took no notice. Try
as she might, she could not keep up with him. Another instant, and
he had vanished without trace into the storm. The Mage cursed
savagely. "Oh, you fool!" she muttered. "You hotheaded, idiot
Mortal! Now both of you are lost."

For a moment Eilin stood, oblivious to the freezing gale and
paralyzed by guilt. Geraint would have been furious, to see how
she had put both his daughter and his friend at risk. Forral was
right to say it was all her fault. Had she only let him stay with
Aurian in the tower, this tragedy would never have happened.

Then she gathered her wits. She had already alerted those of
Aurian's animal friends who could endure this storm to search for
the child, but Forral could not understand them. If she were to
save the swordsman, she would need to find him a surer guide. Such
a guide could be summoned, she knew—but the risk was appalling!

Mortals had ceased long ago to believe in the Phaerie, Only the
Magefblk knew the truth behind the tales of a fey and ancient race
rhac wielded the powers of the Old Magic—for the



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ancient Magefolk, fearing their mischief and meddling, had exiled
them outside the world, imprisoning them in a mysterious Elsewhere
beyond the realms of Mortal ken. The Phaerie could not return into
the world unless summoned by a Mage— and such a summoning always
bore a price. But it was her only chance to save the swordsman and
her child . . . Gripping her staff with shaking fingers, Eilin
spoke the words that would summon the Lord of the Phaerie.

She never saw him appear. One minute, Eilin was peering blindly
through the spinning snowflakes—the next, a patch of the whirling
blizzard seemed to darken and congeal to form a towering shape,
its outline shadowy and indistinct, save for the eerie glitter of
eyes that caught and threw back the gleam of her Magelight with
the intense and changeful brilliance of two winter stars.

"Who summons the Lord of the Phaerie?" The voice, deep and
vibrant, cut like a blade of steel across the howling of the
storm.

Eilin braced herself hard against her staff, to prevent herself
from sinking to her quaking knees. "I . . ." The Earth-Mage
swallowed hard to clear a throat gone suddenly closed and dry, and
tried again. "I did," she said faintly.

"Who are you, that you should presume to call upon the Forest
Lord?" The voice was harsh with scorn, and Eilin was stung by
anger at such arrogance.

"I am Eilin, Earth-Mage, Lady af the Lake and Mistress of this
Vale," she snapped. "As well you know, my Lord, for I have sensed
you watching my labors often enough, I have need of your aid, and
there is little time to lose. Our Mortal companion, Forral, is
lost in the blizzard, seeking my daughter Aurian, and—"

"What!" cried the Forest Lord, his manner changing instantly.
"Your daughter is in peril? This cannot be! The future of the
Phaerie—and more—rests in the hands of that child! We have
foreseen it. It will be a black day, indeed, if harm befalls her."
His form trembled. "I will summon my people to help you at once."



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I

Forral staggered blindly through the snowdrifts, fighting cold and
exhaustion, feeling as though he were trapped in an endless
nightmare. The effects of Eilin's potion were wearing off, and his
aching limbs were stiff with cold. Each time he slipped and fell,
it seemed less likely that he would ever get up again. But lost as
he was, spent as he was, he refused to give in. "What sort of
feeble excuse for a warrior are you?" he goaded himself, to blot
out the fear that coiled within his breast, far colder than the
blizzard outside. "Aurian needs you! No, by the Gods—if this is
the bloody end, you'll die on your feet, still searching."

For a while he had left the woods, but now he was back into them,
staggering like a drunken man on strengthless legs. The going was
easier here—the trees broke the force of the wind, and Forral
could use their branches for support. And thank the Gods—that must
be Eilin, ahead of him. He could see the glimmer of her light,
dancing between the tree trunks. "Eilin!" he bawled, with all the
force that his laboring lungs could muster. Curse the woman—why
didn't she hear him? "Eilin!" But she did not stop, and Forral,
terrified of losing her, had no choice but to follow the eerie
glow.

Suddenly, the trees came to an end—and there, flickering fitfully
through a whirl of snow, were two lights, side by side. "Forral!"
He heard the Mage's voice. As the swordsman staggered toward her,
he slipped and fell once more. When he picked himself up out of
the snow, Eilin was bending over him —and the two lights had-
*omehow become one.

After a sip from Eilin's flask, Forral began to feel better.
"Thank goodness for that," he muttered. "I was seeing double there
for a minute! Have you found her?"

"No—but I know she's close by," replied Eilin. "Can you go on?"

Forral nodded. "Aurian," he cried desperately, trying to pitch his
voice over the keening storm. But it was not the wind that he
heard. Through the blizzard came the chilling howl of a wolf,


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eerie and triumphant. Forral stopped dead, transfixed with horror.
"No!" he whispered.

Eilin tugged at his arm, her face alight with joy. "They've found
her!" she shouted.

Forral flinched as huge gray shapes materialized in the

blinding white storm. Gods, was she truly insane? Did she really
hate the child that much? Sickened beyond measure, he raised his
fist to strike her down.

"Forral, no!" Eilin screamed. "These are Aurian's wolves— her
friends. I called them to search for her."

Stunned, Forral slowly lowered his arm. The wolf howled again.

"Hurry," Eilin said, as she rushed to where the wolves were
gathered.

Forral, keeping a wary eye on the gray forms that surrounded him,
lifted a limp little body out of the snow, feeling for a pulse
with chill fingers. "She's alive!" He could have wept with relief,
but that was for later. "We've got to hurry. Can you find your way
back?"

"I can always find my way home," the Mage retorted. She struggled
along at his side with her Magelight, followed by the dozen or so
lean and shaggy wolves that had been huddled round the child,
keeping her alive with the warmth of their bodies. Their eyes
never left Aurian's still form.

When Forral reached the tower the wolves followed him determinedly
inside. Keeping out of the way, they watched as he and Eilin
stripped off Aurian's wet clothes and laid her on. a makeshift bed
near the stove, wrapped in every quilt and blanket they could
find. As Eilin set water to boil, Forral sat with the child,
stroking the damp curls away from her bluish face with a trembling
hand. "Can't you do something?" he snapped.



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"I am!" Eilin banged the pan dosPn on the top of the stove, and
water hissed as it slopped over onto the hot surface. Covering her
face with her hands, the Mage burst into tears.

"It's a bit late for that now," Forral said brutally. "As soon as
she's well—if she gets well—I'm taking her out of here, and you
can do what you like about it."

"No!" Eilin lowered her hands to stare at him. "You cannot. I
forbid it. Aurian is my child!"

"And what does that signify, when you do nothing but neglect her?"
Forral snapped. "The child needs love, Eilin!"

"I do love her, you dolt!" cried the Mage.

The swordsman shook his head. "I don't believe you, Eilin —if you
do, you never show it."

Eilin was stung Jxy^his words. "And what would you know

I

I
about it?" she retorted, and said no more. She thought of the
conclusion of her meeting with the awesome Lord of the Phaerie,
who had agreed to find Forral and lead her to her child

—for a price. "Remember," he had said, "that this matter is not
resolved between us. We will meet again, Lady—and when we do, I
will claim my debt." What he might ask of her, Eilin shuddered to
think—but it would be worth it. Though she gave little credence to
the words of the Forest Lord—that Aurian would one day hold the
fate of the Phaerie in her hands

—she had been immeasurably grateful for his aid. The Phaerie had
saved her, in her folly, from causing Aurian's death—and for that,
no price would be too high. Believe what you like, Forral, she
thought, but there are many ways to love—and more ways than one of
showing it!


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Forral looked on as with shaking hands the Mage concocted a
stimulating tea from the dried herbs, berries, and blossoms that
hung in bunches in the kitchen. Once they had trickled some of the
brew down Aurian's throat, the child breathed more easily and her
color began to return. Forral let out a deep breath, only now
aware of his own soaked and frozen state. "We could use some of
that stuff," he suggested.

Eilin filled two mugs and sat down beside him, handing him his
steaming brew. At first she simply sat, still and abstracted,
watching her sleeping child. Then at last she spoke, "Forral, I
owe you an apology. I've been a blind fool."

"A complete ass," the swordsman agreed gently. He took her hand.
"It's been terribie for you, hasn't it?"

"You have no idea." She shook her head. "I warned him, you know—I
begged him not to do it. I'm an Earth-Mage—I knew it was folly.
But Geraint was always so stubborn—"

"Not an uncommon trait among the Mageborn, is it?" Forral pointed
out. She flinched.

"How dare you judge me, Mortal!" she flared, and he knew his words
had struck home. "Afterward," Eilin went on, "people sought
revenge. There were Mortals here, you know, before . . ." She
shuddered. "Aurian and I were in Nexis—she was only a baby—and we
barely escaped with our lives. I wanted to undo the damage Geraint
had done, to erase his memory. But as Aurian grew, she came to
resemble him—do you know, the poor child will even inherit that
hawk profile of

his when she's older? And her eyes change from green to gray when
she's angry, just as his did. I can't look at her without seeing
his face . . . Oh Gods, Forral, I hate him!"

"You hate him because he left you," Forral said softly. "You still
love him, Eilin."



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"If he had loved me, would he have left me alone like this?" Her
voice broke. "I miss him so much!"

"Then let yourself mourn him. It's high time."

Forral held her while she wept. "You know," he said at last,
"Geraint hasn't gone completely. He left part of himself right
here." He indicated the sleeping child.

"I'm aware of that!" Eilin snapped.

"And that's the problem, isn't it? Don't take it out on her,
Eilin. She's not responsible."

EiHn sighed. "When you came, you made me feel so guilty —that was
why I wanted rid of you. You, a mere Mortal, forcing me to realize
how much I had failed my own child! But how can I help it, when
..." She took a deep breath. "Forral, will you stay and look after
her? Aurian deserves more than I can give her. And she loves you."

"And I love her. Of course I'll stay. That was the idea from the
start, remember? It just took a long time to get it into that
stubborn Mage head of yours. But that doesn't absolve you of
responsibility, Eilin, You're still her mother, and I'll expect
you to make an effort."

Eilin nodded. "I'll try, I proraise^Thank you, Forral." She leapt
to her feet. "Perhaps I should make some broth, for when she
wakes. She had no supper . . ."

Forral gave her an encouraging smile. "See how easy it is to care,
Eilin, when you try?"

Aurian thought she must still be dreaming. There had been a
terrible nightmare about being lost in the snow, and now here were
her wolves and Forral—sitting in the kitchen with her mother. And
Eilin never smiled at her like that.

"How are you feeling, love?" There were tears in the swordsman's
eyes.


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"Forral?" Her voice came out as a feeble croak.

"It's all right—rjn here. Drink some of this," Putting his

I

arm around her, he propped her while he held a cup of warm broth
to her lips. "Better?" he asked.

"Everything hurts. And I'm cold."

"I'm not surprised. Running off into the snow like that. You daft
child!" His voice was gruff.

"I'm sorry." Aurian glanced nervously at her mother. "But it was
an emergency."

"Now where have I heard that excuse before?" Forral grinned.
"Well, I have news for you, young lady. I'm going to be looking
after you from now on, so you'd better start behaving yourself."

Aurian's eyes widened slowly. She looked at her mother. "Is it
true?" she whispered.

Eilin nodded. "I asked Forral to stay. He can take better care of
you than I have ever done."

"Oh, thank you!" Beaming, Aurian reached up to hug her mother.
Eilin froze, looking startled, then returned her daughter's
embrace.

Forral smiled.

CKapter             2

THE     SWORDSWOMAN

orral had never guessed that taking care of a child would prove to
be such hard work. He moved into the storeroom that led off the


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kitchen, and two or three happy days passed while Aurian helped
him clear a living space amidst tools, seeds, sacks of grain and
garden produce, round white cheeses, wrinkled apples, pots of
honey, and bottled fruit that Eilin had laid aside for winter. The
resulting accommodation was cramped and spartan, but it was enough
for a soldier's needs, and Forral had no objection to the mixed
aromas of good food in his bedroom. The swordsman also took the
time to board up Aurian's broken window until it could be repaired
properly. When she complained that it made the room too dark he
looked at her sternly. "It's your own fault. You broke it,
remember?" Aurian's jaw dropped.

After that the battles of will occurred almost daily. Aurian had
been allowed to run wild all her life, and though it wrenched
Forral's heart to be firm with her, he knew it had to be done, for
her own good. They fell out first over the matter of baths. Aurian
refused point-blank, protesting that she bathed in the lake in
summer. Wasn't that enough? Forral handed her the soap and towel.
"Very well," he said. "Go and bathe in the lake, then."

Aurian stared out of the windo"w, stfide-eyed with disbelief.
Thick snow covered the ground and the deep, dark waters were
rimmed with a broad band of ice. "But—" she protested.

"Go on, get moving. You're smelling the place up," he added
callously.

Aurian's lip trembled, then the Magefolk stubbornness took over.
She set her jaw and scowled. "Right!" she snapped and stamped out,
slamming the door behind her.

The obstinate little wretch had called his bluff! Forral,
horrified, ran after her. The lake was deep around the island, and
in weather this cold, he placed no trust in the old tale that it
was impossible to drown a Mage. He reached the bottom of the
garden just in time to see Aurian jump into the freezing
water.      --*—-%

24 •



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With a curse, the swordsman leapt forward and grabbed a handful of
her hair before she could flounder away from the bank. When he
fished her out, she was already blue. He wrapped her in his cloak
and carried her inside, dumping her straight into the steaming tub
that he had placed in front of the stove. "There," he said, as her
shivering subsided in the hot water. "Isn't that better than the
lake?" Aurian glared at him. "If you don't like it, I can always
take you back out there," he suggested.

After a moment the child dropped her eyes. "Perhaps it's not so
bad after all," she said.

Forral smiled, and produced a little wooden boat rhar he had made
for her to play with.

Fortunately, once she got used to the idea, Aurian became so
addicted to hot baths that his chief problem lay in getting her
out of them. Persuading her to comb her hair was less easy,
however. Her long, thick, glowing red curls were snarled with
years' worth of tangles. The first time, it took Forral a terrible
hour to get the mess sorted out while he held the struggling,
shrieking child down. At last he threw down the comb, filled with
guilt. Gods, I'd rather fight a dozen warriors, he thought, taking
the sobbing little girl into his arms.

"You hurt me!" she accused him,

"I'm sorry, love. I know I did. But that was only because it had
been left for so long. When you do it every day—"

"I'd rather die!" Aurian shouted.

"What a pity." Forral sighed. "You look so beautiful now,"
Aurian's head came up sharply. "Me? Beautiful? Like the princess
in your story?"

Forral looked into her face. The childish roundness had been
leaving Aurian's face in the past few months—Eilin had been right.
She would have her father's hawkish looks, angular and high-
cheekboned, with the same fierce aquiline nose. "You're the most


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beautiful girl I've ever seen," he told her sincerely. "It would
be a shame if a handsome prince came by and didn't like you
because you hadn't combed your hair."

"I don't want a stupid prince," Aurian declared firmly. "I'm going
to marry you."

The swordsman froze. This was a complication that he

hadn't considered. "Don't you think I'm a bit old for you?" he
said lamely.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty."

"That's not old." Aurian shrugged. "You said my father was ninety-
six when he married my mother."

Forral was lost for a reply. She was too young to understand the
fundamental difference between Mortal and Magefolk.

"Don't you want to marry me?" Aurian looked hurt. "You just said I
was beautiful."

"You are," he reassured her, "and I would love to marry you. But
you're not old enough yet. We'll talk about it again when you grow
up."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Hating himself, he added, "But only if you comb your
hair. I can't marry someone who looks like a hedge."

Aurian sighed, "Oh, all right, then."

To Portal's relief, Eilin taught her daughter to braid the unruly
mane. That solved the problem of most of the tangles, and Aurian
began to take a delight in looking after her hair, although the
speculative looks she cast his way as she did so gave the


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swordsman some cause for alarm. He knew how stubborn she could be,
once she got an idea into her head.

When Forral had been about Aurian's age, Geraint had taught him to
read. It was only now. thap he appreciated how he must have tried
the Mage's patience. FJiUn unearthed Geraint's old library, and
Forral tried to select the books that would appeal to a child.
They were old histories mostly, filled with tales of adventure and
bravado, and they proved to be the same ones with which Forral had
been taught. The wound of the swordsman's grief opened anew as he
recalled his old friend's face, bent over the page as Geraint
struggled patiently to explain the mystery to the baffled youth
that had been himself.

Aurian hated it. Not used to sitting still and concentrating, she
considered the whole business a waste of time. She took to hiding
at lesson times, and Forral came to bless his skill as a tracker.
He would haul her back, Aurian protesting bitterly all the way,
and she fought^him so vehemently that Forral became

I

I

26 • MAGGIF. FUREY

concerned that their relationship would be irrevocably damaged.

In the end the swordsman resorted to subterfuge, pretending to
give in. "All right," he told her with a shrug. "If it's too
difficult for you we won't bother." Aurian scowled at him
suspiciously. She knew by now that Forral always got his way in
the end. Pretending to ignore her, he brewed some tea made by
Eilin from rosehips, a perfect antidote to this wintry weather.
Stirring a dollop of honey into his cup, he sat back with his feet
propped on the stove, opened the book of legends and began to
read.

After a while, Aurian began to drift around the room, looking for
something to do. The weather was much too bad to go out. Another


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blizzard was howling outside, and the wind rattled the frames of
the thick crystal casement, Forral watched the child out of the
corner of his eye. Eventually she approached him. "Can't we play
something?"

"Not now," Forral said absently. "I'm busy."

Aurian's face fell. She hung around for a while, scuffling her
feet. "Forral, I'm bored," she whined.

"I'm not," he replied smugly. "This story is much too exciting."

Aurian stamped her foot. "I don't believe you!" she shouted.
"You're only saying that to make me read the stupid thing!"

Forral winced. The child was too bloody quick for her own good.
Thinking quickly,, he assumed an injured expression. "Would I lie?
If you don't believe me I'll read it to you." Looking relieved,
Aurian sat down at his feet.

It really was an exciting story. Forral had chosen it for that
very reason. He glanced down at the child's rapt expression. When
they reached the climax of the tale, where the brave young heroine
was trapped on a mountain by savage goblins and trolls, he put the
book down and yawned.

"Don't stop," Aurian urged him anxiously, biting her lip. "What
happens next?"

Forral shrugged. "I can't be bothered to read anymore. I think
I'll go for a nap." Leaving the book on the chair, he went to his
room, closing the door firmly on the child's outraged protests.


The swordsman returned an hour later to find Aurian poring over
the book, tears of frustration in her eyes. "It doesn't make
sense," she wailed. "It's just little black marks, and I'll never
find out what happened!"

Forral put his arm around her. "That's just what I said to your


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father when he taught me with this book."

Aurian's eyes widened. "You did? What did he say?"

"Tough," replied Forral, grinning at the stunned expression on her
face. "He said that if I wanted to find out what happened, I would
have to work hard and let him teach me."

Aurian's face grew stormy. "You tricked me! You rotten, sneaky
beast\" She threw the book against the wall and ran off to her
room, slamming the door.

She sulked for two days, refusing to speak to him, Eilin raised
her eyebrows at the change, but forbore to comment. Forral missed
Aurian's cheerful company more than he would ever have thought
possible, and began to blame himself for pushing the child too
far. In the end he could bear her angry silence no longer. "I'm
sorry," he told her, "You're absolutely right. I was rotten ant)
sneaky, and I apologize. I'll read the rest of the story if you
want."

Aurian threw her arms around him, her fece alight with her smile.
"I love you, Forral."

Forral felt his throat tighten. "I love you, too," he said
huskily. "Why don't you go and fetch the book?"

She drew back and looked at him thoughtfully. "You really do want
me to learn to read, donk ygu?"

He nodded. "It means a lot to me, Aurian, You can't imagine how
important it is."

Aurian sighed, looking like a prisoner about to be dragged to the
scaffold. "I suppose we'd better get started, then."

It took the child a long time to grasp the rudiments of reading.
Forral suspected that much of the feult lay with him, for Aurian
was intelligent enough, and he knew that he lacked skill as a
teacher. All he could do was substitute patience for skill and


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keep their lessons short, stopping before Aurian became too tired
or despondent. Then he would read to her, hoping that she would be
encouraged to want to read the stories for herself. Eventually it
worked. By the end of the long winter, Aurian was reading
everything she could lay her hands on, and

Eilin had to make sure that Geraint's spellbooks were well hidden.

Forral taught Aurian many other things that winter. He told her of
Nexis, queen of cities, which lay to the southwest and contained
the Academy of the Magefolk, where all magical lore was studied
under the rule of the Archmage Miathan. He told her of the Nexis
Garrison that housed the city's crack fighting force, and was the
greatest military school in the land. Aurian learned what lay
beyond her Valley—the nearby northern hills, where men lived
mainly by forestry, and farming cattle and sheep; the east coast,
famed for fishing; the countryside south and west, where clay for
pots was dug, and people grew grain, flax, and grapes for wine
that was marketed by the powerful Merchants' Guild of Nexis, who
coordinated trade between farmers and fishers, and the craftsmen
of villages and towns.

They spent hours by the fire, as Aurian listened, enthralled, to
Forral's stories of mercenary life in the secretive Southern
Kingdoms across the sea, with their fierce, swarthy-skinned
warriors. She would sit at his feet, wide-eyed and entranced, as
he spoke of ships and storms, and the mighty whales who were lords
of the deep. He told her bloodcurdling tales of ancient legend,
about the lost Dragonfolk—powerful Mages in their own right whose
eyes flashed killing fire—or of the fearsome race of winged
warriors who were said to inhabit the southern mountains. Though
the swordsman was no scholar, he taught her what little history he
knew, including the names and natures of the Gods themselves. The
Goddesses: Iriana of the Beasts, Thara of the Fields, and
Melisanda of the Healing Hands. And the Gods: Chathak, God of
Fire, the special deity of warriors; Yinze of the Sky; and lonor
the Wise, the God of Oceans who was called the Reaper of Souls in
the pantheon of the Southern Kingdoms. Aurian marveled, and
learned.



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Spring that year came in a single, glorious burst that quickly
erased the last traces of the terrible winter. Trees leapt into
leaf and blossom, and flowers suddenly appeared everywhere. Once
again the woods around the lake became alive with birdsong. Aurian
and Forral took to spending much of their time outdoors in the
sunshine, searching for early greens to
supplement their limited winter diet, and helping Eilin with her
work of planting and extending the fertile land beyond the lake.

Now that the woods were burgeoning with life, Forral began to
think of hunting. They had eaten little meat over the
winter—mostly the tough, salted meat of the male kids borne by
Eilin's goats the previous year. Though the Mage had tried to
disguise the strong flavor in well-seasoned soups and stews,
Forral was frankly sick of the stuff. Some rabbit might go down
well, he thought, or perhaps a bird—anything but bloody goat\
During his mercenary career, the swordsman had learned some skill
with bow and snare, and somewhat hesitantly, he broached the
subject to Eilin. Since the Earth-Mage lived at one with the land
and its creatures, he half expected an angry denial. He also
feared that Aurian might be upset, if one of her animal friends
appeared on the supper table. This being the case, Forral was
staggered by the Mage's reply to his diffident question.

"By all means, Forral. If you want to hunt, Aurian will show you
how we do it in the Valley."

On a golden evening, Aurian led Forral through the birch grove and
the deeper mixed woodland beyond, until they came to a wild grassy
area dotted with clusters of gorse and bramble. The spaces between
their roots were laced with a multitude of runs and holes. "This
is where the rabbits mostly live," Aurian told him softly.
"They'll soon be coming out to feed."

Forral nodded, wondering what she planned to do. Aurian had
forbidden him to bring his bow/and had dismissed his snares as
cruel.

"Stay quiet," the child whispered. She stepped out from the trees,
wrapping a thick piece of cloth around her wrist. Lifting her arm,


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she shrilled a piercing whistle. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then far above, a tiny dot appeared in the vault of the sky. The
speck plummeted—grew—took shape. Forral heard the rushing whisper
of wind through feathers and a harsh cry. A winged form swooped to
Aurian's wrist and clung there, extending its short, streamlined
wings for balance as it rubbed its proud head and cruel, curved
beak caressingly along her face.

Aurian glowed with delight. "This is Swiftwing," she said,
introducing the bird. ^Af least, I call him that." The falcon
gave Forral a scornful sideways glance with its great dark eye,
hissed at him through open beak, and returned to nibbling at her
hair. For a moment the child lingered, eye to eye in soundless
communion with the fierce bird of prey; then with a swift, upward
jerk of her arm, she launched him into the sky, where he climbed
in spirals to hover, fluttering, above them. Aurian drew the
bemused swordsman into the shelter of the trees. "Now we wait,"
she murmured.

After a time, the rabbits began to emerge from the bushes to feed,
venturing timidly forth with their gentle, rocking gait. Forral
felt Aurian's hand clutch his arm. "Now," she breathed. Above
them, the falcon folded his wings and dropped like a stone. It
seemed that it would smash into the—

The hawk's wings flashed open at the last second. He leveled out a
bare inch from the ground, hitting the rabbit in a cloud of flying
fur and bowling it over and over. Skimming over the grass at
fingertip height, the hawk circled back to the limp brown form
that lay motionless and stunned. Talons extended, he settled on
the creature and finished it with one swift blow from his beak.

Forral blinked, and remembered to breathe. The whole episode had
happened almost too quickly for his brain to register. He followed
Aurian as she ran out to the hawk.

"Well done," she told the bird. "Oh, very well done!" Swiftwing
hopped off the rabbit, and settled into the grass to wait. Aurian
sighed as she picked up the dead creature. "Poor little thing,"
she murmured, briefly stroking its fur before she stowed it in her


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bag.

"Doesn't it bother you, this killing?" the swordsman asked her
curiously.

"Of course." She turned to him, her expression serious and somehow
more adult than he had seen it before. "It's very sad, Forral, but
it happens. Swiftwing needs to eat, and so do his mate and babies.
Rabbits are rather big for him—that's why he often stuns them
first—but he eats them, and so do we. We only take what we need,
and he kills quick and clean, not like snares." She smiled
dreamily at the falcon. "And he's so beautiful up there . . ." For
a moment she was lost for words, but Forral understood, for the
swift, fearless flight of the hawk had touched his own heart. "He
makes me feel as though I'm up

there, flying with him," Aurian finished softly—then shook
herself, and whistled Swiftwing back to her wrist, all business
once more. "We'll need to beat the bushes to bring the rabbits out
again—they're scared now," she said. "If you thought that was
good, wait till you see him with a moving target! How many rabbits
did you say you wanted, anyway?"

Forral shook his head in amazement. Aurian never failed to
astonish him—and this time, he had learned something from her.

The warm days passed, and soon the time came for the Mage to
travel round the villages and farms that lay close to the Valley.
Each spring, the Mortals in the nearby countryside welcomed her
help as she used her Earth-magic to "bless" their crops and herds,
ensuring a good harvest. In return, they supplied her with grain,
tools, cloth, and other items that she could not grow or
manufacture for herself. This time, she particularly wanted a new
glass for Aurian's window, and some poultry, for her own had all
perished in the savage winter storms. The swordsman was horrified
to learn that Aurian stayed alone in the Valley while Eilin was
away. He was dismayed by this new evidence of the Mage's neglect;
however, both she and Aurian seemed quite happy with the
arrangement.



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"I don't want to go," the child insisted, "I'd miss Swift-wing and
the animals. I'm all right here."

"Of course she is," Eilin agreed. "She has the wolves to guard
her, and if anything should go wrong, Swiftwing or one of the
other birds would soon bring me a message."

Forral sighed, and gave it up. What a foolish, stubborn,
independent pair they were. Typical Magefolk! He consoled himself
that this year, at least, someone responsible would be around to
keep an eye on the child.

After Eilin had set out on her own horse, a white mare that Forral
had never seen before since the Mage rarely had time for riding,
Forral found that there was enough work in the Valley to keep
himself and Aurian very busy. Sometimes they would go hunting with
Swiftwing. The goats needed milking and the fish traps that the
Mage kept on the borders of the lake had to be regularly cleared
and reset. Even worse, the weeds in the garden seemed to be-
naaking the most of the Mage's absence by
springing up overnight. Still awed by the magnitude of the task
that Eilin had undertaken, Forral felt duty bound to offer what
help he could. As well as laboring in the garden, he spent a good
deal of time around the tower, working to repair the worst of the
winter's ravages.

Aurian soon grew bored with it all. She would start out helping
Forral with the best of intentions, but after a while she
inevitably slipped away, supposedly to see her animals. But as
time went by, the swordsman noticed that the child was
disappearing more and more often, and began to wonder. When asked
how she had spent her days, her replies were vague and evasive.
Basically an honest child, she was a terrible liar. Inevitably,
Forral thought of the day they had met, when he had caught her
playing with fireballs in the glade.

The suspicion that she might be doing it again filled Forral with
deep concern. He already knew she had inherited Eilin's Earth-
magic. She could communicate with animals, and knew the trick of
making young plants thrive. That was no problem. Eilin could


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supervise her efforts, and there was little she could do with
Earth-magic to hurt herself. But Geraint's skill had been Fire-
magic, and the control of raw energy that it required made it the
most perilous of disciplines. The swordsman worried. Had the child
inherited that, too? Was she one of those rare Mages whose powers
encompassed all forms of magic? If so, she would be in grave
danger, without proper teaching as would all who came into contact
with her.

Forral thought about-ronfiding his suspicions to Eilin on her
return, but found himself hesitating. Obsessed with her grief for
Geraint, she would never be able to live with a child who had
inherited her soulmate's potentially destructive powers. Just when
the relationship between mother and daughter was improving, she
would reject Aurian, and that would be tragic. In any case, he had
no proof, and there was no point in upsetting matters until he
did. He would have to deal with this himself.

The next time Aurian slipped away, Forral followed her, using his
tracking skills to stay out of sight. He was afraid that her
friends the birds would give him away, but they were too busy
feeding their voracious new broods to think of anything else. Once
she was away from the tower Aurian called her pony,

and Forral, cursing, had to run back to catch his horse. Now
mostly idle, the beast had grown fat and frisky, and he had a hard
time restraining its exuberance. When he picked up her trail
again, the swordsman saw that Aurian had headed off toward the
forest beyond the crater's rim, using a roundabout route. He
frowned. She was definitely hiding something. Eventually her trail
led to the very clearing where they had first met. Forral, peering
through the screening undergrowth, gasped.

Aurian had to concentrate very hard. Six fireballs were the most
she had ever juggled at once, and she was finding it hard to keep
them all in the air and under control without burning herself. Her
face was damp with sweat, and she was tiring quickly. One of the
glowing colored balls of flame gave a sudden swerve, heading
straight for a tree, and she pulled it back under control with a
wrenching effort of will, almost singeing her hair in the process.


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That was quite enough. With great care she snuffed the bobbing
flames in midair and sat down on a fallen tree trunk, feeling
exhausted but pleased with herself.

Before her ears had time to register the crashing in the
undergrowth, Aurian found herself seized by the shoulders, hauled
upright, and spun round to stare into Forral's face. She gulped,
her own face burning with guilt. She had never seen the big man
look so angry.

"What were you doing?" he shouted at her. "Say it!" Aurian opened
her mouth, but nothing came out. He shook her hard enough to
rattle her teeth. "S*y it!" he roared.

"P-playing with fireballs." Aurian struggled to get the words out.

"And what did I tell you?"

"N-not to."

"Why?"

"Because it's very dangerous," Aurian replied in a small voice,
too scared even to cry, and shocked by this transformation from
kindly friend to wrathful grown-up.

"Well, you're about to find out how dangerous it is\" His face
grim, Forral sat down on the fallen trunk, put her across his
knee, and walloped her until she howled. The spanking was painful
enough, but what hurt Aurian more was the fact that she was being
punished by her beloved Forral. After what
seemed to her to be several lifetimes, he stopped. "You deserved
that," he said harshly, over her wails. "You knew perfectly well
that you were doing wrong, but you did it anyway. I thought I
could trust you, Aurian. I see that I can't." He dumped her on the
ground. Aurian buried her face in the leaf litter and sobbed her
heart out. When she looked up, he had gone.

Aurian was mortified. She couldn't believe that Forral had spanked
her. He never hit her! He was supposed to be her friend! Slowly it


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began to dawn on her that she must truly have done a bad thing.
But it was so much fun! "I won't stop doing it," she muttered
rebelliously. "I'll show him!" But the voice of her conscience
intervened. Forral never did anything without good reason, and he
had always turned out to be right. Then a new thought struck her.
What if he was so angry with her that he had gone away? Aurian
scrambled to her feet and called for her pony, suddenly desperate
to get back. "Oh, let him be there," she prayed. "I'll never do it
again, if only he's there."

She couldn't ride. It hurt too much. Aurian scrambled off the pony
and swore, then clamped a guilty hand over her mouth. Gritting her
teeth, she set off to walk, wiping away the occasional tear that
rolled down her cheek. Darkness fell as she trudged along. Aurian
knew that nothing would harm her within the crater's bowl, for the
wild creatures were her friends. Like all Magefolk, her night
vision was superb, and if she was careful there was no danger of
falling down one of the hidden folds in the land. There was no
chance of getting lost, either. All she had to do was head for the
twinkling light that burned like a beacon on top of the tower. But
apart from the time she had been lost in the snow, Aurian had
never been out alone at night in the vast, empty darkness of the
wasteland. She felt overwhelmed and lonely, and Forral didn't love
her anymore. . . . Aurian gulped back a sob, feeling desperately
sorry for herself. It wasn't until years later that Forral told
her he had never been far from her side, shadowing her until she
was safely within reach of home.

When she finally crept across the bridge toward the tower, to her
relief she saw a soft light glowing in the kitchen window. Forral
had come back to the tower! He hadn't left yet, then. All the
same, it took Aurian a long time to pluck up enough courage to
open the door. Forral sat at the table, his head in his

hands. He had not heard her enter—or maybe he was ignoring her.

Aurian crept closer. "Forral, I'm sorry," she said in a small
voice. The swordsman slowly raised his head and held out his arms.
Aurian, too relieved to speak, ran to him and climbed onto his
lap. He hugged her hard, then she was crying and to her surprise,


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he was crying, too. "Don't cry," she begged him, puzzled. "Nobody
spanked you," she added, with a touch of indignation.

Forral's mouth twitched in a smile. "Oh, child," he said. "Don't
you know how much it hurt me to punish you like that?"

For the first time, Forral told her exactly what had happened to
her father—how Geraint had been destroyed by his own Fire-magic.
By the time he had finished, Aurian was trembling. "I didn't
know," she gasped.

"I should have told you sooner," Forral said, "but I'd hoped to
spare you until you were older. Now do you see why I was angry? It
was because you frightened me, love. What if you accidentally did
the same thing? I'll do anything to stop you, even if it does mean
hurting you. I love you too much to lose you the way your father
was lost."

"But I can't help it," Aurian protested. "Really and truly I
can't! It's inside me, and if I have nothing to do, it just sort
of —pops out. What shall I do, Forral?" she wailed, truly
frightened now.

"Don't worry, love, we'll think q£ something," Forral comforted
her. He held her in silence for a while, his brow furrowed with
thought. Aurian found herself growing more and more tired, but was
reluctant to leave the comfort of his arms for her bed. "Forral,
will you tell me a story?" she asked sleepily. "Tell me the one
about the world's greatest swordsman. It's my favorite."

"That's it!" Forral shot bolt upright, almost spilling her from
his lap. "Aurian, how would you like to become the world's most
famous swordswoman?"

Aurian's face lit up with incredulous delight. "Could I?" she
asked, awed.

"I don't see why not. I'll teach you—but I warn you, it'll be very
hard work. You won't get to be the greatest swords-
woman by messing about. When I started to learn I was just about


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battered to bits, and I was so sore and tired at the end of every
day that I could hardly crawl into bed. If you want me to teach
you, you'll have to endure all that—and it'll be too late then to
change your mind. But at least you won't have a single spare
minute of the day to get yourself into trouble. What do you say?"

Aurian thought about it. It didn't sound like fun the way he
described it, but on the other hand she was sore and tired right
now—and she never wanted to go through another day like this one.
If it would keep her out of that kind of trouble, she was all for
it. The heroes from Forral's stories marched through her memory,
firing her imagination. "Yes," she cried, suddenly filled with
determination. "I'll do it!"

That was the beginning of Aurian's training. The very next day,
Forral made them two wooden practice swords, and they found a
secluded spot for their lessons, well away from the tower. When
Eilin returned, Forral swore Aurian to secrecy. "I'm sure your
mother wouldn't approve of this, and we don't want to have to
explain to her why we started doing it," he warned her. Aurian
agreed wholeheartedly.

At first it was terrible. Forral made no allowance for her lack of
size and strength, and she soon learned that she would have to
become very good in a very short time if she wanted to avoid a
bludgeoning. ^J'll show him," Aurian said through gritted teeth,
as she sweated and puffed. At first it was all she could do to
dodge and turn his blows, without thinking about attacking. Each
night she would go to her bed aching and bruised all over, and the
first valuable lesson she learned was how to endure. Forral also
taught her other things—the exercises to stay supple and build
muscle, and exercises of breathing and meditation to calm and
sharpen the mind for battle. Aurian had no idea then how lucky she
was. Forral, though he was too modest to admit it, was the best.
Under his tutelage she eventually learned the Is of the
Warrior—the trancelike state in which all senses combined to
become something far greater than the sum of their parts. The Is
created a single sense that became an extension of the living
sword—that was the sword—



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so that by the time the mind worked out the next move, the blade
was already there.

Aurian began to love it. She lived for her lessons, going out with
Forral in summer and winter alike. She suffered and slogged and
sweated and endured, and by the time she was twelve she had the
skill to take on an average swordsman twice her age and size—and
win. She was growing like a weed, and that helped. But when her
breasts began to grow she was appalled. They kept getting in the
way. When she complained about it to Forral he blushed, but made
her a tight-fitting leather vest such as female warriors favored.
It laced tightly up the front and kept the ridiculous things in
check very effectively.

A few weeks before her thirteenth birthday, Forral went away on a
mysterious errand of his own. Aurian pined, missing him keenly. In
his absence the temptation to take up her tricks with the
fireballs surfaced strongly, but she was determined to keep her
promise to the swordsman. Instead, she asked her mother to teach
her more about Earth-magic.

"Ah, now that Forral is away, you suddenly have time to spend with
your mother," Eilin complained, but she was smiling. Forral's
presence had made a tremendous difference to her, and mother and
daughter were getting along much better these days. Over those few
weeks, Aurian found herself enjoying Eilin's company. As well as
magic, the Mage took the opportunity to teach her daughter what
would soon be happening to her maturing body, and the way thit
Mages dealt with the matter. And of course Aurian worked hard at
Forral's exercises, hoping to impress him with her improvement
when he returned.

Forral's return more than made up for his absence. He had brought
her a princely gift for her birthday—her own, full-size sword.
There was a lump in Aurian's throat as she unwrapped it, and drew
the long, keen blade out of its black and silver scabbard with a
steely hiss. She flung her arms around Forral. "Oh, thank you,"
she gasped. The sword shone brilliant blue-white in the pale
winter sunlight that ran like glittering fire down its razor-sharp
edges. There was a single white gem set into the hilt. It was more


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slender than Forral's great broad-
sword, strong, elegant—and deadly. Aurian had never seen anything
so beautiful.

It was like going back to the beginning. The sword had been
crafted for Aurian to grow into, and she could barely lift the
heavy blade, let alone swing it. She gritted her teeth, and
doubled her muscle-building exercises. At the end of every lesson
her back and arms ached. She found that fighting with a proper
blade called for a very different technique from the one that had
served her so well with the light, wooden practice swords, and she
was forced to start all over again. Aurian had been growing rather
arrogant about her prowess, fancying herself a great swordswoman
already. Now she learned otherwise. Safety became an important
factor in their sessions. Now that she and Forral were using
lethal steel blades there was every chance that they could inflict
serious injury on one another, and Aurian had to learn that she
could no longer improvise, as she had formerly done.

It seemed to take forever, but gradually, as she worked through
the following spring and summer, Aurian began to improve. Now, at
last, the blade went where she wanted it to. Well balanced and
finely crafted, it was a delight to use. Forral taught her how to
take care of it, and she kept both blade and scabbard meticulously
clean and well oiled. The sword glittered as she swung it, and as
it clove the air, it sang. Because of this, Aurian named it
Coronach, which meant "Deathsong," and Forral didn't smile at her
fancy. "A good blade deserves a good name," he agreed gravely.

Disaster struck near the end of that year, when the first snow
covered the ground with a thin sprinkling of white. Perhaps Forral
had been too enthusiastic in giving her the sword so soon; or
maybe Aurian had become overconfident. Whatever the reason, she
made a deadly mistake. She and Forral were sparring in their usual
place when she decided, on her own initiative, to try a new move
that she had been thinking about lately. Moving back from him, she
ducked and twisted, planning to bring her blade up beneath her
opponent's guard to strike at his throat. It went dreadfully
wrong. As she twisted, Aurian slipped on the snow. She lost her
balance and her stroke went wide, leaving her open to Forral's


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lethal downswing. He cried out and tried to wrench the heavy blade
aside, but the

momentum was too great. The great sword sheared into Aurian's left
shoulder with a sickening crunch of shattered bone.

Eilin came thundering down the tower staircase, alerted by
Forral's frantic shouts for help. She stopped dead at the bottom
of the stairs, her face ashen. Forral, tears streaming down his
face, bore Aurian's still body wrapped in his blood-soaked cloak.
A trail of blood led out through the open door behind him, and
pooled on the stone flags of the kitchen floor. He felt it
seeping, warm and sticky, into his clothing. "Oh Gods," he sobbed,
his face twisting with anguish. "Eilin, I've killed her!"

Eilin was shaking as she took Aurian from him and laid her gently
on the kitchen table. He heard her gasp as she revealed the
dreadful extent of the injury. The Mage felt for a pulse in
Aurian's throat. "Thank the Gods, she still lives," she murmured.

Only then did Forral dare look. His sword had bitten deep into
Aurian's shoulder, shattering her collarbone and almost severing
her arm. Her face was gray from shock and loss of blood. Forral
sagged. The room blurred around him as he swayed dizzily. On far
too many occasions he had seen good friends maimed and killed, and
had inflicted worse wounds on enemies in battle without flinching,
but this was only a young girl, and one he loved more than life
itself. It was more than he could bear. "I'm sorry. It was my
fault. I—"

"Quiet!" Eilin snapped. She lai^l her hands on the wound, her eyes
narrowing in concentration'as she summoned her powers. "I wish I'd
learned more about Healing," she muttered helplessly. But as
Forral watched, holding his breath, the flow of blood diminished
to a trickle, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, it died away
altogether. Eilin straightened up and turned on him, her eyes
blazing.

Forral dropped to his knees. "Eilin, it was an accident—"



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"Never mind! Ride to Nexis, Forral. Fetch the Healer from the
Academy. Hurry! We may lose her yet!"

Relieved to be doing something that might help, Forral ran, his
last glimpse of Aurian's pale, stricken face blazoned on his
mind's eye. His horse plunged violently, frightened by this wild-
eyed madman who flung the saddle so roughly across its
back. He clouted it hard across the nose and jerked the girth
tight. Springing to its back, he spurred away in a welter of snow,
anxious to be out of the rough terrain of the crater before dusk
fell. The journey on horseback to Nexis took five days. Forral
intended to do it in two.

Onaptcr             3

THE     BAKER'S           SON

ee up, there!" Anvar flipped the reins, urging the old horse along
the rough, rutted track that slanted up from the mill by the
riverside. Lazy tossed his head and whinnied, protesting at having
to haul the heavy cartload of flour up the steep hill. "Never
mind," Anvar told the horse. "At least you're warm., I'll give you
a good breakfast when we get home." He blew on his hands and
slapped them against his thighs, trying to thaw the stiffness out
of his fingers. The icy dawn chill had seeped into his bones, and
the mill's roaring fire already seemed a million miles away. But a
different sort of fire warmed young Anvar's blood as he recalled
the smile of the miller's pretty daughter, Sara.

The wealth and power in the city of Nexis rested with the rich
merchants, the high-placed warriors from the Garrison, and the
lofty Mageborn. Life was much harder for the common folk: the
craftsmen and dressmakers, the servants, laborers, shopkeepers,
bargemen, and lamplighters who kept the city running with their
menial but essential tasks, Children, perforce, learned to
shoulder responsibility at an early age, and Anvar's father, a
master baker in the city, had given his eldest son the task of
fetching the flour as soon as he was old enough to drive the cart.
Though the journey was longer by road, and hard in winter, it
saved the ruinous freight tolls charged by the river's bargemen.


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Ever since Anvar's first visit to the mill long ago, fair-haired,
elfin little Sara had been his best friend. When they were younger
they would sneak away in the afternoons to play together, meeting
along the narrow towpath that ran downriver to the city. Now that
they had reached the grand old age of fifteen, however, their
games had started to take a new and serious turn. Anvar was in
love, and he had no doubt whatsoever that Sara felt the same. Both
sets of parents viewed this development with tolerance. Tori,
Anvar's father, and Jard the miller both saw the advantage in
combining the two businesses someday, and of course the mothers
had no say in the matter.

Anvar smiled, still thinking of Sara, as he reached the top
of the hill and turned the creaking cart onto the main highway.
Nexis was hidden by the freezing mist that lay gray in the
forested valley below. Only the shimmering white towers and dome
of the Academy, high on their rocky promontory above the rest of
the city, were visible above the fog. Anvar's smile turned to a
scowl at the sight. They would still be asleep up there, he
thought. Snoring on swansdown mattresses while honest folk had
been up and working well before daylight! His father had no time
for the Magefolk, calling them arrogant parasites and an insult to
proper men. This was such a common point of view in Anvar's
neighborhood that he had never questioned it, though he noticed
that the men in the taprooms kept their voices low as they said
it, glancing nervously over their shoulders as they spoke.

Suddenly Anvar was wrenched out of his daydreams as the old horse
shied and laid its ears back at the sound of hoofbeats. Someone
was coming up behind him, galloping perilously fast on the icy
road. He sighed and pulled the cart well into the side. It was
probably a courier, headed for the Garrison, the Academy, or the
Merchants' Quarter, and it would be more than Anvar's hide was
worth to get in the way of his betters' business.

The horse was finished. As it thundered past, Anvar could hear the
wheeze of its labored breathing above the sound of hooves. He
caught a glimpse of its sweat-streaked, bloodstained flanks as it
hurtled by, and heard the burly rider curse it as he lashed it


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with the end-of the reins. The swine! Anvar raged inwardly,
furious at this cruel treatment. He urged his own horse onward
gently, as if by his kindness he could somehow make amends for
what he had just witnessed. Then he heard the fading hoofbeats
falter. There was a sick thud as the horse went down, followed by
a stream of savage curses.

Anvar rounded the bend to see the dark bulk of the dead horse
lying in the road. The body still steamed. The great bully who had
been riding it stood over it, quite unscathed and scalding the air
with oaths. Anvar was consumed with anger. Without pausing to
consider the consequences, he leapt from the cart and hurled
himself at the big, bearded horseman. "You bastard!" he screamed.
"You callous bastard!" The man ignored him completely, his eye
suddenly lighting on the cart. Brush-

AURIAN          •       43

ing Anvar aside with casual, contemptuous strength, he ran forward
and drew a dagger from his belt to cut the old horse free from the
traces.

Anvar hauled himself out of the ditch, horrified at the result of
his folly. "No!" he yelled and ran forward to tug at the madman's
arm. A blow sent him spinning. The big man threw the last of the
harness aside, cut off the trailing ends of the long reins, and
leapt astride the horse's bare back. Lazy shied, rolling his eyes,
and the man gave a savage jerk at the reins. Anvar picked himself
up, tears in his eyes, and hauled desperately at the rider's muddy
cloak. "Please, sir," he begged, "he's old. You can't—"

The stranger turned to look at him as though noticing him for the
first time, his grim expression suddenly softening to compassion
and regret. "I'm truly sorry, lad," he said gently, "but it's an
emergency. There's a young girl's life at stake, and I must get to
the Healer. Try to understand, I'll leave him at the Academy. Tell
them Forral sent you," He clasped Anvar's shoulder briefly, and
was gone with a clatter of hooves. Anvar stared after him for a
long moment, then turned to contemplate the abandoned cart with
its precious load. The flour would be late that morning and Tori


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would be unable to start work. They would lose money through this,
for sure. Anvar sighed, and set off walking back toward the mill
to borrow a horse. His father was going to be absolutely livid,

Anvar's family lived in the north of Nexis, in the thickly
populated labyrinth of narrow stpeet|pthat clustered within the
great city wall -on the upper slopes of the broad valley. Farther
down were the great stone thoroughfares with their magnificent,
colonnaded buildings and marvelous markets and shops. Slightly
apart, on a plateau where the slope leveled briefly before
continuing its descent, stood the large gray fortresslike complex
of the legendary Garrison. Lining the northern river-bank at the
bottom of the vale were the warehouses and wharves of the
merchants, with their usual dockside complement of rats, beggars,
cutpurses, and whores. Elegant bridges leapt across the river's
broad flow at various points, connecting the working areas in the
north of the city to the very different environment on the south
bank.

South of the rivejr,, the valley sloped upward in a series of

steep wooded terraces. Set like jewels among the trees were the
opulent mansions of the merchants with their smooth lawns and
lush, glowing gardens where colored lanterns burned on balmy
summer evenings when the air was thick with the scent of many
flowers. At the mid-point of its journey through the city, the
river made a detour, looping north in an oxbow before reemerging
to resume its path to the sea. Within this loop stood a high,
rocky promontory, almost an island, connected to the southern bank
by a narrow tongue of land barred with an arched white gate. Set
on top of the promontory, the highest point in the city, were the
white-walled towers of the Academy where the Magefolk dwelt in
splendid and lofty isolation.

The morning was wearing away when Anvar drove his borrowed horse
past the guards at the northern city gate and threaded his way
through the narrow streets toward home. The houses and workshops
in this part of the city were simply but solidly constructed of
wood, brick, and plaster. Most of the homes were well cared for,
and the streets were cobbled but clean. Anvar had heard that in


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smaller towns, people threw their waste out of the windows,
turning the thoroughfares into an open sewer. In Nexis, jewel
among cities and home of the Magefolk, such a thing would be
unthinkable. Some two hundred years previously, Bavordran, a Mage
skilled in Water-magic, had designed an elaborate and effective
system of underground sewers to furnish the entire city, and the
Magefolk, for once, (for they were not exactly famed for helping
the Mortal population of Nexis,) took the duty of their magical
upkeep very seriously indeed.

Anvar's family lived above Tori's bakery, where bread, cakes, and
pies were made to sell in the little market held daily in a nearby
square. Usually the fragrance of baking loaves filled the street,
but not today. As he neared the house, Anvar could hear his
father's voice raised in anger, and chewed his lip nervously. He'd
be in trouble over this, for sure. He turned the cart carefully
down the narrow alleyway that led to the little stable behind the
house, and made Jard's horse comfortable in Lazy's stall. There
was no point in delaying. The later he was, the more angry Tori
would become. Squaring his shoulders, Anvar crossed the yard and
went reluctantly into the bakery. He hoped that his father would
give him a chance to explain.

AURIAN          •       45

Tori was in no mood for excuses. "But it wasn't my fault!" Anvar
pleaded. "He knocked me down and took the horse—"

"And you just let him! That animal is our livelihood, you stupid
boy. Do you know what you've done? Do you?" Tori raised his big
fist, his arm brawny from years of lifting bags of flour and
kneading stiff dough. Anvar ducked and the blow caught him on the
shoulder, spinning him into the corner where he knocked over a
clattering stack of empty bread trays in falling. "Clumsy fool!"
His father advanced on him like a great, menacing shadow, hauled
him up and hit him again. "Stay still, you!" The baker began to
unbuckle his belt.

"Leave him alone, Tori. It wasn't the boy's fault." Grandpa's
voice was filled with quiet authority. Anvar, nursing his bruises,


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sagged with relief at the unexpected reprieve. The old man was the
only person who could defy his son's temper when Tori was in this
mood.

Grandpa was Anvar's confidant, teacher, protector, and friend. He
was a great hulk of a man, with a shock of white hair, a gentle
expression, and a bristling moustache. He'd been a carpenter by
trade, and his thick-fingered hands could do miracles of
intricate, delicate carving that were much in demand, and brought
in welcome pennies to the household. But he gave away as many
pieces as he sold—much to Tori's disgust. A countryman at heart,
the old man had come to live with his son after the tragic early
death of his wife, a sweet and lovely person—and a legendary cook.
It was she who had taught Tori the skills that made his^baking so
much in demand. For years Grandpa had tried to bury his grief in
his work, but now he was content to rest and enjoy his grandsons,
trying to teach them the older, simpler values of his youth. In
Anvar he had a willing pupil, but Bern, the younger brother, was
his father's son, from his dark, sturdy appearance to his love of
the business and the worship of profit.

Tori scowled. Letting go of Anvar, he turned on Grandpa. "You stay
out of this, old man!"

"I don't think so, Tori. Not this time." Grandpa placed himself
between the wrathful baker and his victim. "You're too hard on the
lad."

"And you spoil him, you and his wretched mother! No wonder the boy
is good, for nothing!"

46 • MAGGIE FUREV

"He's good for a great many things, if you would give him a
chance," Grandpa said firmly. "Instead of taking it out on him,
why don't you go up to the Academy and see what's happened to the
horse?"

"What? Trek all the way across town and up that bloody great hill?
Have you lost your wits, Father? Enough of today's been wasted,


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thanks to this idiot!"

"Nonsense, Tori. You can take Jard's horse, and the trip may well
be worth your time. It won't hurt to have your name known at the
Academy—they eat bread too, you know. We can start the baking
while you're gone, and there's a good chance that you'll be
compensated by this Forral. From what Anvar said, he seemed an
honorable man, and if it was an emergency, what else could he do?
You'd have done the same thing yourself, if anything had happened
to Bern."

Tori hesitated for a moment, still scowling. "Those bastards could
starve before I'd sell them a crumb of my bread— and besides, you
old fool, they bake their own—or get the bootlicking Mortal scum
who serve them to do it!" Satisfied that he had had the last word
he stamped out, slamming the door behind him. Grandpa shrugged,
and put an arm around Anvar's shoulders. "Come on, son, we'd
better get started. We're well behind this morning, and your
father's temper isn't likely to improve with the day."

As Anvar followed him, Grandpa's last words to his father echoed
in his head. Bern—Tori's favorite, and he never bothered to hide
it. Always BernrAnvar looked sourly at his dark-haired younger
brother, who was smirking in the doorway. Why did Tori favor him
so? Grandpa had been right. If Bern had been hurt, his father
would move mountains to help him. If it had been himself, on the
other hand . . . Anvar sighed. He knew only too well what his
father thought about him. But he wished

he knew why.

At nightfall Anvar dragged himself up the ladder to the cramped
little attic that he shared with Bern, having finished work at
last. He had been too tired to eat the special supper that his
mother had prepared to placate his father's black mood. Lacking
the energy to undress, he threw himself down on his bed. Gods,
what a terrible day it had been! Tori had worked them like slaves,
taking Anvar's mishap out on the whole fam-

AURIAN          •       47


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ily. His poor mother had been pale and shaking with fatigue by the
end of the day, and Anvar was consumed with guilt, knowing that
her exhaustion was his fault. Ria had never been strong, but she
toiled without complaint, afraid that if she faltered, Tori's
wrath would fall on her son again. Anvar wondered, as he often
did, how this gentle, intelligent woman had come to wed his rough
and greedy father. She deserved far better. Delicate and slender,
she had dark blond hair and blue eyes like her elder son, and her
beauty still shone through her haggard appearance.

Ria's past was a mystery. Unlike anyone else in their
neighborhood, she could read and write and play music, and had
taught these skills to Anvar. A waste of time, Tori had called it,
and pointed out that Bern had more sense than to ape his betters.
He was learning to follow in his father's footsteps like a proper
son. But for once Ria had defied her husband, and Anvar was glad.
Ever since the day his grandpa had carved him his first little
wooden flute, he had fallen in love with music and practiced every
spare minute, driving his family, especially his father, to
distraction. Soon he had mastered all the simple tunes he knew,
and had begun to compose his own, stretching the limits of the
simple flute until even Grandpa's ingenuity was hard-pressed to
construct new instruments that would give him the sounds he
wanted, Anvar lived for his music. His playing and Sara were the
only consolations in his hardworking life, and he blessed his
mother for giving him such a priceless gift.

Anvar loved Ria. Now she w«S faded, fragile, and careworn, and too
cowed to stand up to the bullying Tori. He wished he could protect
her, but although he was growing up tall and broad-shouldered, his
frame was still lanky and gangling. If it came to a confrontation,
Tori could fell him with a single blow.

Anvar sighed. He had other troubles that night. He had arranged to
meet Sara in their usual trysting place along the riverbank, but
Tori's grueling workload had put paid to that. He hoped she
wouldn't be angry. He was sad too about poor Lazy, His wind had
been ruined, and Tori had callously sold him to the knacker men.
Anvar mourned the loss of the old horse. Though balky and


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stubborn, he had had great character and intelligence—which he
constantly used to avoid work.

Anvar was going to miss him. Tori, however, only thought of the
generous sum that Forral had left for him at the Academy. He had
not seen Anvar's horseman, for Forral had only stopped long enough
to pick up the Lady Meiriel, the Healer, and the two had set off
as fast as possible for the north on fresh horses. Anvar wondered
what she was like, this child whose life was in danger. At first
he felt inclined to resent the mysterious dying girl who had
caused all this trouble, but when he thought about it, he found
himself hoping that the Healer would get there in time to save
her. That way, at least some good would come out of Lazy's death.

Some weeks later, Anvar's own family came to be in desperate need
of the Healer's services. All winter long, Grandpa had been
complaining of tiredness and aches in his bones, and after
Solstice, in the bleak gray season that stretched beyond the turn
of the year, the old man took to his bed. He grew weaker by the
day despite Ria's diligent nursing with the herbal brews and folk
remedies that were the only recourse of the common Mortals in the
city. But when Anvar, remembering Forral, begged his father to
send for the Healer, Tori admonished him harshly. "I don't know
where you get your ideas from," he said. "A family like us send
for the Healer? She'd laugh in our faces. Besides, I'll have none
of those Mageborn scum over my threshold. Now get back to work,
boy, before I take my belt to you!" That night, when Anvjir
visited Grandpa, the old man was too weak even to speak to him. He
simply lay back on the pillows, his face yellow and sunken. There
was an odd transparency about the old man's skin that Anvar had
never seen before, and without knowing why, he felt a stab of
fear. "Mother, help him," he begged.

Ria shook her head, tears in her eyes. "Anvar, you have to face
it," she said softly. "Grandpa's dying."

"No!" Anvar gasped. "He can't die!" He came to a sudden decision.
"I'm going for the Healer, if Father won't."

"You can't!" Ria went absolutely white, her eyes wide with


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stark terror.

Even in his extremity, Anvar was stunned by her reaction. Then he
looked back at his grandpa's face.

AURIAN          '       49

"Why not?" he demanded. "I'm not afraid of Father. Anyway, he's
gone to the tavern. If I'm quick he need never know."

"It's not that!" Ria was trembling. She caught hold of Anvar's
hands. "Anvar, you and I—we must never have any dealings with the
Magefolk. I can't tell you why, but you must believe me. Stay away
from them, son, for my sake—and especially for your own."

Anvar was dumbfounded. What had his mother to do with the
Magefolk, that she should be so terrified? But she wouldn't tell
him, and there was no time to find out. He pulled away. "I'm
sorry, Mother." Quietly he slipped downstairs, hoping to avoid
Bern, who was always on the lookout for opportunities to get him
into trouble. When Anvar reached the street he started to run,
heading downhill toward the river. From the open window behind him
came the sound of his mother's frightened weeping.

Anvar pounded along the quiet, lamplit streets. It was a long way
to the river, and his breath was coming in gasps as he neared the
wharves, taking a shortcut to the bridge nearest the Academy.
Lamps were scarce in the warehouse district and Anvar hurried
nervously through the dark alleys, his feet slipping on cobbles
that were covered with filth. He was already regretting that he
had chosen this route. The district had a bad reputation. As he
passed the dark, stinking entrance to one of the smaller alleys
there was a sudden scuffling noise, and several ragged figures
burst out of the shatjews. Anvar was forced to slide to a halt as
they surrounded him. They closed in on him, and he gagged on the
acrid stench of unwashed bodies. In the dim light from a rag-
draped window above, he saw the flash of knives in their hands,
and his mouth went dry with fear,



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"Hand over your money, boy," a voice growled in an unfamiliar
accent.

Anvar backed away until he was stopped by the wall. "I—I haven't
got any," he stammered, "Please let me go. I'm going for the
Healer—it's an emergency." Irrationally, Forral's face flicked
into his mind as he echoed the big man's words.

The cutthroat laughed. "My, aren't we grand! Going for the Healer,
eh? And with no money? Search him, boys!" Anvar was thrown to the
.ground. Rough, bony fingers rummaged

I
through his clothing, making his flesh crawl. He had time for one
enormous bellow for help before they started to hit him.

The nightmare came to an abrupt end as the clatter of hooves
echoed down the alley. "Troopers!" somebody yelled.

"Run for it!"

Anvar suddenly found himself alone, and struggled to make his
bruised and aching body rise. A hand grasped his collar, and he
was hauled to his feet.

"Got you!" Anvar found himself staring up into the stern face of a
tall soldier. "What were you up to, eh, brat?" the man

rasped.

"Please, sir," Anvar stammered, squirming in the man's iron grip,
"they set on me. I was going to the Academy for the

Healer—"

The trooper burst out laughing. "Come, can't you manage a better
tale than that? Do you think I was born yesterday?" He hauled
Anvar to the end of the alley, where a single lamp hung from the
wall on an iron bracket. As he took in Anvar's appearance, his
expression altered. "You don't come from around here," he accused


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him. "What's a lad like you doing wandering alone in this district
at night? Have you lost your wits?"

Haltingly, Anvar told him about his grandpa.

The trooper let go of his collar. "Lad," he said gently, "the Lady
Meiriel won't bother herself with the likes of your grandpa. Don't
you know how the Magefolk are?"

"I've got to try," Anvar insisted. "Why wouldn't she help me? A
while ago I met tTfts man called Forral, and—"

"You know Forral?" A look of profound respect crossed the

trooper's seamed face.

"We met on the road—he took my horse. He said he was going for the
Healer to save a little girl's life. If she would do that, why
wouldn't she help Grandpa?"

The soldier sighed. "Lad, don't you know who Forral w? He's a
living legend—the world's greatest swordsman—and he's friendly
with some of the Magefolk. The girl was the daughter of Eilin, the
Lady of the Lake. We heard about it at the Garrison. Why, I don't
even know if the Lady Meiriel is back yet—the Valley is a long way
north of here. I'm sorry, son, but even if she has come back, she
won't haul herself out at this time of night for some Mortal's
grandpa."

AUR1AN          •       51

"But if I could explain to her . .                                    ." Anvar persisted.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you." The trooper sounded resigned.
"Come on, I'll take you on my horse. If you go up there alone, the
Magefolk will likely have you flogged for your cheek before they
throw you out."

The horse's hooves sounded loud on the causeway that led across
the promontory as Anvar and the trooper approached the white gate.


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The gatekeeper was an old man—a Mortal, as were all the servants
of the Magefolk. When Anvar's new friend explained their errand,
he gaped in disbelief.

"What? Are you joking? The Lady Meiriel has just returned from a
long journey this very day. It's more than my hide's worth to
disturb her. You should have more sense, Hargorn, than to bring
the boy here."

"This is a special case," Hargorn insisted. "It's the lad who gave
Forral his horse. Why, if it hadn't been for that, the little Mage
lass might have died before the Healer could reach her. Surely
that deserves some consideration."

The old man sighed. "Oh, very well. I'll ask her. But she's not
going to be very pleased."

He ducked back into the squat white gatehouse. On a shelf inside
stood a rack of crystals, each glowing with a different colored
light. The gatekeeper picked up a stone that shone a deep violet-
blue and spoke into it softly. After a moment a patch of
luminescence shimmered into existence in front of him, and Anvar
gasped as it resolved itself into a woman's face, with dark,
cropped hair, high cheekjxmes, and an arrogant beaked nose. Her
expression was sleepy and cross. "What is it?" she demanded
brusquely. "I trust you've a good reason for bothering me at this
hour?" With many bows and apologies, the gatekeeper explained the
situation. The Lady Meiriel frowned. "How often have I told you
not to bother me with such trifles? If I had to attend every sick
Mortal in Nexis, I'd exhaust my power in a day! Send the brat
away—and as for you, the Archmage shall hear tomorrow that I'll
bear your incompetence no longer. This sort of thing is happening
far too often! You're obviously not fit for your post!" The face
flickered into darkness.

The gatekeeper turned to Hargorn. "See what you've done," he
whined. Bujjthere was no one there.

The trooper caught up with Anvar before he reached the end of the
causeway. '"Leave me alone!" the boy shouted, blinded with tears.


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Hargorn laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, lad, but I
did warn you. Come on—I'll take you home."

Grandpa died before morning. As Anvar wept over the old man's
body, his mother sought to comfort him. "Don't grieve so," she
said softly, putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. "Look at
him." Grandpa's expression was transfigured by a smile of pure,
sublime joy. "He's gone back to Grandma," Ria said. "He loved her
so much, and he's been missing her terribly all these years. You
can see from his face that they're together again. I know how much
you'll miss him, dear, but you should be happy for him, too."

"How do you know?" Anvar demanded. "How can you be sure he knows
about anything now? He's dead! When that accursed Healer could
have saved him!"

Ria sighed. "Anvar, Grandpa was old and worn out. He never really
liked living in the city and he'd had a hard life. He was tired,
that's all. It's not likely that the Lady Meiriel could have done
anything—"

"She could have tried!" Anvar was dimly aware that he was
shouting. "She could have cared! But he was only a Mortal. We mean
less to those Magefolk than animals!"

Ria sighed again and left the room, leaving him alone for the last
time with his grandfather. And as he knelt there in the cold
chamber beside the empty remains of what had been a good and
loving man, a deep and remorseless hatred of the Magefolk took
root within his heart.

Lxhaptcr              4

THE     ARCHMAGE

he sound of voices woke Aurian from a fitful sleep. For a panic-
stricken moment she wondered where she was, until she saw
lamplight glowing beyond the open door that led to Meiriel's
quarters at the far end of the infirmary. "Lady Meiriel?" she


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called out nervously. This place seemed very strange to her, with
its stark white walls and smooth, polished marble floor reflecting
the row of empty beds. The Healer came in, brisk and smiling. "Did
I wake you?"

"Is something wrong?" Aurian asked.

"Naught to worry about." Meiriel shrugged dismissively. "Only an
ignorant Mortal making a pest of himself down at the gate. Because
we have powers, they think our sole purpose in life is to run
around helping them\"

Aurian frowned. Any talk of Mortals reminded her painfully of
Forral—but then everything seemed to remind her of the swordsman.
She clenched her fists, willing the tears not to gather in her
eyes. "Aren't we supposed to help them?" she asked. "I don't
understand."

The Healer sat down on the edge of her bed. "Here at the Academy,
Aurian, you'll learn that it's simply not done to waste your
powers on those stupid, whining Mortals. Now, we've had a long
journey, and you need to rest. Can I get you something to help you
sleep?" - /

"Yes, please, Meiriel." Anything was better than lying awake
thinking.

Trying not to grimace, Aurian finished the potion that the Healer
had brought her as quickly as possible. Although it was sticky and
tasted vile, she preferred it to Meiriel's Sleep-magic, which was
most unnerving. No time seemed to pass while she was under the
spell—she only closed her eyes for a second, it seemed—and when
she opened them, hours had been lost. Luckily, she thought, the
Healer had been understanding about her fears. Having been
dragged, unwilling, away from her home to this ^iew and
frightening place, Aurian was pitifully grateful even for
Meiriel's brusque, no-nonsense kindness. Fighting back her tears,
she snuggled ^Jpwn beneath the quilt, hoping that for
once she would fall asleep before her mind could start dwelling on
the catastrophe that had overtaken her life.


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It had taken the Healer several weeks to repair Aurian's damaged
shoulder, but she couldn't remember anything of those first days,
when Meiriel had labored endlessly with Healing-magic to save her
arm. She had pieced together fragments of shattered bone with
painstaking skill, and repaired the severed muscles. Meiriel had
then used her powers to accelerate the body's natural healing, a
process which sapped a great deal of the patient's own resources
and left her in a deep sleep for several days while her body
recovered its energies. When Aurian finally awoke, the wound had
closed and was mending fast, though her arm was still stiff,
feeble, and sore. Naturally, she had wanted Forral. At first her
mother kept putting her off, but in the end, on Meiriel's advice,
she had relented, and given Aurian the letter. By now she knew
every terrible word by heart:

"Aurian love, I'm sorry I can't be here when you wake, but if I
stayed to say goodbye, I would never be able to go. I don't know
if I can explain so that you'll understand, but I'll try. Don't
blame your mother—she didn't send me away this time. I'm leaving
because I am horrified at what I did to you, I had no right to
expose you to such risks. The Lady Meiriel says you'll be all
right and have full use of your arm again, and I only thank the
Gods I didn't kilLyou outright. As it is, I can never forgive
myself.

"I had to tell your mother why we started with your sword
training, but don't worry—she's not angry, unless it's with me for
not telling her sooner. Anyway, she and the Healer want you to go
away to the Academy at Nexis to be trained properly, which is only
right, because you are a Mage after all. I thought about going
back with you and joining the Garrison again so that we could see
each other, but it wouldn't be fair to you. You need to settle
down with your own kind and learn to use your gifts, and I would
only be in the way. So I'm going away soldiering again.

"Aurian, please forgive me for leaving you like this. It breaks my
heart, but it's for the best, truly. Please don't forget

me, as I'll never forget you. And never doubt that someday we'll


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meet again. I'll think of you always. All my love, Forral."

The following weeks had passed in a blur of misery. Nothing
mattered now that Forral had gone. Had she been wrong about the
swordsman? If he had truly loved her, how could he have left her
like this? Aurian, numb and aching inside, had simply done what
her mother and the Healer told her, and gradually her body
recovered sufficiently for her to make the journey back to Nexis
with Meiriel. But even the sight of so much unfamiliar new country
had failed to lift her spirits. The weather, unremittingly cold
and bleak, was a perfect match for her mood as they rode: first
over wild and snowy moors, and then, once they had reached the
great road that led to the lower country, through tame and tended
farmland and forest. All this was lost on Aurian, however. She was
barely aware of her surroundings, let alone the import of the
journey she was making.

It had taken the city to bring Aurian sharply out of her self-
pity. After spending almost all her life in the solitude of her
mother's isolated Valley, Nexis, with its looming buildings and
hordes of people, had terrified her. Everything was so big, noisy,
and crowded that she couldn't breathe. She hadn't known that there
were so many people in the world! Meiriel, in her own brisk way,
had been sympathetic. "Brace up, child," she had said. "Don't
panic, they won't hurt you! Take deep breaths, and stay close to
me. It's a lot more peaceful at the Academy, and you'll get used
to the city in time."

Aurian doubted that she would /ver get used to the city or the
Academy, Meiriel's pristine infirmary was very different from the
familiar clutter of her mother's tower, and since everything was
so alien to her, she lived in constant fear of doing or saying
something wrong. She longed for the sanctuary of her own room, and
the strong, comforting presence of Forral.

To bolster her faltering courage, Aurian clung tightly to the
hard, slender shape of her sword. She slept with the sheathed
blade every night, for it was all she had left of Forral.

As soon as she had recovered sufficiently from her injury to walk,


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she had gone to the clearing where they had spent so many happy
hours in practice. Her precious sword lay untouched on the ground
where it had fallen. Its leather scabbard was already stiff and
starting to discolor, its blade spotted with
rust. Shaking with sobs, Aurian had gathered it up carefully and
taken it home. She spent hours cleaning and oiling both blade and
scabbard with the greatest care, pausing often to wipe off the
tears that threatened to mar her work. And despite the objections
of Meiriel and her mother, she had refused to be parted from it,
reacting so violently to the very suggestion that they had
relented and allowed her to keep it. Holding tightly to the sword,
Aurian cried herself to sleep, as she had done every night since
Forral had gone away.

In her quarters, Meiriel listened to the soft sounds of weeping,
regretting that it had been necessary to wrench the child away
from home like this. When silence fell at last, she crept to
Aurian's bedside to assure herself that she was truly asleep. Then
calling a servant to watch her charge, she flung a cloak around
her shoulders and set off across the frost-silvered courtyard to
the Mages' Tower. A red light burning high in the crimson-draped
windows of the uppermost floor showed that the Archmage was in
residence.

"How goes it with the child, Meiriel?" The Archmage,                                                   like all his
kind, was very tall. With his long, silvery hair and                                                   beard, his
bony hooked nose, his dark, burning eyes and haughty                                                   demeanor, he
looked the very epitome of the most powerful Mage in                                                   the world.
His scarlet robes swept the richly carpeted floor as                                                   he crossed
the room to pour Meiriel a goblet of

wine.

As Meiriel took a seat,~the Healer saw the slim, silver-clad
figure of Eliseth sitting in the shadows by the window, and
frowned. She neither liked nor trusted the scheming, ice-cool
Weather-Mage. "I thought this was to be a private meeting,"

she objected.



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Miathan handed her a brimming crystal goblet. "Come, Meiriel,
don't be foolish," he chided. "Since we received your message,
Eliseth has been helping me to make plans. If what you say is
true, Geraint's child has talents we can use, and will need very
special handling. I should hardly have to remind you that we need
the utmost loyalty from all our people these days. The Magefolk
have dwindled. Our powers are severely proscribed by the Mages'
Code, and dissension against us among the wretched Mortals grows
ever stronger. I still control the


Garrison's voice on the ruling Council of Three, but Rioch will be
retiring before long, and there is no suitably accommodating
successor among his warriors. And the new Merchants'
Representative, that jumped-up ruffian Vannor, is already giving
me trouble."

The Archmage frowned, and took a sip of wine. "Because a Magewoman
loses her powers during pregnancy, our race has always been slow
to breed, and no new children are being born to us. We're
seriously outnumbered by the Mortals. Not counting Eilin, who
refuses to return to us, that only leaves seven Magefolk: you and
I, Eliseth and Bragar, the twins, and Finbarr. And of those, the
twins seem unable to access their full power, and Finbarr never
leaves his archives—no offense, Meiriel. I know he's your soul
mate, and I regret that we can't spare your Healing skills long
enough for you to lose them during a pregnancy. And of course we
can't spare Eliseth, for the same reason. Her studies are at a
critical point—"

"Otherwise, of course, I would be happy to make the sacrifice,"
Eliseth interjected smoothly. Meiriel bit back a sarcastic retort.
Liar, she thought. All you want is power. You'd be quick enough to
bear Miathan's child, if he asked you. She turned back to the
Archmage. "What has this to do with Aurian?" she asked. "You
surely don't expect her to breed you some new Magefolk? The child
is barely fourteen!"

Miathan assumed a patient expression, looking at the Healer over
his steepled hands. "My dear Meiriel," he said suavely, "what a


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suggestion! Of course I don't expect such a thing. Not yet, at any
rate. But we must take the long view here. She will not be
fourteen forever. And if, as you say, her powers may range over
the entire spectrum, then they must be passed on for the benefit
of our race. In the meantime, however, I was thinking of our
precarious position among the Mortals. If word should be passed
that we have a new Mage—one whose powers are, shall we say,
spectacular—then they might think twice before crossing us. After
all, they've already had an example of what her father can do."

"That's appalling, Miathan! It's completely immoral!" Meiriel
exploded. "The Mages' Code expressly forbids the use of magic to
gain power over others."

"Of course it does, my dear." Miathan's voice was melodi-
ous and smooth. "But if you check the wording carefully, Meiriel,
it says nothing about people believing that a Mage might use his
powers against them. If the Mortals should happen to get hold of
such an outlandish notion, then it would hardly be our fault,
would it?" he said with a shrug.

"That's pure sophistry, and you know it! You're coming perilously
close to breaking your vows under the Code, Miathan, and you'll
take us all to perdition with you," Meiriel warned. "Do you plan
to corrupt the child, too?"

Eliseth shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Surely you're
overreacting," she said silkily. "After all, this is pure
conjecture on the part of the Archmage. All he cares about at
present is helping the child, and winning her trust. Who knows
what nonsense Eilin and that uncouth Mortal have been putting into
her head? You know how hard our training is, and the girl is
starting late. She'll lack discipline, I daresay, so there will be
some difficult times ahead of her. The last thing we want is for
her to end up resenting the Magefolk—after all, we are her people.
So Miathan and I have thought of a way to deal with the problem.
We only have her welfare at heart—you'll see, Meiriel."

"Indeed she will," Miathan said heartily. "Meiriel, tomorrow
morning you will turn Aurian over to Eliseth. After that, your


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part in this matter is over for the time being, and you'll leave
the rest to us. Stay away from the child, and don't interfere."

"But—" Meiriel protested unhappily.

Miathan's face grew stony. "That is a direct order from your
Archmage, Meiriel. You may go now."

Aurian disliked Eliseth on first sight. Although her face was
flawlessly beautiful and her silver hair flowed right down to her
feet like a shimmering waterfall, the Magewoman's smile never
reached her gray eyes, which were hard and cold as steel. She led
Aurian to the chamber that would be her own—a tiny whitewashed
cell on the ground floor of the Mages' Tower. Furnished with the
barest simplicity, it contained a narrow bed, a table and chair,
and shelves and a chest for her possessions and clothes.

Aurian had no possessions to arrange. Apart from the

clothes she stood in, all she had was her sword. When Eliseth saw
it, she frowned. "You can't keep that," she said flatly. "It's
much too dangerous for a young girl. Give it to me." She reached
for the sword.

In a flash Aurian had the blade unsheathed, as Forral had taught
her. "Don't you touch my sword," she warned. Eliseth's eyes
narrowed, and she made a peculiar, twisting little gesture with
her left hand. Aurian gasped as a chill, translucent blue cloud
surrounded her. She couldn't move! Her body was frozen rigid. Icy
cold seemed to burn into her very bones.

Eliseth swooped down and plucked Coronach from Aurian's
unresisting grasp, then stood looking coldly down on her. "Listen
to me, brat," she hissed. "While you are in this place, you'll
learn discipline and obedience—especially obedience to me—or
you'll suffer the consequences! Now I'm going to find the
seamstress to measure you for some decent clothes, and as a
punishment for your appalling behavior, you can remain like that
until I return."



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She swept out, taking the sword with her and leaving Aurian still
frozen in position, unable even to weep. Although she was seething
with hatred for the cold-eyed Eliseth, the lesson had left its
mark. Aurian had already learned to fear her.

Later that day, Eliseth showed her subdued and unhappy charge
around the Academy. There was a good deal to see. The promontory
was shaped like the broad blade of a spear, with its point cut off
in a gentle curve by the high wall that surrounded the drop on all
sides. The main entrance gate stood at the place where the haft of
the spear would be joined, with a small gate-house to its left-
hand side. Below the gate, the steep road up which Aurian had
climbed the previous day zigzagged down to the causeway, with its
lower gatehouse.

The buildings all faced on to a central, oval-shaped courtyard
designed in a mosaic pattern with colored flagstones. In the
center, an elegant fountain sang a soothing, bubbling song as it
flung feathery arcs of water into a white marble basin. To the
left of the gatehouse was Meiriel's small infirmary, and next to
this were the kitchens and servants' quarters which adjoined the
Great Hall with its soaring arched windows. Beyond, where the wall
curved round to cut off the end of the promontory, stood the
elegant and^lpfty Mages' Tower, where the Magefolk

dwelt. Opposite the tower on the other side of the curve was the
huge library with its complex, convoluted architecture. And beyond
this, curving back toward the gate, were the buildings designed
for the study of the individual disciplines of magic, dominated by
the massive white weather dome whose outline was visible for miles
around.

All the buildings, down to the gatehouse and the humble servants'
quarters, were constructed of dazzling white marble that seemed to
be imbued with its own internal, pearly glow. It was
breathtakingly beautiful—and Aurian, scared and homesick as she
was, hated it. All the same, she marveled at the great library
with its priceless archives, the open rooftop temple on top of the
Mages' Tower with its great standing stones, and the imposing
Great Hall, which stood mostly unused now that the Magefolk were


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so few in number.

Aurian was shown the special windowless building outfitted with
metal doors and furniture to enable the Mages to study Fire-magic
there in safety. A low white building contained a deep pool and
many fountains, streams, conduits, and waterfalls, for the study
of Water-magic. There was a large building constructed of glass,
containing plants, grass, and even some small trees, that reminded
Aurian, with a pang, of her mother's workrooms in her tower. It
was intended, of course, for the study of Earth-magic. But the
grass was brown and withered, and all the plants were shriveled
and dead. If any animals had dwelt within, they were long gone.
Eilin was the only living Mage who practiced Earth-magic, and the
room had been abandoned when she left the Academy.

The place that Aurian found most incredible of all was the massive
dome whose outline dominated the Mages' complex. The curved
chamber within was so high that small clouds could actually gather
beneath its roof, which housed a complex series of valves and
vents. This was Eliseth's room, for the study of Weather-magic,
and she left Aurian in no doubt that this was the most important
discipline of all. Aurian didn't dare ask why.

While they were making their tour of the Academy, Eliseth
introduced Aurian to the other Magefolk. "We tend to be a solitary
people," she said. "Mostly we're occupied with our own projects,
and we usually eat in our own rooms, unless

there's a feast or a special occasion. That being the case, you
might as well meet everyone now. All except the Archmage, of
course. He's much too busy to bother with little girls." Aurian
was crushed.

Finbarr cheered her a little, however. They found him down in the
archives, which consisted of the maze of cellars that had been
carved out of the living rock beneath the library. He was sitting
at a table in a small cavern whose walls were lined with racks of
ancient scrolls. The table was completely bare except for a
stylus, two neat stacks of paper, one with writing and the other
awaiting use, and some half-dozen scrolls, neatly rolled and tied.


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Finbarr was reading from another ancient document by the light of
a brightly glowing ball of luminescence that hovered dutifully and
with perfect steadiness above his head.

"Still wasting your time with this old rubbish, I see," was
Eliseth's dismissive greeting. Aurian half expected the Mage to
jump—he had seemed so preoccupied when they entered. But he simply
sighed, and placed the scroll on the table, where the two rolled-
up ends immediately tried to spring together. "Stay!" Finbarr
commanded in a sharp voice. The scroll gave a quiver, and promptly
flattened out in the correct position.

Finbarr turned to regard them with a piercing blue gaze. He was
very thin, and his clean-shaven face had the typical bony
angularity of the Magefolk. His long brown hair was streaked with
gray, but his face wa* neither old nor young, and his eyes
twinkled. "Hail, O Lady of Thunder, Mistress of Storms," he
intoned mockingly. "Have you come to blast me with a blizzard of
icy contempt, or are you just going to rain on me and ruin my
day?" He winked at Aurian, who tried to stifle a giggle.

Eliseth cursed. "Finbarr, one of these days your so-called wit is
going to get you into trouble," she snapped. "You're about as much
use as these wretched old scrolls of yours!"

Finbarr shrugged. "At least my scrolls are pleasant company," he
said, "though not undemanding. I take it that the reason for your
totally unprecedented visit to this sanctuary of learning and
wisdom is to introduce me to this beauteous young lady." He
gave^Aurian a kindly smile.

"You know who she is, Finbarr." Eliseth was scowling. "That
renegade Geraint's brat."

Aurian stifled a small sound of protest, clenching her fists.

With a swift movement Finbarr pushed back his chair and squatted
before Aurian, bringing his tall lanky frame down to her level. He
lifted her chin with a gentle finger and looked deeply into her
eyes. "Child, you're going to hear a lot of that kind of nonsense


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within these venerable walls," he said softly. "Just let it pass.
Geraint's only fault was pride, and the same applies to all the
Magefolk who would blacken his name." He shot a flinty look at
Eliseth. "I'm not saying that what he did was right, but the same
disaster could have happened to any of us. Take no notice of what
people say, child, but be prepared to learn from his errors—and
ours, for what Geraint did was hardly unique. History is filled
with similar examples—the Cataclysm, for instance, when ancient
Magefolk warred amongst themselves for power. They came perilously
close to destroying the world with the four great Artifacts of
Power,

and—"

"For goodness' sake, Finbarr, spare us the lecture!" interrupted
Eliseth,

Aurian was shocked by her rudeness, but Finbarr seemed
unsurprised. He continued ro address his words to herself, as
though the Magewoman's ill-tempered outburst was of no importance.
"I hope, my young friend, that you will never let Eliseth teach
you to scorn the knowledge that is so important to us all. If we
study our history, it teaches us not to repeat mis-takes. I know
that Eliseth is in charge of your training just now, but when
you're allowed to, come back and talk to me. I can teach you other
things apart from magic, and I'll always be here to answer your
questions. I always keep a welcome for civilized company. And now,
I don't believe that Eliseth told me your

name?"

"It's Aurian." She managed a smile for him.

"Mine is Finbarr. I'm Meiriel's soul mate, and I hope you'll be
seeing much more of us as time goes on. In the meantime, here's my
advice: apply yourself diligently, keep out of trouble _and don't
let the Lady of Misrule here grind you down."

"It's time we were going, Aurian," Eliseth interrupted icily.



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Finbarr grinned. "See what I mean? We'd better do as she says, or
she'll have us neck-deep in hailstones in no time!"

"Blast you, Finbarr!" Eliseth snarled. "Don't you dare try to be
funny at my expense!"

"Sorry, Eliseth." To Aurian, the Archivist did not look at all
repentant. "Goodbye, Aurian—for the present."

The introduction to the other Magefolk was much less satisfactory.
The twins simply treated her with dismissive contempt, and Aurian
felt very uneasy in their company. There was something
unsettlingly strange about them that she couldn't quite place.
They both had the appearance of beardless young men and both were
fair, but Davorshan had a surprisingly coarse and stocky frame for
one of Mage blood. His short-cropped blond hair had a distinct
gingerish cast, and his colorless eyes were framed with pale
lashes.

Aurian found it almost impossible to look him in the eye, for the
anonymous coloring seemed to automatically divert her gaze
elsewhere. What was worse, he seemed to be very much aware of the
fact, and she suspected that he used it deliberately to unnerve
people.

Davorshan's brother, D'arvan, was completely different in
appearance—so much so that it seemed impossible that they could be
brothers, let alone twins. His pale, flaxen hair was shoulder
length, and his bone structure was so finely carved and fragile-
looking that he seemed ethereal in appearance. His beautiful face
looked almost feminine, and his deep, luminous gray eyes had long,
sweeping darMashes that many a maid would have sold her soul for.
He hung back behind his brother, saying nothing and letting
Davorshan do all the talking. Had Aurian been more mature and
confident, she might have suspected him of being painfully shy,
but as it was she found him cold and fey,

"What do they do?" Aurian asked Eliseth timidly, as they left the
twins' quarters.


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The Magewoman shrugged. "The Gods only know. They're of Mage
blood—their father was the famous Water-Mage Bavordran, and their
mother was Adrina, the Earth-Mage. Miathan is certain they must
have power, but whatever it is, it hasn't surfaced yet. We think
that because they are twins, they're so tajagj^d up in each
other's minds that the
power cannot be released. Davorshan shows some aptitude for Water-
magic, but he seems fascinated with physical methods of control,
rather than magical ones. His mind is full of pumps and pipes and
aqueducts and so on. We keep telling him that such stuff is for
Mortals—we have other methods at our disposal —but we cannot break
him of the nonsense. As for D'arvan— he can't spit without his
brother's help! I've told the Archmage that it's a waste of time,
but Miathan insists that we keep trying with him."

Eliseth did, however, seem to think a lot of the last Mage,
Bragar. His discipline was Fire-magic, as Geraint's had been, and
Aurian had been looking forward to meeting him. Her enthusiasm
died as soon as she saw him. Bragar was gaunt-faced and completely
bald. His dark eyes, like Eliseth's, were devoid of warmth and
expression, giving him a reptilian appearance. His aura was as
dark as his purple robes, and Aurian, young and inexperienced
though she was, could feel the cruelty of his nature shadowing him
like the blackest of wings. He looked down at her over his high-
bridged nose as though she were some species of insect, and his
voice, when he deigned to speak to her, was sardonic and
patronizing. He made Aurian's flesh creep, and she vowed to
herself that she'd keep out of his way. She already knew that she
possessed her father's talent of Fire-magic, and the thought of
studying under Bragar filled her with fear.

The weeks that followed Aurian's arrival at the Academy became one
long, inescapable nightmare. She was left in Eliseth's sole
charge, and the Magewoman was unremittingly harsh with her. Aurian
lacked any formal training in magic, and hitherto her use of her
powers had been spontaneous and instinctive. Now she had to learn
to discipline her wildfire talent into the controlled and focused
power that was the true secret of Magehood. This, according to
Eliseth, could only be done by the endless repetition of drills


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and exercises that seemed, to Aurian, to explain nothing and
accomplish very little.

Eliseth tried her with Fire-magic, using a candle flame which
Aurian had to ignite, extinguish, or make larger or smaller.
Aurian had no idea where to start. She also failed at

mental communication—a rare gift among the Magefolk in any case,
though Eliseth didn't explain that to Aurian. She had some limited
success with simple levitation and Earth-magic, but Water-magic
she found impossible to grasp. The magic of the element of
Air—which, as a Weather-Mage, was Eliseth's specialty—the
Magewoman dismissed as being far too difficult for Aurian, given
her poor performance to date.

Forral's exercises in concentration helped a little, but Aurian
found that focusing her will differed greatly from concentrating
her mind. Time after time, some small distraction would interfere
with her attention, and she would either lose her gathered power
completely, or it would get out of control with unfortunate
results. Eliseth's punishments on these occasions were inventive,
cruel, and humiliating, and Aurian soon became afraid even to try,
lest she fail once more. But this only got her into more trouble
with her impatient teacher. Even in the evenings, her time was not
her own, for Eliseth set her to learning the entire Mages' Code by
heart, and tested her on it every day.

Aurian was more miserable and lonely than she had ever been in her
life. Things might have been easier if she could have sent a
message to her mother, or talked to Finbarr or Meiriel, but
Eliseth kept her a virtual prisoner. She made her work all day and
locked her into her room at night. Aurian lost her appetite and
couldn't sleep. She lay awake each night tossing and fretting, and
each morning the face that looked back from her mirror seemed more
pale, glunrC and hollow-eyed. She became increasingly nervous and
timid, and wept at the slightest provocation. As the weeks turned
into months and spring came slowly round again, she became more
and more convinced that she would never be a Mage. Inevitably, her
hopelessness overcame even her fear of the city and the great
world outside, and she became driven by a desperate need to


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escape.

At last the opportunity arrived. After a particularly trying day,
Eliseth sent her to her room—and forgot to lock the door. Aurian
waited breathlessly until well into the night, praying that the
Mage would not return to imprison her once more. Then she bundled
up her spare clothing in a blanket and crept out of the tower,
expecting at any moment to hear an angry voice calling her baek*

It seemed almost too easy. The air was mild and springlike, the
full moon gave her plenty of light, and the courtyard was
completely deserted. Aurian flitted silently from shadow to
shadow, searching for another exit apart from the main gate, which
was guarded, and would only lead her down the exposed road to the
gatehouse on the causeway. As she circled the high wall of the
complex, she began to despair. Surely there must be another way
out! But her searching only brought her full circle, back to the
Mages' Tower. Aurian could have sat down and wept, but the chance
to escape might never come again, and she couldn't afford to waste
it. She gritted her teeth and swore one of Forral's favorite
oaths. "Right," she muttered. "I'll climb the bloody wall!"
Searching for a better purchase on the smooth stonework, she crept
into the corner where the wall joined the rounded side of the
tower. And there, hidden in shadow, was a small wooden postern,
set deep within the thick stones of the wall! Biting her lip,
Aurian wrestled with the great iron ring that served as a handle,
and pushed. The little door swung open. Aurian slipped through—and
her heart sank. Before her was a walled garden, not a way out.

From her hiding place in the bushes that grew along the wall,
Aurian scanned the garden. It was beautifully kept, with smoothly
trimmed lawns, sparkling fountains, and neat beds of delicate
spring flowers that shimmered palely in the moonlight. Their
fragrance drifted to Aurian on the warm breeze, and early moths
danced above them as though some of the blossoms had taken to the
air. Apart from a circular wooden arbor in the center, only the
walls with their cover of shrubs and vines offered shelter for a
fugitive. But one wall—the one farthest away from her—was only
waist high. She could climb out! For a moment Aurian's heart
leapt. Then she got her bearings. It was the wall bounding the


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edge of the steep cliff face that sheared down like the prow of a
ship to the river below. She set her jaw stubbornly, and fought
down her despair. I'll just have to try to climb down, that's all,
she decided. Maybe it won't be too bad. I'd rather die than spend
another night in this place!

Aurian slunk around the edge of the garden, staying in the shadow
of the bushes and heading for the low wall. Then suddenly she saw
the old man. He had been hidden by the arbor when she had entered,
but now he was in plain sight, kneeling

over a flower bed with a trowel in his hand. Her heart pounding,
Aurian backed into the bushes, discovering too late that they were
roses. The thorns stuck painfully into her back and caught in her
clothes and hair, but she didn't dare make a sound or move to free
herself, though the old gardener seemed to be completely engrossed
in his task.

Aurian waited. And waited, praying that the old fool would hurry
up and go away. Surely he wasn't planning to work all night?
Evidently not. Suddenly, without looking up, he said: "Isn't it
uncomfortable in there?" Aurian caught her breath, feeling the
thorns drive deeper into her skin as she shrank back into the
concealing foliage. "You might as well come out, you know." The
rough old voice was not unkind. "The Archmage's private garden is
never the best place to hide, my dear. They say the very flowers
whisper secrets in his ears."

With a gasp, Aurian shot out of the rosebushes, ripping her
clothes on the thorns. The old man smiled. "That's better. This
garden hasn't seen a pretty girl in more years than I could
count." From a pocket in his patched old tunic he took a small
flask of wine, and a package neatly wrapped in a clean white
cloth. "I'm just about to eat," he said. "Do you like bread and
cheese?"

He obviously wasn't right in the head. Aurian began to sidle
toward the low wall. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm afraid I
don't have time."



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"Nonsense. It's better to run away on a full stomach than an empty
one, I always say."

"How did you know?" The words were out before she could stop them.

He shrugged. "It's fairly obvious. I shouldn't try the cliff,
though. Nobody has managed it yet, and it will just be a mess when
you're splattered on those rocks at the bottom."

Aurian stared at him, defeated. A single tear trickled down her
cheek.

"Come along," the old man said kindly. "Have some supper and tell
me all about it. Perhaps I can help you."

Aurian had never drunk wine before. Somehow she ended up with the
lion's share of the flask, and it loosened her tongue. Before long
he had coaxed from her the whole story of her life, ending with
the difficulties and misery of her time at the Acad-
emy. The old man listened gravely, slipping in a question from
time to time. He even gave her his handkerchief when her tears
began to fall once more. When she had finished, he held out his
hand. "Come with me," he said gently. "It's time that matters were
set to rights."

Aurian's childhood injunctions about not going away with strangers
were screaming warnings at her, but the old gardener was the
nearest thing she had to a friend. Obediently she followed him
across the garden and out through the postern door. It was only
when they reached the Mages' Tower that Aurian faltered. The old
fool was insane!

"I can't!" she gasped. "Eliseth is in there, and—and the
Archmage!" She tried to pull away from him, but he held her
firmly, his dark eyes burning into hers.

"My dear child, have you not guessed yet? I am the Archmage!"

Aurian almost fainted. She had been complaining bitterly about the
Academy to the Archmage himself! He had caught her trying to run


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away and trespassing in his private garden. She couldn't speak,
and she was trembling so hard that her legs threatened to give way
beneath her.

Miathan put a steadying arm around her shoulders. "Don't be
afraid, child," he said. "If anyone is punished over this
business, it will certainly not be you." Still Aurian hung back,
frightened by the sudden steel in his voice. The Archmage looked
down at her and sighed. "Come along, girl," he said testily. "I
won't turn you 4sto a toad. But I will turn you into a first-class
Mage!" And he smiled at her. It was such a dazzling, kind smile
that Aurian's fears vanished like melting snow.

When they reached his rooms, the Archmage summoned a sleepy
servant and ordered a second, far more sumptuous supper for them.
He seated Aurian in a soft chair by the fire while he changed from
his patched old gardening clothes into the splendid scarlet robes
of his office. She gazed around the chamber while she waited, awed
by the richness of the splendid furnishings, the deep soft carpet,
and the gold-stitched tapestries that decorated the walls. Why,
this place was fit for a king! It was a far, far cry from her
cramped, bare little cell on the bottom floor.

The food arrived with amazing promptness, considering

that the kitchen workers must have been hauled from their beds to
prepare it. Aurian gazed, bewildered, at the tempting array —far
too much for two people. She wondered, nervously, if she'd be
expected to eat it all. And the food itself! Eilin had little time
to cook, so her meals had been good but simple— and Eliseth seemed
to think that bread and milk was enough for her to live on. Now
she was faced with meats covered in rich sauces, and vegetables
and fruits prepared in a wildly elaborate fashion. To her
embarrassment, Aurian had no idea what do with some of the
exotically shaped foodstuffs. Should she pick them up in her
fingers, or would that be a breach of manners? Miathan, however,
seemed aware of her predicament. He insisted on serving her
himself, and explaining the complicated dishes to her whenever he
saw her hesitate. Encouraged by his kindness and helped by the
wine, which was beginning to make her head spin, Aurian began to


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relax and enjoy her food. It had been ages since she had eaten a
proper meal.

As they ate, Miathan explained that there had been a
misunderstanding, and that from now on, he would supervise her
training personally.

Aurian went suddenly cold. "But—but Eliseth says I'm useless," she
confessed, shamefaced.

Miathan raised his eyebrows. "What? Geraint and Eilin's daughter
useless? I don't believe it!" Reaching out a hand, he snuffed the
single candle that burned in a silver holder in the center of the
table. The room was suddenly plunged into shadow, the only light
coming from'the roaring flames in the fireplace. "Aurian, will you
light the candle for me? I can't see to eat," the Archmage said.

Aurian's mind went blank with panic. The more she                                                tried to focus
her scattered thoughts, the worse it became. What                                                would he do to
her if she failed? Suddenly Miathan's strong hand                                                closed around
hers, and his warm voice cut through the chaos in                                                her mind.

"Relax, child. Think of the flame. Picture it in your mind. It's
only a glowing spot at first, clinging to the wick. Then the wax
on the wick starts to melt and splutter—you can smell it— and the
little flame starts to blossom and grow . . ."

Aurian's eyes widened. It was happening! A soft pool of light
crept toward the-*edges of the room as her little flame

\W&]^m

caught and expanded. "I did it!" she yelled triumphantly— then
clamped her hand over her mouth in horror as a roaring column of
fire, responding to her euphoria, shot up from the candle to
scorch the ceiling. "Oh!" Aurian damped the flame automatically,
as she had done so often with her fireballs at home, and shrank
away from Miathan. "I'm sorry," she whispered fearfully.

The Archmage threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Well,"


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he spluttered, "I asked for that! I see that I shall have to be
very careful about my requests to you in future!"

Aurian was dumbfounded. "You mean—it's all right? But I just
ruined your ceiling!"

"Never mind the ceiling, my dear. The servants will soon put it
right," Miathan said. "More important, you've proved that, far
from being hopeless, you have a very powerful talent at your
disposal. All we need do is teach you to summon it— which you
managed very well, once I explained how to do it— and control it.
You failed to break your link with the flame, you see, and it was
simply responding to your emotions."

"Will you show me how?" Aurian asked eagerly,

Miathan smiled. "Aren't you tired? It's very late."

"Tired? No, not a bit. It's all so-—" Aunan's voice was swallowed
in a huge yawn.

The Archmage held out his hand. "Come along," he said. "You can
sleep in my bed tonight, and in the morning, I'll arrange to have
you moved. There's a set of empty rooms on the floor below—they
belonged to your father, as a matter of fact. We'll be working
very closely together in future, so I'll want you near me. How
does that suit?"

"Oh, thank you!" In an excess of gratitude, Aurian threw her arms
around Miathan's neck and hugged him. For a nervous moment she
wondered if she had gone too far, but then she saw that his stern
old face was beaming. It was in that instant that Aurian came to
love him. She fell asleep in his great canopied bed feeling
happier and more secure than she had done in months, and instead
of Forral's, it was Miathan's face that filled her last drowsy
thoughts,

A knock on the door interrupted Miathan's contemplation of the
sleeping young girl. Sighing, he left the bedchamber,



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closing the door quietly behind him. As he had expected, his
visitor was Eliseth. "Could it not wait until morning?" he said
crossly.

Eliseth walked across to the fire and warmed her hands. "I
couldn't sleep. I wanted to know how it went."

"Well, you certainly played your part successfully. The poor child
was almost terrified beyond functioning! But her power, Eliseth!
It was incredible in one so young!"

"Just what are your plans for her?" Eliseth's voice turned sharp.
"You're training her yourself—does that mean you have her in mind
to succeed you?"

Miathan chuckled. "So that's what this nocturnal visit is about, I
might have guessed. Well, you can relax, my dear. I have no plans
to appoint a successor just yet—in feet I may never appoint one."

"What? But—but the maximum tenure for the position is two hundred
years! It always has been,"

"Traditionally, yes. But traditions may be put aside. I enjoy
being Archmage, and besides, who would succeed me? Though you and
Bragar have ambitions in that direction—"

"Bragar?" Eliseth gasped.

Miathan laughed. "How naive you are! Did you think you had tamed
him with the lure of your body? It failed to work on me—what made
you think it would succeed any better with him? It's been most
entertaining to watch the two of you maneuvering and plotting
around each other, but I'm well ahead of you both in the game of
poweT, Y^u'd do better to remain on my side, my dear. One day I
plan to rule the world, and there will be power and wealth to
spare for my loyal supporters," Miathan's expression became grim.
"Don't think of crossing me, Eliseth, I'm more than a match for
you alone, but now you'll have Aurian to deal with, too. You've
trapped yourself nicely there, with this plan of ours. Aurian
already hates you— and now the child is mine."


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A   VOICE         IN      THE       DARK

o that's how you do it!" Aurian ran her fingers along the racks of
scrolls, and the field of magic, marked by an aura of glittering
blue Magelight, shimmered at her touch. Aurian's face was alight
with enthusiasm, and Finbarr marveled again at the change that six
years had wrought in the young Mage. At twenty, she had blossomed
into a tall, slender young woman. Her mane of glowing, dark red
hair was the same, but her face had matured into the sculpted
planes and angles that reminded him so strongly of her father.
With that nose, she would never be called pretty, but her features
had a strong, stark, compelling beauty that was all her own. And
her manner had changed radically from the cowed and nervous child
he had first known. Now she was happy, confident, and glowing—her
powers increasing by the day—and an absolute sink for knowledge.
Miathan had done well with her. Almost too well, Finbarr sometimes
thought.

"Finbarr, are you listening?"

"What? Yes, of course . .                           . What were you saying?"

Aurian gave a long-suffering sigh, but she was smiling. "I asked
you if this preserving spell you use on the old documents actually
takes them out of time in some way?"

Finbarr was startled. "Why yes, I suppose it does. I never really
thought of it that wajs but the idea would make sense. I found the
spell in an archaic scroll written by Barothas—you know, that
ancient historian obsessed with proving the existence of the lost
Dragonfolk. He mentions several earlier references—alas, now lost
to us—that quote their ability to manipulate time, not to mention
other dimensions. Indeed, your poor father used his notes in that
tragic experiment to move from world to world. Of course, to
manipulate space, as opposed to time, one would—"

"Good gracious, Finbarr," Have you never considered the
implications of this?"



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"What implications?" The Archivist, jolted from the realms of
scholarly discourse, felt the first stirrings of alarm.

Aurian frowned. "Well, I don't know exactly. But I'm sure


I could think of a few things." Her voice took on a wheedling
note. "Finbarr, would you teach me that spell?"

Finbarr gave the young Mage a severe look. Her face was a picture
of innocence, but he was not fooled—he knew Aurian far too well.
"If by that you mean will I let you see the scroll, the answer is
absolutely not. After what happened to Geraint, I locked it safely
away, and there it stays. It may console you to know, however,
that you are not the only one forbidden such knowledge—I decided
long ago that Dragon magic is too dangerous for the Magefolk to
tamper with. I deeply regret not burning the scroll when first I
found it—yet even now, knowing the damage it can wreak, I cannot
bring myself to destroy part of our history. No one but ourselves,
and possibly your mother, knows of its existence—and Aurian, I put
you on your honor not to say a word of it to a single soul, not
even the Archmage." He took her hands in his own. "Have I your
promise?"

"Of course you do!" Aurian assured him. "On condition," she added
craftily, "that you teach me the time spell!"

The Archivist hesitated, racking his brains for a means of escape.
"You must check with Miathan first," he said at last. "He's in
charge of your training, and your schedule is far too crowded as
it is."

"Oh, that's all right," Aurian said. "I can make the extra time.
In fact, if you show me this spell, I may find a way of doing
exactly that." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. It took Finbarr a
moment to grasp her meanj/ig, and when he did his blood went cold.
"Aurian! Don't you dare even contemplate playing around with time!
Have you any notion of how dangerous that could be? The Gods only
know what damage you might do!"



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Aurian patted his arm. "It's all right, Finbarr. I was only
teasing." But her eyes remained thoughtful.

"Listen," Finbarr said, hoping to change the subject. "Meiriel and
I would like you to come to supper with us tonight. She says she
never sees you these days, because you're so busy."

Aurian's face fell. "Oh, I can't tonight. I need to get busy ith
these books on Weather-magic you've found for me. iathan has been
helpjgg me, but Eliseth is the specialist, and
since she's so reluctant to teach me, I have to pick up the theory
where I can. If only I could get into that blasted dome and
practice! But she always has some excuse. It's so frustrating^'
She banged her fist on the table.

Finbarr blinked. "I didn't know you had actually started on
Weather-magic," he said.

"Well, I needed something to fill my time when I stopped studying
Fire-magic with Bragar."      i

The Archivist frowned. "Yes, I'd heard about that. My dear child,
do you not think it was unwise to quarrel with Bragar?"

"Meaning that you do, I suppose?" Aurian scowled. "Bra-gar is an
ass! He thinks he's such an expert, but he barely knows the first
thing about Fire-magic! I had learned everything that I could
possibly learn from him, and if he didn't like it when I told him
so, that's his hard luck!"

"As I heard it, you were tactless in the extreme," Finbarr
admonished her, "and I advise you to apologize. Mark my words,
Aurian, Bragar will make you a bad enemy."

Aurian shrugged. "I don't have time to be soothing Bra-gar's
sulks. He'll get over it. Finbarr, please will you teach me that
spell?"

"Aurian, don't you think you have enough on your plate? You work
all the hours the Gods send. If you're not too busy to eat, you


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forget—and I've seen that light burning in your rooms all night!
Don't you think you should make time for a little recreation? Or
even sleep occasionally, for goodness' sake?"

"I'm all right." Aurian's expression grew serious. "Finbarr, I
want to make Miathan proud of me. He's been so good to me —like
the father I never knew. The only way I can repay^him is to become
the best Mage that ever lived—and I will, you'll see." Her jaw
tightened in the stubborn expression that Finbarr, not to mention
everyone else in the Academy from the servants to the Archmage,
knew only too well by now.

The Archivist sighed. Meiriel was right to be concerned. Aurian
had become completely obsessive about her work, forgetting to eat
and sleep, and putting far too much strain on the inner energies
that were the source of her magical powers. The danger signs were
already showing. Her face was wan and drawn, and her skin seemed
to glow with an inner light. Her green eyes were vague and
glowing.

AUR1AN          •       75

Last summer, when Finbarr had taken Aurian to visit her mother, he
had tried to enlist Eilin's aid in persuading her to slow down,
but the Earth-Mage, used to her own grueling la^ bors, had
dismissed his concerns. Eilin had also been pushing herself too
hard—her self-imposed task was far too much for one Mage. Finbarr
had been alarmed by her haggard appearance, and knew that she was
missing Aurian more than she would admit; but when he had begged
Eilin to return to the Academy, she had refused outright. Like
mother like daughter, Finbarr thought. I can see where Aurian gets
her obsessive behavior from—and her impossible stubbornness!

Nonetheless, he decided on one last attempt to get through to the
headstrong young Mage. "Aurian, listen. You must take better care
of yourself! Meiriel believes you're in danger of burning yourself
out! Terrible things can happen to a Mage who overstretches
herself as you do. Miathan is proud of your accomplishments, but
he doesn't want you to lose your powers—and your mind—through
being overzealous. Believe me, it can happen. I have cases


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documented right here, if you want to see them."

Aurian's expression grew grave. "Is Meiriel really worried?"

"She certainly is. If you would only talk to her—"

"Of course I will!" Aurian cried impulsively. "Listen—I'll come to
supper after all, and explain that there's no problem. I'm sure I
can set her mind at rest. In the meantime, I'll take these, and
make a start." Gatherim^her armload of heavy old volumes from the
table, she dashed out, forgetting, as usual, to say goodbye.

Finbarr sighed. Well', he had tried. Perhaps Meiriel could talk
some sense into her.

The heat struck Aurian like a blow as she emerged from the library
into the dusty, sunlit courtyard. The weather was rarely this good
so far north, but the hot spell had been going on for over a month
now, and showed no signs of abating. At first the farmers outside
the city had been pleased, but now all the hay was in and the
parched corn was drooping in the fields. The river had dried to a
stinking, muddy trickle, and for the first time in living memory,
water was rationed in Nexis. The

Mortals had started looking to the Magefolk to solve the problem,
and rumors of unrest were growing daily as the drought continued.

Aurian gave the matter little thought. She was absorbed in her own
work, and blithely confident that Miathan could solve any problem.
She had no idea of the hardships that the Mortals were suffering,
as the Academy was supplied by its own deep underground springs,
and the Magefolk suffered no lack of water. Since she rarely left
the hilltop complex, she was unaware that her people were now
discouraged from going into the city alone. Speeding across the
courtyard, Aurian decided to spend the rest of the afternoon
studying in Miathan's garden—a privilege that was uniquely hers,
so close was she to the Archmage. But when she reached the little
door she heard Eliseth's voice coming from the other side of the
wall.



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"Miathan, I've done what I can. I can't make it rain just like
that—the nearest clouds are hundreds of miles away! I've set
things in motion, but it will take them days to get here, and I'm
exhausting myself in the process. Those clods in the city should
be grateful! Frankly, had you not insisted, I wouldn't even
bother. Who cares about their stupid drought? The Magefolk are all
right."

"Eliseth, I explained why." Miathan sounded weary and exasperated.
"You know how volatile the situation is down there. Water is
already rationed, and Meinel says that if the river gets any
lower, there is,a serious risk of disease. There have been some
isolated outbreaks already, and they're blaming the Magefolk. If
we have an epidemic, the city will go up like tinder, and I'm not
ready to deal with an angry mob. Rioch came to see me last night,
and this time he's determined to retire. He says he's too old to
cope with the unrest. And Van-nor! I suspect that secretly he's
one of the main fomentors of the trouble. He used to be bad
enough, but since his wife died last year he crosses me on the
Council at every opportunity. Because Meiriel failed to save her,
he blames the Magefolk." Miathan sighed. "It would help if we
could find a successor for Rioch, but there is no sympathy for our
people at the Garrison just now. Eliseth, if you can't manage some
rain soon, I don't dare contemplate the consequences."


"I'm doing my best!" Eliseth snapped. "If you didn't plague me
with your problems, I would have more time—"

Aurian walked away, frowning. Poor Miathan! She hadn't realized
that matters were so serious. Perhaps if she made some progress
with her studies in Weather-magic, she would be able to help him.
Suddenly decisive, she shifted the heavy stack of books to her
other arm and headed for her rooms. It was stifling in the tower,
and for once Aurian found herself wishing she lived nearer to the
ground floor, as she dragged herself up the endless spiral of
steps. By the time she reached her door, she felt weak and dizzy.
A servant passed her on his way down from Miathan's chambers, and
with Finbarr's warning in mind, Aurian detained him. She hadn't
eaten all day, but on the point of asking him for some food, she


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hesitated. It was too hot to eat. I can get something later, she
thought. "Bring me a cool drink," she told the man, and went into
her rooms, dropping the books on the table with a grateful sigh.

Though there was no fire in the grate, the room was like an oven.
The green and gold curtains hung limp at the open window, and dust
motes hovered in the thick bar of sunlight that pooled on the moss-
green carpet. Aurian reached for the pitcher of water on her
table, but discarded its stale and lukewarm contents with a
grimace, deciding to wait for the servant's return. If Miathan
would give me my own servant, she thought, I wouldn't suffer such
neglect! She pulled up a chair and sat down at the table, deciding
that she might as well get started.

Whoever had written the artcieirt volume had atrocious
handwriting. Aurian rubbed her eyes, which ached from trying to
decipher the illegible scrawl. The lines seemed to undulate across
the page as the brassy sunlight poured through the window,
striking the parchment with a dazzling glare and scorching the
back of her head. Aurian wondered irritably when the wretched
servant would bring her drink, then turned her attention back to
her work. Thank goodness Finbarr had taught her that spell to
clarify these archaic scribbles! Frowning with con-;entration, she
focused on the page, reaching deep within her-If to access her
powers.

At first Aurian was unaware that anything was amiss. Then ic
noticed that, instead of becoming clearer, the words seemed to be
getting smaller^SXfith a shock, she realized that the pe-
riphery of her vision had clouded so that the writing seemed far
away, at the end of a long, dark tunnel. When she tried to wrench
her eyes away, her body would not obey her. Everything was
speeding away from her, and she was falling—falling into the dark
...

"I'm sorry, Archmage, I can do no more. I warned her this would
happen if she pushed herself too hard." The Healer sounded upset.

Miathan stifled his anger. This is my fault, he thought, for
letting Aurian overextend herself. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It's


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been three days, Meiriel!"

Meiriel sat down wearily on Aurian's bed. "Physically, nothing is
wrong with her," she explained. "As far as I can tell, there's no
loss of her powers. Because she overtaxed them, something inside
her has withdrawn. I think Aurian is aware of what is happening
around her, but she's trapped within herself, and we can't get
through to her."

"How long will it last?" Miathan demanded.

Meiriel shrugged. "Who knows? To be honest, Archmage, if you can't
reach her, the situation must be bad."

"What about her mother?"

Meiriel shook her head. "I doubt she'd be much help. Apart from
you, the only person close to Aurian was that Mortal."

"Forral! Of course!" Miathan drove his fist into his palm. His
quick brain had the~'glimmerings of a tremendous idea. "Forral
could be the solution to all our problems. Can you have Finbarr
scry for him at once? I'll arrange for a messenger. The sooner we
can send for him, the better."

The light from the glowing crystal on the table before the
Archivist threw sharp shadows on the wall behind him. The Archmage
hovered at his shoulder, seething with impatience.

"Will you get out of the way, Miathan?" Finbarr's voice was
uncharacteristically sharp. "Your emotional aura is enough to
block reception for miles around!"

"Just get on with it!" Miathan snapped. Finbarr unfolded from nis
chair and turned to glare into the Archmage's eyes. He pointed a
long, bony finger at the door. "Out!"


Miathan blinked in astonishment. He had forgotten the fondness
that had always existed between Aurian and the Archivist.


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Swallowing an angry reply, he headed for the door, and began to
pace up and down the corridor outside.

After several minutes, Finbarr's head appeared round the door.
"All the way out!" he said. "When I find your swordsman, I'll send
for you."

Forral sighed wearily, and pushed the stack of documents away from
him. There was no more space on the overcrowded desk, and a pile
of papers at the back slid over the edge and rearranged themselves
across the floor. Forral swore. What had possessed him to take
command of this dead-and-alive hole at the back end of nowhere?
The southern coast was quiet these days, and the troops at the
hill forts had nothing to do but ride out to quell the occasional
uprising of the Hill Tribes; the rough, fiercely independent folk
who mined minerals and metals from these bleak southern slopes.
And since the Tribes, savage though they were, were utterly
disorganized and constantly feuding with one another, that left
Forral with little to do but cope with a flood of trifling
administrative problems that were slowly driving him crazy.

The swordsman now bitterly regretted that he had ever come to this
place. It had seemed a haven at first, for without Aurian, his
life had seemed to have little purpose. For about a year after
leaving the Valley, he had wandered aimlessly, picking up work
here and there as he'could, mostly guarding caravans or warehouses
for merchants. Dull work it had been, and sometimes degrading, but
he had cared little, save that he had a dry place to sleep and
food in his belly—and sometimes a few spare coins over, to spend
on drink and women. The latter, in the end, had finished it for
him. Sick of loneliness, and squalor, and morning-after awakenings
with a throbbing head and a strange face next to him on the
pillow, he had taken the post at the fort to provide himself with
some purpose in life. It had seemed like a good idea at the time,
he thought ruefully.

Forral picked up the flask of wine, then set it down with a
grimace. Boredom and inaction were driving him to drink, and that
wouldn't solve anything. He frowned at the walls of thick gray
stone that had become his prison. It was definitely time for


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a change. Without thinking, he poured a cup of wine and began to
review his options. Mercenary work, with its danger and hardships,
no longer attracted him as it had done when he was younger. There
was no doubt about it—life at the fort had made him soft.

A knock on the door interrupted his gloomy thoughts, and a young
soldier entered somewhat timidly. Forral was aware that his troops
were giving him a wide berth nowadays. Afraid of the Old Man's
uncertain temper, he acknowledged ruefully to himself. "Yes, what
is it?" he snapped.

The soldier saluted. "Sir, a courier has arrived for you. He bears
an urgent message from the Archmage himself!"

The young man's tones were hushed with awe, and Forral felt much
the same. What could Miathan want with him? Aware of the young
trooper's eyes on him, he schooled his features into a semblance
of unconcern. "You'd better send him in, then."

The dust-caked messenger was stumbling with weariness. Forral
suggested that he go to the mess hall to refresh himself, but the
man handed him a scroll instead. "The Archmage said to be sure you
read it at once, sir. He said it's very urgent."

"All right. Sit down then, man, before you fall over." Forral
poured him a glass of wine, then sat down and broke the seal on
the crumpled scroll.

"Great Chathak!" Forral's eyes widened in disbelief. He was
actually being offered command of the Garrison, with its position
on the Ruling Cdifncil of Nexis! But the import of the news was
lost in the remainder of the message. Aurian needed him! "Take a
day's rest before you start back," he told the courier. "I have to
leave at once." He overturned the chair in his haste and shot out
of the door, bellowing for his second-in-command.

Aurian was lost. She was trapped within a maze whose dark walls
enclosed her endlessly, keeping her mind circling in an agony of
hopeless frustration. She heard voices sometimes— those of Meiriel
and Finbarr, and even Miathan—but she was helpless to respond. She


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lost track of time and reality, slipping away into bizarre and
frightening dreams, or sometimes returning to her childhood. The
voices faded in and out of her

consciousness, sounding hushed and worried. Aurian clung to them
desperately, fearful for her sanity.

Then, out of the darkness, a new voice called to her—and an old
one. A dear, familiar voice that she had despaired of ever hearing
again. It shook with emotion.

"Aurian? Aurian, love, it's me."

It was a dream—it had to be—but her mind yearned desperately
toward it. The voice grew stern. "They tell me you've been
neglecting your sword practice. How do you expect to become the
world's best swordswoman if you lie around in bed all day?"

Ah, that was it. She had been wounded—of course! All that stuff
about the Academy and the Archmage must have been fever dreams.
Gods, they had seemed real. But now she must be getting better,
and Forral was calling to her. Aurian opened her eyes-—and blinked
in confusion. It was Forral all right, but he was different from
the man she remembered. His body was heavier, and his hair and
beard were beginning to gray. "Forral?" She struggled to sit up.

"Ah, love!" Forral's voice was choked with emotion as he enfolded
her in an enormous hug, crushing her tightly to his breast.

Aurian felt her heart thudding strangely. As a child she had never
been so aware of his touch. Over his shoulder she glimpsed the
white walls of the infirmary, and the familiar figures of Meiriel
and the Archmage.^and her mind reeled, trying to slot it all into
place. She pulled away, touching the swordsman's face with
tentative fingers. "Forral? You've come back? You've really come
back?" He nodded, unable to speak. Aurian's eyes brimmed over, and
she threw her arms around him in a fierce hug of her own.

"I do like to see a happy ending." Miathan's dry voice interrupted
their reunion, and Aurian wondered why he was frowning.


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Forral turned to the Archmage with a scowl. "If it is a happy
ending, it's no thanks to you," he said flatly. "How could you let
this happen to her?"

Miathan's face darkened. Aurian winced, knowing all too well the
Archmage's**e*nper, but Forral glared back at him,
unimpressed. "Now that I'm back I'll make bloody sure it doesn't
happen again!"

"That depends on you," Miathan said coolly. "When I put my
proposition to you, you seemed far from enthusiastic. How can you
help Aurian if you are elsewhere?"

"What is this?" Aurian interrupted.

Forral sighed. "The Archmage has offered me the post of Commander
of the Garrison," he said.

"That means you'll be staying in Nexis!" Aurian could hardly
contain her delight. "Oh Forral, that's wonderful! I've missed you
so much!"

Forral looked at her helplessly, and shook his head. "All right,
Miathan, I give in. I accept. But it'll be on my terms. And before
I start, I'm taking Aurian out of here for a holiday —a long
holiday—at your expense."

Aurian and Forral left the Academy shortly thereafter unaware that
they were being watched from a window high in the Mages' Tower.
"Curse her!" Bragar snarled. "Why could the arrogant bitch not
have died? Why did Miathan bring that wretched swordsman here? The
fewer pieces there are in this game, the better, especially where
Aurian is concerned."

Eliseth laughed, a soft, smug, silvery laugh. "I wouldn't be too
concerned, Bragar." She laid a cool hand on his arm. "I have a
feeling that before too long, Miathan's little pet will remove
herself from the game."



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"What do you mean?" Bragar was frowning.

Eliseth laughed again. "You men! So obtuse! Did you not notice the
way she was looking at that oaf of a Mortal?"

"What?"

"Spare me the indignation, Bragar! You've had Mortals many a time,
and so have I. But we had the sense to get rid of— the evidence."
Eliseth purred. "Aurian won't, I'll wager. And our dear Archmage
will never brook a rival. He has designs upon her himself!" She
shrugged. "All we need do is wait. Eventually the pieces will
fall—right into our hands. And speaking of pieces, I think we
ought to recruit a pawn of our own."

"A pawn? What do you mean? What are you plotting now, Eliseth?
Meiriel and Finbarr would never—"


"Not them, moron!" Eliseth's voice dripped scorn. "I was talking
about Davorshan."

Bragar burst out laughing. "My dear Eliseth, how do you propose to
get him away from that twin of his? And even if you did, what
earthly use would he be? Those two haven't the power between them
to light a candle!"

"Between them, no. But if there were only one? I believe that's
the problem, Bragar. They have sufficient power for one Mage, but
their minds are so closely linked that neither can use it. I want
that power to come to us, and Davorshan is the likeliest candidate
of the two. As for parting him from D'arvan . . ."A smug little
smile tugged at the corners of Eliseth's mouth. "I believe he has
reached the stage where . . . certain inducements might work."

Bragar reached out to embrace her. "By the Gods, but you're
devious!" he said approvingly.

"True." Deftly, Eliseth avoided his grasp. You fool, she thought
scornfully. Little do you know just how devious I can be!


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Forral took Aurian to stay at the Fleet Deer, one of the finest
inns in Nexis. From the start, the swordsman forbade her to use
the slightest hint of magic—not even to light a candle— but now
that she was reunited with her beloved Forral, Aurian never missed
it. On the first night, over the best supper the inn could
provide, she and Forral brought themselves up to the present, and
the swordsman spoke of his reluctance to accept the Garrison post.

"It's a tremendous honor," he said, "but I don't fancy it much. I
accepted because I couldn't turn down the chance for us to be
together again. Oh Gods, lass, but I've missed you!"

Aurian reached across the table and took his hand. "And I missed
you," she said softly. "If you only knew the tears I've shed . .
." Her eyes flashed angrily. "How could you just go away like
that?"

Forral looked abashed. "I'm sorry, love, truly I am. I honestly
thought it was the best thing. I felt so bad about what happened,
I just couldn't think straight. Then the Healer and your mother
said—" ~"*"v*

"Mother? I might have guessed!" Aurian got hold of her anger with
an effort. "I'm sorry. I won't spoil tonight. The main thing is
that you're back. But why don't you want to take command of the
Garrison?"

Forral smiled. "How you've grown up! All these years I've thought
of you as a child, and now I find a woman. It'll take some getting
used to."

The look he gave her was lingering, and Aurian found herself
blushing as the intimacy of his gaze kindled a new and disturbing
warmth within her. "The Garrison?" she prompted, to cover her
sudden, unaccountable shyness. To her relief Forral shook himself,
as though waking from a dream, and took up her

cue.



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"It's not the responsibility that worries me." He grimaced. "It's
the bloody paperwork! I hate administration!"

Aurian laughed. "Is that all? Then don't do it!"

"Aurian, I don't think you realize—"

"Of course I do. But as Garrison Commander, you'll have so much
influence! Hire someone else to do the paperwork, then you'll have
more time to do what you want—and to spend with

me!"

Forral's face was a study in amazement and relief. "Aurian,

you're a genius!"

They talked all night, reveling in each other's company, and for
the first time in her life, Aurian got truly drunk. Forral
introduced her to peach brandy, and she took to it all too well.
The way she felt next morning came as a shock. She awoke with a
churning stomach and pounding head, and a quick, wincing glance
between the curtains showed that the sun had already reached the
zenith.

When Aurian came down to the private dining room reserved for
guests at the inn, she discovered that Forral had beaten her
downstairs—but only just. One look at his pale face and bleary
eyes showed that at least they were suffering together. At the
sight of him, Aurian found herself hesitating. She'd had such
dreams last night! Dreams where Forral had kissed her, held her .
. . You fool, she told herself firmly. Why, he practically brought
you up! It must have been the wine . . . But he looked up and
smiled, and she found that

she was shaking as she sat down. It was the wine, she repeated
determinedly. Only the wine . . .

"Great Chathak, love, you're white as a sheet!" Forral sounded
concerned. "Poor lass—it's the first time you've drunk too much,


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isn't it? And it's my fault . . ."

As he took her hand, a jolt of tingling fire sped through Aurian's
body. Gods, she thought, what's happening to me? Forral pushed a
steaming cup toward her, and she buried her face in it, to hide
her confusion. It was tail/in, a tea made from the leaves of a
bush that grew in the southeast and was the staple stimulant of
the city dwellers. Aurian took a sip, grimacing at the acid taste.
How she missed her mother's teas, made from a variety of berries,
flowers, or herbs, each with a specific benefit to confer.
Nonetheless, as a poor riser, Aurian was grateful for tail/in.

Just then one of the inn's serving men approached, all apologetic
deference. They had already discovered Forral's identity, and as
for having a Mage as a guest . . .

"I'm sorry, Sir and Lady," he said. "This is the best we could do
for breakfast, it being so late. Times are so bad." He plunked
down two plates of what Aurian could only describe as curdled
eggs, and beat a hasty retreat. She stared in disbelief at the
slimy yellow spoonful on her plate, swallowing the bile that rose
in her throat. Times being so bad? What did he mean? Surely things
weren't that bad in the city, despite the drought! She'd never had
this problem at the Academy, and supper last night had been all
right. Although, srie acknowledged wryly, she'd been so immersed
in Forral that she wouldn't have noticed if—

"Sir! Commander Forral!" It was the landlord of the inn, and by
the look of him, the man was in a rare panic! Aurian blinked in
surprise at his red-faced, disheveled appearance. Could this be
the same urbane, self-possessed man who had welcomed them last
night? He tugged at Forral's arm, completely abandoning the
servile courtesy with which the Fleet Deer treated its guests.
"Sir, come quick!" he panted. "There's a riot in the market!"

"What?" Forral flung back his chair and leapt to his feet. "Stay
here," he told Aurian, and was gone.

For a moment, thf*Mage's childhood habit of obedience to



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the swordsman held firm. Then her brows knotted, and her jaw began
to clench. Stay here, indeed, as though she were still a child?
Sit and drink tail/in, while he went into danger? "Some chance!"
Aurian muttered. Rising swiftly, she hurried after For-ral.

STORMBRINGER

he mess hall of the Nexis Garrison tended to be busy during the
hour of the midday meal. The noise was usually close to deafening,
as the cheerful clatter of knife on plate and the din of competing
talk and ribald jests echoed round the bare walls of whitewashed
stone. Today, nothing could be heard but a desultory murmur of
conversation and the buzz of the fat black flies that clustered
round the discarded food on the tables. Because of the drought,
the imminent change of Commander, and the looming threat of civil
unrest, morale at the Garrison was at its lowest ebb.

Maya looked at the rows of empty tables and benches, and frowned.
She was not surprised that no one was eating. Rations were short
because of the drought, and food went rancid quickly in this heat.
Vegetables and fruit were in short supply. They went mostly to the
well-off, who could afford the inflated cost; to inns like the
Fleet Deer that catered to the rich; or—the small, dark-haired
warrior scowled—to the blasted Magefolk! Maya clenched her fists
beneath the table. What had happened to justice? Everywhere else
in Nexis, including the Garrison, folk were mainly living on the
stringy, fly-blown carcasses of the beasts that were dying like
flies in the scorched countryside.

"What a bloody awful life!" Maya muttered, hardly sure whether she
was speaking to herself.'br to Hargorn.

The aging warrior, well aware of what lay behind her gloom, gave
her hand a sympathetic squeeze. "Don't take it to heart, lovey.
It's no reflection on your abilities, or the fact that you're a
woman, that the Archmage won't have you on the Council of Three.
In fact, to the troopers, it's a compliment. At least it proves
that you aren't in the old bastard's pocket. And Second-in-Command
to that great a swordsman isn't such a bad promotion, is it?"



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Maya grimaced. "It is if you'd planned to be Commander! Besides,
Forral may be the world's greatest swordsman, but we all know he
got the post because he's so matey with the Magefolk." She banged
her fist on the table. "Miathan might as well take command himself
and be done with it. If it wasn't for
Vannor, the poor bloody Mortals who live in this city would have
no representation at all!"

"Woman or no, you'd never have got the post with those views,"
Hargorn told her bitterly. "They were what ruined my career at the
Garrison. Mark my words, lassie—stay out of city politics." He
adjusted the band that held back his long, gray-shot mane of hair,
and stood up. "I'd better go. If Parric doesn't get back soon I'll
be needed to—"

"He's not back from seeing Vannor?" Maya wished that she had drawn
that duty. She both liked and respected the tough, stocky little
Head of the Merchants' Guild, with his wry sense of humor and
uncompromising attitude to life in general and the Magefolk in
particular.

Hargorn shook his head. "Why Rioch sent Parric up there with word
about his successor, I don't know! As if it makes any difference
to Vannor who the Archmage has picked—"

"Here comes Parric now," Maya interrupted.

It was a long-standing Garrison joke that the wiry little
Cavalrymaster could never enter a room quietly. This time, Parric
was in a paroxysm of coughing from the white dust that blew
endlessly around the dried-out Parade Ground. He was also in a
tremendous hurry. Crossing to their table, he wiped the dust from
his tanned face and balding head and downed the flat, lukewarm
remains of Maya's tankard of ale in a single gulp. "There's
trouble," he said, "and I can't find Rioch anywhere!"

It had been a long walk from the mill to Nexis. It seemed like an
even longer climb from the river path up to Green-market Square,
where the farmers from outside the city came to sell their
produce. Sara tucked stray wisps of sweat-damp hair back into her


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kerchief as she trudged up the steep cobbled lane, and shifted the
clumsy basket to her other arm. She stamped her foot in annoyance
as the loose weave of the basket snagged the thin fabric of her
gown. Why had her stupid mother made her trail all this way on a
fool's errand? As if there'd be any produce to buy! Is it my fault
we're short of food? she thought irritably. Did I make the
wretched drought? To add to her list of complaints, her usually
indulgent father had given her a thorough scolding for not getting
up early enough to reach the market when it opened. Sara scowled.
There'd been no living

AURIAN          •       89

with the man, since the shrunken river had left the mill wheel
high and dry. And since Anvar no longer needed to come in his cart
for flour, she'd had to walk all this way\ Not, she mused, that
Anvar was any fun nowadays. He was always working, as if that
would get him anywhere. The trouble was, he had no ambition.

Nearly there! Sara sighed gratefully, as she started to drag
herself up the steep flight of steps that led to the entrance of
the square. Hot, footsore, and hungry as she was, she was far too
busy nursing her grievances to notice the rising hubbub of angry
voices. Entering the square, she walked straight into a riot.

Vannor galloped through the city streets at breakneck speed,
having flogged his poor horse all the way from his home on the
south bank of the river. He'd received word from the frantic
stallholders of the Greenmarket, who, on seeing the ugly mood of
the crowd, had sent for the Head of their Merchants' Guild.
"Stupid idiots!" Vannor muttered in exasperation. Why hadn't they
sent to the Garrison, which was closer? It was sheer luck that
Parric had been with him today, when the flustered messenger had
arrived!

Not daring to waste time in taking a longer way around, the
merchant urged his reluctant horse straight up the stone steps
that were the quickest route into the market. By the time Parric
managed to alert the troopers, the situation could be well out of
hand. On reaching the square", Vrfhnor discovered that it already


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was. A huge bonfire, made from torn-down stalls, burned in the
center of the marketplace. The square was filled with a seething
mass of people. Some bore cudgels, while others, to Vannor's
alarm, were armed with torches, stones, and knives. "Down with the
merchants!" they chanted. "Down with the Magefolk!"

Vannor cursed. He agreed, in his heart of hearts, with the latter
sentiment, but as Head of the Merchants' Guild he could hardly
condone the former. The merchants were huddled behind a barricade
of upended carts, the target of missiles and abuse. It was easy to
see what had sparked the riot. Behind the traders was a wagon
laden with produce: boxes of summer fruits; root and leaf
vegetables, shriveled but sound; assorted
cheeses; and two crates of live poultry. The cart was stamped with
the mark of the Magefolk, and had clearly been destined for the
Academy. The merchants, even in the face of the mob, were too
terrified of Miathan's wrath to renege on their bargain with the
Archmage, and were still trying to defend the wagon with its
precious cargo.

Struggling with his shying horse, Vannor paused at the edge of the
square. What can I do, he thought, against this? Where are the
troopers? The trouble was, having fought his way out of a
childhood of squalid poverty to his present high station, he
sympathized with the desperate, hungry folk in the square. Yet he
was Head of the Merchants' Guild now, and his people were in
danger—he had a responsibility to them . . . He must get through
to the traders, and force them to abandon that stupid wagon! Not
daring to think of the consequences, he began to urge his
shrinking mount through the impacted crowd.

It was hard going. The horse was understandably reluctant,
terrified of the mob. That makes two of us, Vannor thought grimly,
as he fought off clutching hands and fended off the missiles as
best he could. Faces, pale and pinched with hunger, turned toward
him. Somewhere in the crowd, a cry went up. With a hollow sickness
in the pit of his stomach, Vannor realized his mistake too late.
To these people, his horse meant food. A stone hit his face, and
he tasted blood. They surged behind him, blocking his retreat, but
too scared, yet, to approach the flashing heels of his mount.


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Though he tried to thrust a way forward, he could make no headway.
He shouted to attract the traders' attention, but they would never
hear him over this din.

Suddenly Vannor's horse gave a shrill scream and reared, lashing
out with its hooves. The crowd shrank away from it in panic. As he
wrestled with its reins, another shriek drew the merchant's eyes
downward. A young girl had fallen beneath the flailing hooves of
his mount! Wrenching the beast aside with a yank that nearly
pulled his arms from their sockets, Vannor reached down, grabbed
her wrist, and pulled her up out of danger.

She scrambled up into his saddle, weeping, bruised, and
terrified—surely nothing to do with this wild mob. "It's all
right," Vannor assured her, as she clung to him, sobbing hyster-

AUR1AN          •       91

ically. "You're all right now!" It was an outright lie. His horse
lurched, buffeted by the crowd, and the girl gave another
terrified scream. Oh Gods, the merchant thought—how am I ever
going to get us out of this?

Forral took in the situation in a single glance. Corning from the
Fleet Deer, he had reached the square from the side opposite to
Vannor, emerging from a narrow alley behind the traders'
barricade. "Chathak's bloody balls!" he swore. What a start to his
Garrison command] And where were the troopers? They should be
here. The swordsman knew that nothing could be done to calm this
mob. The merchants would have to retreat —and fast. A gang of men,
their faces distorted with hysterical rage, were lighting torches
at the bonfire. Ducking to avoid the barrage of refuse and
uprooted cobbles hurled by the crowd, Forral dodged into the
cramped space behind the wagons. The terrified merchants were
doing their best to hold off the mob by thrusting their swords
through the spaces between the carts. Forral grabbed the nearest
trader by the shoulder, and spun him round. "Get out of here,
man—before they think of the alley and block your retreat! The
food will delay them!"



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The merchant's face, already pale, twisted into a mask of terror.
"We can't leave the cart! The Archmage will—"

"Bugger the Archmage!" Forral roared. "You'll be killed—"

It was too late. With a crackle and a roar, the tinder-dry
barricade of carts burst into flame, ^s the traders fell back,
screaming, the mob prepared to charge.

Aurian had followed Forral until he entered the square. She paused
then, pondering what to do next. If she tried to join him, she
knew he would send her back—and have a thing or two to say to her
when the fuss had died down. But he'd be in danger. She should be
with him! She felt sick with terror at the thought of losing him
forever. Yet Aurian knew from past experience that Forral would be
furious if she risked her own life. That's his hard luck, she
decided with a shrug. I'm too big to be spanked this time!

She started toward the end of the alley, but just as she reached
it, she noticed that the side door of one of the houses
that lined the square was standing slightly ajar. Aurian stopped.
She rarely came down into Nexis, but if she remembered rightly,
these houses had balconies that looked over the square. Without
hesitation she slipped inside. Luckily, the house was empty.
Perhaps the occupants had gone to join the riot, Aurian thought.

These once grand houses that lined the market were shabby and
crumbling now, for the district was no longer in fashion with the
wealthy. Aurian hunted through spacious, well-proportioned rooms
until she found one with tall windows leading to the balcony.
Opening the shutters, she stepped out _and recoiled from the chaos
below. Across the square, a man on horseback was struggling
against the crowd, who threatened to drag him down. A fair-haired
girl perched before him on the saddle, and the little fool was
clinging to him hysterically, hampering his sword arm as he tried
to strike at his attackers.

Idiot! Aurian snorted, and turned away to look down to her left,
for a glimpse of Forral. She saw him below her, arguing with one
of the merchants. Then her blood froze, as she saw a thin, deadly


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ribbon of flame winding through the crowd as the torch-bearers
advanced. Gods! If the barricade burned, Forral would have no
defense! Aurian's mind raced with the impetus of fear. There was
one chance to stop this madness—and only she could do it. Rain,
she thought. I must bring rain! Yet her guts knotted in terror as
she remembered what had happened when she had last tried to use
her magic. She recalled the hopeless circling in the d»k maze—her
terror—her helplessness. She hadn't used her magic since then.
Would she still be able to function? Would she suffer the same
fate again? She'd had no real experience with Weather-magic, which
was a difficult and exhausting business. But she had to save
Forral.

Her fingers clenching tight around the beveled metal railing of
the balcony, Aurian pushed her awareness out beyond her body, as
she had been taught. Scanning the sky, she swore under her breath.
Blue. Bright, unblemished blue, paling to white heat near the
horizon. Where were the bloody clouds that Eliseth was supposed to
have been moving? Aurian recalled what she had learned of weather
patterns in Finbarr's archaic books. The west—they should be
coming from the west. Able now to focus all her power in a single
direction, Aurian pushed

her mind out further and further. Ah! There—far out over the
western ocean . . .

An explosion of flame and a wild cheer from the crowd wrenched
Aurian back to herself with a jerk. She clung to the railing for a
moment, dizzy and disoriented from the abrupt return to her body.
Then she saw. The wagons were burning! "Forral!" Aurian was
unaware that she had called his name aloud. The clouds were too
far away—how could she move such a mass of air and water in time?

In that frantic split second, Aurian felt the heat of the flames
as they consumed the carts—felt the anger of the mob, like another
wall of fire, beating up at her with pulsing hatred. Suddenly the
face of her father, Geraint—long forgotten from her
babyhood—seemed to hang before her. She could hear his voice:
"Energy takes many forms, and the wise Mage can utilize them all.
Strong emotions—anger, fear, love—all of these can be used to fuel


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the potvers of magic . . ."

Aurian never stopped to question. There was no time. She reached
out to the mad, frenzied energy of the mob, to the raw heat-energy
of the fire—and pulled . . .

It was strange to her, this taking-in of power. It was, strictly
speaking, against the Mages' Code—yet there was so much energy
surging around the square that she could easily take what she
needed, and do no harm.

The tricky part was to pull energy into herself, and push                                                        her
consciousness outward at the same time. She had to forget                                                        her body
completely, her consciousness'almost, She had to become a                                                        pipe, a
conduit, a vessel; and simply let the energy flow through                                                        ...

Her seeking mind encountered the clouds once more. Would it be
easier to push, or pull? But the clouds were moving in this
direction anyway. Pull, then. But how? What was there to grasp in
a cloud? Ah! Of course. Aurian stationed her will between the
clouds and the front of cold pressure that preceded them, and
pushed with all her strength toward Nexis, driving the air away to
create a vacuum. Air was lighter to move than water. Gleefully, it
seemed, the clouds rushed in to fill the space . . .

It was almost too easy, with all this energy at her disposal.
Later, Aurian was to realize that what had taken ages in out-of-

her-body time was scant seconds in reality. When a thick layer of
cloud had capped the city's valley like a black and sinister lid,
she returned to her body, gathered her power, and

struck .          .     .

A bolt of lighting arced down, splintering into forks as it came.
In the distance, a rumble of thunder rolled down the river valley
. . . Rain! Aurian thought, reaching up to the low-trailing
streamers of cloud. Half connected as she was to her body, it felt
as though she were clawing at the blue-black canopy, using her
fingers to drag the precious moisture down from the skies . . .


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She came abruptly back to herself as the downpour hit. It came all
at once, in a solid, heavy sheet, Instantly, Aurian's hair was
flattened over her face. She found it hard to breathe, as though
she were underwater. It was cold. It extinguished the fire in an
instant.

Reluctantly, Aurian pulled herself away from the glory of the
elements. Only then, did she hear the cheering of the crowd. The
riot had vanished in an instant, as though the rain had washed the
fear and fury away. People were capering in the square, swinging
each other about in wild, giddy dances, men and women alike. The
man on the horse was picking his careful way through the
celebrating crowd, heading toward the merchants' position,

"What have you done?"

Aurian whirled, shocked, to find herself face-to-face with Forral.
He'd used the crumbling brickwork of the building to pull himself
up to her balcony. "How did you do it? It was you, wasn't it? How
dare you put yourself in such danger? Don't you remember why I was
called back here in the first place?"

Forral's smoke-blackened face was grim and his voice was harsh
with anger as his big hands gripped her shoulders. Aurian shrunk
away, remembering the day when he had caught her in the forest,
playing with fireballs.

Then her Magefolk pride asserted itself, and she pulled herself
erect. How dare he treat her as if she were still a child!

Her reaction was the last thing that Forral had expected. Aurian
wrenched herself violently out of his grasp, and for the first
time, he realized that she was as tall as he, if not slightly

taller. Her chin tilted proudly, and her eyes blazed with cold
fire in a face that was white with anger. In her wrath she was a
true Mage, and truly intimidating! The storm above him seemed to
grow in sympathy with her rage. A bolt of lightning splintered the
roof of a nearby building.


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"How dare you!" Aurian spat. "How dare you abandon me all this
time, and return for less than a day, before trying to kill
yourself! And what gives you the right to keep me from helping?"

Forral backed away hastily, and knew it for a retreat. By no means
a stupid man, he suddenly realized that his relationship with
Aurian was going to need a lot of rethinking. But Gods, she was so
magnificent in her rage—so beautiful, standing proud and tall,
like a spirit of the storm, with fire-ice flashing from her eyes.
In that moment, Forral was lost, "I . , ," he stammered. Whatever
he had meant to say was drowned in a thunder of hooves as a
company of warriors rode into the square. The troopers had arrived
at last, Forral turned back to Aurian. She was still facing him,
proud and uncompromising, with a challenging question in her eyes.
The swordsman grinned, and clapped her hard on the shoulder—the
typical comradely gesture between warriors. He chuckled as he saw
her eyes widen with surprise. "Well done, lass!" he told her.
"Well done, indeed! You've saved the day!"

An hour later, a solemn conference of leaders gathered in the
private dining room of the Flee^Deer. The room was warm with
lamplight, for the heavy black clouds of Aurian's storm still hung
overhead, turning the summer afternoon into twilight. Rain drummed
on the streaming pavements outside, and ran in rivulets down the
diamond-leaded casements.

The fawning landlord, flattered to have so many influential people
beneath his roof, served them great, brimming tankards of dark
ale, and platters of fruit, cold meats, and cheese, Aurian looked
sourly at the food. Granted, there wasn't a lot here, but to the
hungry folk who had started the riot, it would have been a feast.
For the first time, she wondered why the Magefolk rations had been
singled out in the market.

As everyone settled round the table, Aurian looked at the
assembled faces, ses*cl*ing her memory to put a name to each of
the folk who had so recently been introduced to her. Seated on
Forral's right was a tough-looking, stocky man with close-cropped
hair and beard: Vannor, Head of the Merchants' Guild. To Aurian's


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left sat a small, slender woman in leather fighting garb. Her
tanned limbs were corded with muscle, and her dark braids, still
jeweled with raindrops, were wrapped round her head, warrior-
fashion. This was Lieutenant Maya, Second-in-Command of the
Garrison. She was frowning and ill at ease, biting her lip and
twisting her hands in her lap. Beyond her was Parric, the
Cavalrymaster, a short, brown, wiry figure (were all these
Garrison warriors small? Aurian wondered,) with thinning brown
hair and laugh lines on his face. But he was not laughing now.

Aurian felt uneasy herself, among these grim-faced strangers.
Never before had she been surrounded by so many Mortals! To ease
her anxiety she picked up the huge pewter tankard, brimming with
ale. She had never drunk ale before—the Magefolk, who drank wine,
scorned it as common stuff and only fit for Mortals. It took both
her hands to lift the tankard, and she grimaced as she took a sip
of the foaming brew. Gods! How could the others sit there and
quaff this bitter stuff! She took another hasty sip to stop
herself choking, reluctant to lose face before these Mortals. But
Vannor had noticed. He grinned at her sympathetically, and gave
her a sly wink, miming that she should keep on drinking. Shyly,
Aurian smiled back, and tried again. Ah, this time if-didn't taste
quite so bad! Maybe it was something you had to get used to.

Vannor cleared his throat and stood up, resting his hands on the
table. "Well," he said bluntly, "we didn't come here to sit all
afternoon drinking ale. We'd best get started—and I can't think of
a better way to start than by thanking the Lady Aurian for
bringing the rain, and for releasing that Magefolk food to those
in need of it. Lady, as Head of the Merchants' Guild, I'm most
grateful—as are the folk of Nexis." Turning to her, he bowed.

Aurian felt her face grow hot with embarrassment at such a public
compliment. Moreover, he'd used her honorific title as a Mage, and
it was the first time she had been formally addressed that way.


"I . . ." Lost for words, she spread her hands helplessly. "What
else could I have done?"



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"Well said, Lady!" Vannor's voice rang out in approval.

Aurian thought it might be a good time to broach the question that
had been bothering her. "Sir," she began.

"Vannor, please, Lady." He smiled at her. "I've got no use for
these fancy titles. Just call me Vannor."

Aurian returned his smile. "Then call me Aurian—just Aurian." She
wondered why he looked surprised at her words, and why Forral was
beaming with approval. "Anyway," she went on, somewhat flustered
by the exchange. "I wondered . . . Well, this place has food"—she
pointed at the plates on the table—"and it can't be the only one,
I'm sure. Why wasn't this shared among the people? And why was the
wagon of the Magefolk singled out by the mob?"

Vannor seemed taken aback, and to her astonishment, he seemed
unable to meet her eyes. Forral, a half smile on his face, was
watching the exchange with keen interest. At last the merchant
found his voice. "Lady—Aurian—in a way, you're right. There's
injustice in Nexis. The rich look after themselves, and the
poor—well, they manage as best they can. Those who can't, must
sell themselves as bondservants for a term of years, or in the
case of heavy debt, for life. It's nothing but legal slavery!" He
scowled. "I do what I can on the Council—I was poor myself,
once—but the trouble is, as Head of the Merchants' Guild, I
represent a lot of rich people. If they don't like what I do, I'll
be voted out, and they'd replace me with someone who didn't give a
hang about the poor! So I walk a fine line . . ." He sighed.
"Aurian, I have to tell you that I get no help on the Council from
the Archmage, or from his puppet, Rioch." He directed a piercing
glance at Forral, and Aurian saw the big man suddenly stop
smiling. Vannor turned his gaze back to Aurian. "Can you deny that
Miathan despises all Mortals, rich or poor?"

Now it was Aurian's turn to blush. He was right— Miathan had said
so often enough, and, having known Forral, it made her
uncomfortable. But the Archmage had always represented Mortals as
being conniving, idle, shiftless, and downright dangerous—and
Vannor the worst of the lot! The acts of today's mob had supported


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his words. Yet she looked at Vannor
and through his blunt, rough-and-ready manner saw a kind, caring,
honest man. She looked away from him, more confused than she'd
ever been in her life. Suddenly she remembered the unpleasant
incident last year, when Meiriel had refused to help Vannor's wife
through a difficult childbirth. It was not necessary to intervene,
the Healer had insisted—but the woman had died. Aurian's face grew
hot with shame. No wonder Vannor had little use for her people.
Suddenly she began to understand why the Magefolk had been the
target of the mob's resentment. She only hoped her action in
bringing the rain and releasing food to the Mortals had done
something to redress the balance.

"Look here, Vannor." Forral rose, scowling, his gruff voice
betraying his irritation. "Aurian is a very young, and very minor,
member of the Magefolk. You can't go blaming her for the
Archmage's—"

"I don't, I don't!" Vannor held up his hands in a conciliatory
gesture. "My apologies, Aurian, if I suggested that\ What you did
today is more than good enough for me!"

"And another thing," Forral cut in. "If you think that I'm
Miathan's puppet, just because Rioch was—"

"Well, he chose you, didn't he?" Maya flared, her voice harsh with
bitterness. "What are we supposed to think?"

Forral looked at her coldly. "Ah yes, Lieutenant Maya. I'd meant
to get round to you, before we were sidetracked. Rioch is retired,
and as I hadn't taken charge yet, you were in command of the
Garrison today! Why were there no duty patrols on the streets? Can
you explain why"you didn't arrive until the emergency was over? As
Second-in-Command, I can't say you've impressed me so far!"

Aurian, seated next to Maya, was deeply aware of the woman's
distress at the charge. The warrior's face burned, and her hands
were shaking.-She squirmed beneath Forral's accusing gaze. Her
mouth opened, but she couldn't seem to speak.



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Aurian felt sorry for her. She knew how intimidating Forral could
be when he was angry. In an instinctive, impulsive gesture—for she
was not generally given to such intimacy with strangers—she
clasped Maya's hand beneath the table, offering support and
comfort. The pressure was returned, and Maya flashed her a
grateful smile, seeming to find her voice at last. "Sir, I—"


"Now just a bloody minute—Sir!" Parric leapt angrily to Maya's
defense. "It wasn't Maya's fault! You say that Rioch had retired,
but it's not true—not where we were concerned. He was still
hanging around, giving the occasional order—when he felt like it.
True, he expected Maya to handle all the dull, nitpicking jobs he
couldn't be bothered with—but he didn't back her authority, and he
wouldn't let her act on her own. The poor lass was in a bloody
awful position. And today those dumb bastards didn't even think to
send for us! By the time I'd managed to get word to the Garrison,
Rioch had disappeared, bag and baggage, and nobody knew where you
were, and there's poor Maya trying to organize the troops, but
everybody's running around like chickens saying 'Where's Rioch?'
and 'Who's giving orders?' Well, it was a miracle that she got the
troops out at all—especially when you consider that she was in
line for your command, and should have had it, and how much she
wanted it, but got turned down flat out of hand—"

"Parric!" Maya looked stricken.

Parric shrugged. "Well, it's true, and he should know it! Maya's a
bloody good soldier, Sir—the best. She deserves better than this."

Forral's expression was rueful. "So that's how it is." He sighed.
"I wish I'd known, before I accepted this post. My apologies,
Lieutenant, I was unjust." He took a deep breath, and looked
around at them all. "Grievances have been aired today, among the
five of us, that need to be dealt with. It's no good squabbling
amongst ourselves while the city falls apart around us. We must
support each other, for we"—he hit the table with his fist, then
gave a wry smile—"for lack of anyone better, are the ones who must
set Nexis to rights! And since we must trust each other, let me
make it clear, once and for all, that I don't plan to be a puppet


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for Miathan, or anyone else!"

Suddenly they were all on their feet, cheering. The tensions in
the room had vanished like smoke. Aurian looked proudly at Forral.
This is his doing, she thought, much impressed. Look how he's
brought us together.

"Now." Forral brought the meeting to order. "Maya, you left
Hargorn and his troops in charge of the market, and handing out
the Magefolk food. You reckon he's a good, experienced man, so
there should be «o problems there."

"If there are, he'll soon let you know!" Maya smiled. "Good. I
like dependable people around me. Now Parric— you organize a troop
of mounted foragers, and get into the countryside at first
light. Don't starve the farmers by any means, but I doubt you'll
have to." He grinned. "The drought hasn't been going on that long.
I suspect they're keeping the best stuff for themselves—and hoping
to push up the selling price, at the same time. By majority vote
of the Council"—he caught the merchant's eye, and Vannor
chuckled—"rationing is in force during the emergency, and their
produce is requisitioned. Don't put up with any nonsense. Mind
you, don't get carried away and start taking seed crops or
breeding stock—we have to think about the future. Take some extra
troopers to cart the stuff back as soon as possible—"

"And send it to me." Vannor's face was alight with mischief. "I'll
set up fair distribution through those merchants of mine—and don't
worry, I'll make the misers behave. No profit-squeezing at the
expense of the poor. It'll be a new experience for them, doing
good deeds!" He slapped his knee and chortled. "Gods, this'H upset
them." He winked at Forral. "I'll say it's

your fault, of course."

"Of course," Forral replied solemnly, with a wink of his own.
"Right, Parric—it'll take you a while to sort things out, so you'd
better get started."

"At once, Sir!" the Cavalrymaster replied with brisk good humor,


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and emptyingJiis tankard in one gargantuan, well-practiced
swallow, he went off, grinning from ear to ear.

"Maya." Forral turned to the warrior. "I want you to take charge
of the day-to-day running of the Garrison." He smiled at the
warrior's dumbfounded expression. "As Aurian will tell you, I'm no
administrator—my skills lie in practical warfare and teaching—so
we might as well play to our strengths. And don't worry about me
supporting your authority, because I'll back you every inch of the
way. In fact, I'll draft a set of orders before you leave, so
there are no more doubts about who's in

charge."

"Thank you, Sir." Maya's voice was level, but her face was

alight with joy. "I'll do a good job, I promise."

"Call me Forral." The swordsman smiled. "I've no doubt that vou'll
do a good job—as I said, I want dependable folk

around me." He paused. "There's one more thing—I'm supposed to
have a month's leave with Aurian before I take command, and I'd
still like to do that if I can. You and Vannor, with Parric's
help, should be able to handle things now that the worst of the
crisis is over—"

Suddenly an enraged shout came from the doorway. "Who has dared to
steal Magefolk provisions, already bought and paid for, to feed
the unruly rabble of this city!" The Archmage's entrance was
unexpected, and his anger was awesome. He stood tall before them
with blazing eyes, his expression thunderous. Aurian knew a sudden
stab of fear for Forral and Vannor. She had never seen Miathan so
angry.

The merchant and the swordsman exchanged a glance. "I did." Both
of them spoke together, and as Miathan's face darkened further,
Aurian knew she must act quickly in support of her friends. Though
her knees were trembling at the thought of Miathan's stupendous
wrath falling upon her, she stood up and faced the Archmage


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squarely. "That's not true," she said, in a small but steady
voice. "Neither of them had the authority to release that food, so
I did it—for the honor of the Magefolk. You see, the—"

"You—did—what~>" Miathan spoke through gritted teeth. Aurian
quailed, suddenly robbed of words by the soft menace in his voice.

"Let her finish, Archmage." Forral's voice was quiet, but his face
was set like stone. As the swordsman spoke, Aurian felt the
bracing grip of Maya's hand, arid kriew that the warrior was on
her side, returning help for help. The unexpected support gave her
the courage to continue.

"Miathan, it's not your fault," she said. "You can't have known
how bad things were in Nexis. If you had, you'd have done
something about it. Why, if you'd seen those poor, starving folk,
I know you would have released the food yourself. I, of all
people, know how kind you are. Please don't be angry—I knew it was
what you'd have wanted."

As Vannor was later to comment irreverently, her words took the
wind right out of Miathan's sails. The Archmage was, for once in
his life, completely lost for words.

"Archmage, the city appreciates the generosity of the Magefolk."
Vannor spelce softly and persuasively. "This Lady


has earned you a lot of gratitude today—for her kind heart, and
for bringing the rain."

Miathan gasped. "You did that?"

Nervously, Aurian nodded. "I—I hope I did it right," she faltered.

"Right? My dear girl, Eliseth has been trying for days to
accomplish what you have done! Most impressive. Most impressive,
indeed. But as for the rest, you must learn not to act without
thinking. Our people needed that food."



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As Miathan's brows began to knit once more into a frown, Vannor
spoke up again. "Don't worry on that score, Archmage. Commander
Forral has organized foraging parties, and food will start coming
into the city tomorrow. You've my word that your food will be
replaced as a matter of priority. Don't be angry with the Lady
Aurian—she acted from the best of motives."

"I'll support that," Forral added. "She prevented great loss of
life today."

Miathan, seeing that he was outnumbered, shrugged, and managed a
grimace that might have passed as a smile. "Very well," he said
stiffly. "It seems I must concede—this time." Turning on his heel,
he left. Aurian, guilty about her part in his rout and anxious to
know if he had really forgiven her, almost ran after him, there
and then. Almost.

"Phew," Vannor said. "That was nasty! Aurian, you're a hero.
You've saved our bacon again."

Glowing at the compliment, Aurian took a long swig of ale to
dispel her shakiness Forral was here, after all, and she was
supposed to be on holiday.

"By the Gods, lass, that was the bravest thing you've done all
day!" the swordsman told her, his face glowing with approval. Maya
caught her eye and smiled. Aurian knew, in that moment, that the
seeds of friendship had been sown between herself and this small,
dark-haired warrior, and the thought pleased her inordinately.
She'd never really had a woman friend before. Smiling shyly back
at Maya in acknowledgment of the wordless understanding between
them, Aurian decided that nothing, not even the Archmage, was
going to part her from these new and special companions.


It was long past nightfall when Vannor rode back toward his home.
Though Aurian's rain was still coming down in sheets and he was
soaked to the very bone, the merchant was smiling to himself as he
crossed the white bridge near the Academy and headed up the tree-
lined, lamplit lane toward his mansion on the southern riverbank.


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For the first time in over a year, since the death of his beloved
wife, Vannor felt at peace with himself. He was delighted, of
course, that he'd achieved such a good understanding with the new
Garrison Commander. And having one of the Magefolk on his side,
for once, boded well for the future. And what a brave, delightful
lass she was, at that. But the true cause of the merchant's quiet
joy was Sara, the girl he had rescued from the riot.

During his meeting with the other leaders, Vannor had left the
girl in the care of the innkeeper's wife. When he saw her again,
she had been fed, and had her bruises tended. The innkeeper's lady
had loaned her a gown to replace her ruined clothing, and her hair
had been newly washed and combed. The merchant had been amazed by
the transformation. He had stood, agape like the rawest apprentice
lad, in appreciation of her fragile, ethereal beauty. Gods, but
she had reminded him of his own dear, lost, lovely wife!

Now, Vannor was returning from taking her home to her worried
family. His heart beat faster at the memory of her slender form
perched before him on his saddle, his arms clasped tightly around
her waist. It would be a while before he could see her again, to
be sure, with so moch to settle in Nexis after the drought—he'd
have his work cut out for him in the coming days—but afterward . .
. His children needed a mother again, Vannor assured himself,
shrugging aside the uncomfortable thought that Sara could not be
much older than his eldest daughter. Where love was concerned, age
was never a problem! Her family had clearly been impressed by
their daughter's new friend, and Sara herself had hardly been
discouraging . . .

As he rode up the curving, graveled drive of his mansion, Vannor's
face split into a grin of pure joy. He knew where she lived now,
and by all the Gods, once this crisis was over, he meant to see
her again!

CKapter             7

DEATH       BY      FIRE

ith the coming of the rain, the threat of unrest in the ———— city


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soon died away. Regular supplies of food, small at first but
gradually increasing, began to trickle into Nexis as Parric's
bands of foragers warmed to their work, and the reluctant
merchants (browbeaten into cooperation by Vannor) began to oversee
the fair distribution of rations. At last the people of Nexis
could eat again—though it was sheer, contrary human nature,
perhaps, that led them to give the credit for the happy change in
their circumstances to the young, fire-haired Mage who had brought
the rain.

Word of Aurian's actions had spread through Nexis like wildfire,
and wherever she and Forral went, the young Mage was embarrassed
to find she had gained many new admirers. Though the Magefolk,
with their dramatic, finely sculpted appearance, could not be
anonymous in a Mortal crowd, Aurian was stunned that time and
again, people would recognize her. They picked her out to thank
her, or, in the case of the crafters, pressed their finest wares
on her as gifts. The last straw, however, was a woman who emerged
from the crowd in a tightly packed market and handed her a grimy,
bawling, and very wet baby that apparently she was supposed to
kiss. Gods, it had been hard to extricate herself from that with
good grace! Later, when Aurian complained about it to Forral over
a much-needed flagon of ale, the swordsman shrugged. "Don't worry,
love," he had said. "It's only a nine days' wonder. The excitement
will soon die down. In the meantime, be glad that they're
grateful, for once, to the Magefolk. You've done your people a lot
of good, and I hope Miathan appreciates it."

In fact, Forral thought, Aurian had done the most good for the
people of Nexis through her influence with Miathan, for her
exchange with the Archmage seemed to have affected him for the
better. To the surprise of the swordsman and the merchant, Miathan
had backed them on the Council when the first of the farmers
arrived in the city, complaining about a visit from Parric's
warriors. Miathan had sanctioned the foraging, and it had been the
farmers' fear of the Archmage that had allowed it to

succeed. After that, word sped through the countryside as fast as
it had flashed across the city, and the troops experienced little
resistance. Miathan was happy for the Magefolk to take the credit


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given to Aurian for ending the drought, and Forral had been
relieved that relations between the Mage and her mentor seemed to
be back on a friendly footing.

Aurian soon found Forral to be right. The people of Nexis had
their own lives to lead, and before very long she had ceased to be
the victim of their embarrassing attentions. Freed from their
unwelcome curiosity and her new notoriety, and with the Garrison
prospering in Maya's familiar, capable hands, she and Forral were
soon free to resume their interrupted vacation.

After a while, their days settled into a pattern. Sometimes they
would simply walk around the city and see the sights, and Aurian
discovered a new fascination in hunting around the merchants'
booths, with their silks and velvets, their jewels and perfume and
combs. Now that she was in Forral's company, she suddenly found
herself taking an unprecedented interest in her appearance. Though
she considered the elaborate gowns that were currently in fashion
among the city's women too impractical for words, the landlord of
the Fleet Deer was more than ready to direct her to the best
dressmakers, and his wife, who considered herself an expert in
taste and style, was happy to advise her. The gray Mages' robes
that Aurian usually wore were soon consigned to the back of the
closet in favor of bright, well-cut new garments, and she "was^
staggered by her own transformation. Forral was very tolerant.
"You spend what you like," he said, grinning. "The Archmage is
paying for it, after all."

Though Aurian possessed more than her share of Magefolk pride, she
had never been particularly vain about her appearance. Yet the
swordsman's reaction to her new finery was both gratifying and
disturbing. Time after time, she would find him looking at her—but
when she caught his eye, he would quickly turn away. To make
matters worse, Aurian found herself playing this watching game.
She found a strange new fascination in the white flash of Forral's
smile through his grizzled beard, or the play of muscles in his
brawny, sword-scarred limbs as he moved, despite his bulk, with
the silent grace of the born
swordsman. She would see his powerful, blunt-fingered, capable
hands and marvel that so much strength could be combined with such


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gentleness. She'd imagine them touching her, caress-

woiiJd check herseJf sharply,

in Aurian s childhood. Since Forml's recurn, a new restraint had
grown between them—a tension, half guilt, half excitement, that
underscored their friendship. Yet for all that, they were
inseparable. Each tried their hardest to pretend that nothing had
changed, though Aurian's heart would lift in the most unsettling
manner whenever he entered the room, and her senses were swamped
by a giddy, breathless feeling of happiness when he was close to
her. But she had always been this glad to see him . . . hadn't
she? "It's all right," Aurian would tell herself, as she lay awake
in the night in her small, white-walled room at the inn. "It's
only that we're old friends who've been apart for so long. We need
to get used to each other again, that's all." And as time went on,
she almost started to believe it. With familiarity, the tensions
between them seemed to be easing—a little.

On some evenings, they would meet Vannor, or Maya and Parric, if
he was in the city, and spend happy hours talking and carousing in
one of the city's many inns. It was on these nights that Aurian
found herself warming more and more to Maya's company, and the two
women soon found themselves well on the way to becoming
the^closest of friends.

On days when the weather was fine, the Mage and Forral, and
sometimes Maya, if she could spare the time, would borrow horses
from the Garrison and take a picnic into the hilly countryside
around Nexis, or hire a boat to sail the dozen or so miles
downriver to the sea. Aurian had never seen the sea before, but
she loved it. They would swim in the invigorating, strangely
buoyant waters, and spend hours basking on the sands. Her body
lost the pallor it had gained from years of indoor study, and her
physical strength began to return. Hoping it might help to get
their friendship back on its old, familiar footing, Aurian, with
Maya's enthusiastic support, nagged Forral into agreeing to resume
her sword training. He was reluctant at first, because the
accident of so many years ago was still fresh in



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his mind. But Aurian knew that he was secretly pleased. She still
had her sword, which Miathan had returned to her, and the thought
that she'd soon be using it again helped to cheer her up when at
last the vacation was over.

Finally the day arrived when Forral was due to take up his new
duties as Commander of the Garrison, and the young Mage had to
return to the Academy. Seeking an excuse to linger a little longer
in one another's company, they decided to delay Aurian's return
with a last shopping expedition in the Grand Arcade, an
interconnecting scries of pillared stone halls housing hundreds of
little shops and stalls that catered to the well-heeled section of
the Nexis community. It was said that virtually anything could be
bought there—if one had enough money. Most of the endless variety
of goods on display were far beyond the means of Aurian and
Forral, but they enjoyed wandering up and down the brightly lit
aisles, planning what they would buy if they ever became rich.

At last, footsore and hungry, they stopped at a baker's shop,
lured by a glorious aroma of warm, fresh bread. While Forral was
buying pasties from the woman behind the counter, a young man
emerged from the back of the shop carrying a tray of loaves.
Aurian saw him stop and stare at the swordsman, his blue eyes
suddenly widening. As they walked away from the shop, Aurian
noticed that Forral was frowning. "Never mind," she said. "The
vacation may be over, but we can still see a lot of each other."

Forral shook his head. "It isn'tjthat," he replied. "It was that
lad in the baker's shop—I'm sure I know him from somewhere, but I
can't think where."

Anvar was disappointed. He'd hoped for some acknowledgment from
the swordsman, but Forral had obviously failed to remember him.
But a man who kept company with one of those arrogant
Magefolk—even if it was the one who was said to have brought the
rain (which he privately doubted)—would scarcely have time for a
common baker's son. He shrugged, and set down the heavy tray.
"That's the lot," he told his mother. "I'll mind the shop now, if
you want to rest."



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Ria shook her head. "Thank you, dear, but I'm fine. Why don't you
go now? IJcnow you're meeting Sara this evening."

"Are you sure?" Since Tori had bought the shop, Ria's life had
become much easier, but Anvar still liked to spare his mother
whenever he could.

Ria smiled, and hugged him. "Of course. It's almost closing time
anyway, and it's a lovely evening. You two youngsters enjoy
yourselves—oh, and give my love to Sara."

"Thanks, Mother." Anvar hugged her, and taking off his white
apron, he dashed out of the shop.

As he made his way out of the arcade and down to the river, Anvar
couldn't help reflecting on the changes that had taken place in
his life since he had last seen Forral. When Grandpa died, Tori
had found a chest in the old man's room, filled with clever,
wonderfully detailed carvings of birds, animals, and people. As
was often the case, the death of the artist pushed the prices up,
and Grandpa's consummate works of art soon became fashionable
among the rich folk of the city. With such patronage, Tori soon
had enough money to put the next phase of his business into
action. His idea was simple but cunning. He bought the shop in the
Arcade, and though the only premises he could afford were too
small for a bakery, he installed a single oven in the back. Stocks
of almost-baked loaves were brought down from the old bakery by
horse and cart to be finished in the little oven, and soon the
mouth-watering smell of fresh bread was wafting through the
Arcade, bringing in the customers in droves.

Despite the temporary-rhardships caused by the drought, the
business had taken off like wildfire, keeping the whole family
busy. Ria and Anvar worked in the shop while Bern and Tori labored
in the bakery. Bern loved the trade, and set himself to becoming
as good a baker as his father. Anvar knew that his brother wished
him out of the way, so that one day he could inherit the business,
and to be honest, it only seemed fair. Anvar wanted to be a
minstrel, and had no interest in becoming a baker. But while his
father lived, he had little say in the matter.


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Apart       from his music, Sara was the main consolation of Anvar's
life.       On these long summer evenings they would meet down by the
river       and stroll along the tree-shaded banks that smelled of damp
earth       and wild garlic. Sometimes they would

AURIAN          •       lo9

take a bottle of wine and some of Tori's bread and stay out all
night to make love under the stars.

The thought of his love made Anvar's feet fly faster along the
dusty towpath. How he longed to see her! During the drought, he
had missed his visits to the mill. His father had kept both
himself and Bern busy, riding into the countryside or scrounging
round the markets of Nexis to find enough food to support the
family through the crisis. In fact, Anvar had been out of the city
on just such an errand when the riot had occurred, and he had
missed the so-called miracle performed by the young Mage who had
brought the rain. Sara had been there, though—his heart chilled at
the thought of her exposed to the dangers of the riot—although
since that day, he could never persuade her to speak of it.

Afterward, when they had started to meet again, Sara had seemed
different, somehow. More moody and discontented, less happy to see
him than of old, and inclined to fall into long and secretive
silences. It worried Anvar a little, but he told himself that her
strangeness was probably due to trouble at home. He knew her
family had suffered during the drought, and wished he could have
done more to help them.

When he reached their meeting place by the old stone bridge beyond
the outskirts of the city, Sara was waiting for him, her small
body lithe and slender in a thin summer dress and her long golden
hair unbound like a blaze of sunbeams. Anvar ran toward her, his
heart pounding, but the expression on her face stopped him dead. -
j

"What's wrong, love?" Anvar put his arms around her, trying to
stifle his hurt at the stiffening of her body and the way her eyes


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avoided his.

"I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant, Anvar!"

"But that's wonderful!" Her words had shocked him, true, but
nevertheless, Anvar felt a fierce, overriding surge of pride. Sara
turned on him, her eyes wild.

"Wonderful?" she cried. "What's wonderful about it, you idiot?
What will Father say? This is all your fault!" Tears poured down
her cheeks. "What am I going to do?" she wailed.

Anvar led her down the grassy bank to the riverside and sat her
down gently, putting an arm around her. "Don't worry, Sara," he
said. "I'll ta^k to your father. It'll be all right, I

promise. Oh, there'll be shouting from our families, and a few
things said about being more careful, and what will people say,
but it'll blow over. They know how things stand between us, and
they've always approved. We'll just have to bring our plans
forward, that's all."

"But I didn't want to get married yet!" cried Sara. "I'd hoped
that ... I mean I—I haven't lived\"

Her words cut him to the quick. Anvar stared at her, suddenly
feeling icy cold. "But I thought you wanted to marry me," he said.
He took a deep breath. "Sara, have you changed your mind?" He saw
the quick flare of panic in her eyes.

"No!" she said hastily. "No—look Anvar, I'm sorry. I didn't mean
it like that. I'm just upset, that's all. And frightened." She
stared up at him with huge violet eyes. "Anvar, please. I—I need
you."

Sara's lovemaking that night had a frenzied, almost desperate
quality. Again and again she wanted him, as though to blot out her
worries with the physical act. Anvar had no objections. He thought
he understood, and besides, the fact that the one he loved was now
bearing his child made her doubly precious to


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him.

Anvar awoke late next morning, cold and stiff and damp from the
dew, and in the harsh light of day, he began to worry after all,
about what their families would say. "Look," he said to Sara, "why
don't you come with me now and we'll talk to my mother. She's the
best person to break the news to."

Sara bit her lip. "Do \ have to? Can't you tell her, Anvar?"

she whined.

"No." Anvar took her firmly by the hand. "We'll have to face this
sooner or later. Come on—I'm late already, and Mother will have to
open up on her own. She never could manage to light that blasted
oven." He set off quickly along the path, with Sara trailing
reluctantly behind him.

When they arrived at the Arcade, a crowd of impatient customers
had gathered outside the shop, and Anvar and Sara had to shoulder
their way through. As they entered, Anvar saw Ria kneeling amid a
haphazard pile of kindling and tinder, struggling, as usual, to
light the oven.

What happened next would be etched on Anvar's memory forever,
returning over and over to haunt his worst nightmares.

AUR1AN          •       111

As they entered, he saw his mother take the oil lamp from the
shelf and pour its contents over the logs. "No!" he screamed, but
it was too late. Ria struck a spark and the oven exploded in a
sheet of flame, trapping her behind a wall of fire with her hair
and clothes alight.

To the end          of his days, Anvar had no idea how it happened.
Afterward,          all he could remember was shouting "STOP!" in a
superhuman          voice. A huge surge of force came out of nowhere,
flattening          him against the wall—and the flames went out.


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Immediately. Totally. Anvar crumpled to the floor, weak and dizzy.
He tore his eyes from the blackened, smoking thing that was his
mother to see Sara staring at him, her eyes filled with horror,
her mouth open in a soundless scream.

Someone fetched the baker. Anvar vaguely remembered his father's
hands around his throat, and Tori's voice screaming. "You did
this! You killed her!"

Still in shock and sick with guilt, Anvar made no move to defend
himself. It took four men to drag the baker off him. Even when
Tori was calmer, and had heard exactly what had happened, he eyed
his son with cold hatred. People in the Arcade rallied round.
Someone offered to take the weeping Sara back to her family, and
the cheesemaker from the next stall took Anvar and his father
home. Ria's body followed, wrapped in blankets, on another cart. A
kindly neighbor put Anvar to bed, and gave him a draught to make
him sleep.

Anvar was awakened by voices./Tve housed your bastard long
enough," Tori was saying, his voice thick with venom. "It was my
one chance to get a woman like Ria to accept me. She'd never say
who the father was—I thought it must be some merchant who was too
grand to marry her after her family lost their money. But after
the way Anvar put that fire out—and a dozen witnesses will back my
word—it's clear that his father was one of your people, Sir."

"Indeed?" The other voice was gruff and harsh. "This is a grave
accusation, baker. You know that matings between Mortal and
Magefolk are not acceptable to either community."

"I know, Sir. But I think that was why Ria was abandoned when she
became pregnant. And what Anvar did today proves it—so with all
due tesgect, he's your responsibility now. I don't
care what you do with him, just so long as you get him out of
here. I never want to set eyes on him again!"

There was a long pause, then the other spoke again. "Very well—on
condition that you deny the whole story. If there was a lapse by
one of the Magefolk, I don't want it to become common gossip. Will


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you sign an indenture bonding him to my service for the rest of
his life?"

"I'll sign anything, if it'll get rid of him." "Then I'll take him
with me now." A rough hand shook Anvar's shoulder, and he found
himself staring up into the craggy, eagle face of the Archmage
himself! "Get up, boy," he snapped. "Come with me!"

"Get a move on, fool!" In a temper, Miathan jerked the rope that
bound the wrists of his new bondservant and kicked his horse
forward, increasing the pace. The young man fell with a wailing
cry, skinning hands and knees already scraped raw from previous
falls during his stumbling journey through the city streets. The
Archmage had ridden on for several yards before he realized that
this time, the boy had failed to get up, and was being dragged
behind like a sack of bones.

Miathan reined in with a curse. It only needed one interfering
guard to come along—and he'd be the center of far more attention
than he wished. .He dismounted, thanking providence that the hour
was late, and most folk were off the streets. Anvar lay in the
gutter—where he belonged, the Archmage thought spitefully—sobbing
quietly. "Get up, you!" Miathan unleashed his rage with a vicious
kick, but his victim simply whimpered, and lay there unmoving.
"Oh Gods—this is all I need!" Miathan muttered savagely. With
angry, magically impelled strength, he lifted Anvar and threw him
roughly across his saddle. He tried not to look at the boy's face,
with its resemblance to Ria. She's dead now, he reminded himself.
Dead at

last.

As he led the horse down the steeply sloping lane toward

the bridge, Miathan found himself wondering how she had

managed to hide herself and her son for all these years. Had she

*~- -"""W npver have allowed her to bear this half-



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r           I       U»      1,,,,)

AURIAN          •       113

been, to allow himself to be allured by a Mortal in the first
place!

It was part of Miathan's Magefolk arrogance that he had nothing
but contempt for the Mortals with whom he shared his world and his
city, thinking of them as little more than animals. It was
particularly unfortunate for Anvar that his discovery had come at
this time, when the Archmage was still smarting from Aurian's
defection, and her unfortunate, unanticipated friendship with the
despised and lowly race. Because he was anxious to retain her
respect and goodwill, in order to foster his future plans for her,
he had been forced into the invidious and humiliating position of
making concessions to Forral and Vannor that he would never
otherwise have countermanded.

Already, the Archmage was beginning to regret bringing the
swordsman back into Aurian's life—the very same Mortal who had
corrupted his one-time friend Geraint with those ridiculous ideas
of rights for Mortals! But at least Aurian was younger, more
easily influenced, Miathan mused. And she must be influenced! This
very day, his plans had taken a new and unexpected turn, when the
young Mage had returned to the Academy. A mere month's absence had
turned the child into a woman! Miathan had been stunned by the
difference that was not merely due to her new clothing. He saw her
sudden awakening, the new yet innocent air of maturity, the
awareness of her female self that cloaked her in arVaura of
unconscious sensuality. It stirred feelings within him that he
believed he'd put away long ago in favor of cold ambition.

How it had galled the Archmage that some clod of a Mortal—and one
that he himself had summoned, at that—had been the one to bring
about this transformation! Now, suddenly, he found that he wanted
Aurian for himself—and by all the Gods, she belonged to him, not
that unworthy, low-born animal of a swordsman! Still, he had both
the will and the opportunity to win her back—and in the meantime,
he had another Mortal—one to whom he also owed a debt of revenge,


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for daring to exist in defiance of his wishes—upon whom to vent
his wrath.

It was night outside the Mages' Tower. Anvar stood blinking in the
warm lamplight of the Archmage's opulent quarters, still half
drugged and hardly aware of what was happening to him. His legs
ached from climbing the endless spiral of steps that had led to
this room, and his body was scored and bruised from being brutally
hauled through the streets. His arms and wrists were in a fire of
agony from the merciless pulling of Miathan's rope, and he was
confused and terrified. What was he doing here? Why had the
Archmage taken him away from his home? Were the Magefolk intending
to punish him for his part in his mother's death? Anvar choked
back a sob. Why, why had he not been on time this morning? It was
all his fault! But why had his father sent him away with Miathan?
Did Tori really hate him that much?

Miathan propelled him roughly to a seat and stood glaring down at
him with the cold of a thousand winters in his eyes. Anvar began
to tremble.

"So," the Archmage said harshly. "After all these years you've
turned up to plague me! I had planned to have you destroyed before
you were born, had your wretched mother not run away. Still, you
may have your uses."

He placed a hand on either side of Anvar's head. Anvar gasped with
pain. It felt as though his brains were being wrenched inside out.
Doubling over, he vomited onto the floor. "Imbecile!" The blow
from the Archmage's fist rocked his head back on his shoulders.
Anvar tried to cringe away, but Miathan caught hold of his hair
and hung a sparkling, flatfish crystal on a silver chain round his
neck. "I will not tolerate a mongrel joining the ranks of the
Magefolk," he said. "You may have power—but I'll soon take care of
that!" He lifted his staff, crying out some words in a strange and
convoluted tongue.

The crystal round Anvar's neck blazed with a sudden, unearthly
light. Anvar screamed out in agony and collapsed on the floor
clutching at his head, feeling as though the very life were being


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sucked out of his body. He was dimly aware that Miathan was
removing the crystal, and when the pain subsided and his vision
cleared, he saw the Archmage hanging it around his own neck with a
smug smile. "So much for your powers," he said. "Now they belong
to me. Just one more refinement, I think, before we send you where
you belong, you half-breed bastard!"

AUR1AN          •       115

Once more he put his hands on Anvar's head, and held his terrified
gaze with burning eyes. Anvar felt as though a band of icy steel
were being clamped tightly about his brow.

"Can you feel it?" the Archmage asked. "It will be with you for
the rest of your life, Anvar. Normally you won't even notice its
presence—but if you try to tell anyone what you did today, or
about your Magefolk heritage—if you even try to think about
it—that band will tighten, causing you unspeakable agony. If you
persist, it will kill you, make no mistake."

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Miathan called. A huge man
with greasy black hair and a brutish face entered the chamber. He
bowed deferentially to the Archmage, flicking a puzzled glance at
Anvar, who still huddled, groaning, on the floor.

"You sent for me, Sir?"

"Indeed I did, Janok." Miathan beamed.                                     "I was told of your
complaint that you're short of help in                                     the kitchens, and I have a
new bondservant for you. He comes from                                     a baker's family, so he may
be of some use to you. His father gave                                     him over to me—after he
killed his own mother."

Janok frowned. "Sir, you want me to take a murderer into my
kitchen?"

"Don't worry," Miathan said blithely. "He's a cowardly little
brute at best. Treat him as he deserves, and you should have no
trouble. If he proves too much for you to cope with, you may, of
course, refer the matter to me." His eyes were steely with an


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unspoken threat.                    '

"Very well. Sir," Janok mumbled, defeated but obviously unhappy.
"Come here, you."

He went to Anvar, and taking a handful of his shirt, lifted him
bodily off the floor. As he was dragged out, the last thing that
Anvar saw was A smirk of cruel satisfaction on Miathan's face. The
Archmage was gloating.

Onaptcr             8

BONDAGE

s usual, Anvar never saw the sly foot that tripped him. ____ He
was carrying the heavy bin full of meat offal and vegetable
peelings toward the kitchen's outer door when there was a sharp
pain in his ankle. Then he was down, sprawling on the flagstones
that he had scrubbed only this morning, in a welter of blood and
stinking garbage.

The Head Cook's furious bellow silenced the titters of the other
kitchen workers. "Stupid, clumsy oaf!" Janok's heavy boot caught
Anvar hard in the stomach, in the ribs, and in the face. Seizing a
broom that had been propped against the wall, Janok began to beat
him, cursing him all the while. Anvar howled as the heavy shank
struck down repeatedly on his back and shoulders. He tried to
crawl away to escape the blows, but his feet slipped on the slimy
offal and he went facedown into the bloody mess, cracking his chin
hard on the stone floor. Dimly, he heard someone laugh. It saved
him. Raging, Janok turned on the watching servants. "What are you
standing there for? Get back to work, before I beat the lot of
you. It lacks but two hours to the Solstice Feast!" He threw the
broom across Anvar's body and gave him one last kick for good
measure. "Get this mess cleaned up, you!"

Whimpering, Anvar struggled to rise, afraid of the consequences if
he did not.HHe felt sick and breathless, his body clenched in a
knot of pain. Gently he probed the side of his face, where Janok's
boot had struck. Nothing seemed broken, but his jaw hurt, and he


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would have another bruise to go with the marks that Janok's fists
had left yesterday, and the days before. Using the broom for
support, Anvar hauled himself shakily upright. No one offered to
help him. Stiffly, painfully, he began to sweep up the mess. Now
he would have the floor to scrub again.

The four months that Anvar had spent in the kitchens of the
Academy had been a living nightmare. There were only eight
Magefolk, but they were very awkward in their eating habits. They
wanted separate and elaborate meals at different times and places,
and refused to eat together in the Great Hall

AUR1AN          •       117

adjoining the kitchen. This made a great deal of work—and Janok
gave Anvar all the worst tasks. The Head Cook was an evil-tempered
bully who brutalized all the kitchen menials, but he had selected
Anvar out for special attention.

Each day Anvar scrubbed the greasy stone floors, peeled root
vegetables, and washed an endless succession of dishes until his
hands were cracked and raw. Janok made him scrape and polish the
blackened copper pots until they gleamed. He cleaned the silver,
took out the rubbish, and cut and fetched wood for the ovens and
ranges until his back ached. All he was given to eat were kitchen
scraps. If Anvar dropped or broke anything, he was beaten. If he
managed to drag his way to the end of a day without getting into
trouble, Janok found an excuse to hit him anyway.

Things might have been easier if Anvar had made any friends among
the other menials, but they were a miserable, surly lot, and
letting someone else bear the brunt of the Head Cook's temper
suited them very well. Janok had made a point of telling them that
Anvar had murdered his mother, and kitchen gossip being what it
was, the tale grew with every telling. No one spoke to him, except
to curse him or give him orders, and they went out of their way to
get him into trouble with cruel practical jokes. When his back was
turned, they poured boiling water into the pots he was washing, so
that he scalded his hands. When he cleaned the silver, tarnished
items would vanish, to reappear when Janok entered the room. If he


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was carrying hot food or trays of 3ishr£s, he was tripped or
pushed so that his burden went flying. They blamed him for their
own mistakes, too. If anything went wrong in the kitchen, it was
Anvar's fault.

Anvar was in constant torment over what the Archmage had done to
him. How had he come to be here? Whenever he tried to remember
what had happened in Miathan's quarters, his thoughts were erased
by the agony that knifed through his skull. After a while, it
became easier to believe that he was being punished for Ria's
death. Anvar was consumed with grief for his mother, and he truly
believed he was to blame. If he had been on time, she would still
be alive. He might as well have murdered her. So great was his
despair that only the thought of Sara kept him from taking his own
life. What had become of

her? He had let her down when she needed him. Anvar fretted
himself sick over her fate, and that of her unborn child. But he
was helpless—imprisoned here with the conspicuous Magefolk
bondmark tattoed on the back of his left hand in indelible dye. In
the early days, before his spirit was utterly broken, Anvar had
considered trying to escape in one of the carts that brought fresh
produce from the markets to the Academy each day, but it was
hopeless. Janok had him watched constantly, and even if he had
managed to get away, the penalties for runaway bondservants were
severe.

Now the Winter Solstice was upon them, but the holiday brought no
joy to Anvar. Once they had finished preparing the Mages' Solstice
Feast, the kitchen menials were free to celebrate the festival.
Casks of ale were broached, and a lively party was soon under way
in the kitchen. There was eating, drinking— lots of drinking—and a
great deal of horseplay. Drunken couples cavorted on tables where
food would be prepared tomorrow, and Janok had the youngest
laundry maid facedown over the bags of flour that were stacked in
a corner; his flushed, sweating face contorted in a slack leer as
he lifted her skirts. Judging from her muffled shrieks, she was
not enjoying the experience—but Janok was king of his little
domain, and gave her no choice.



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Anvar, watching from his damp and squalid sleeping place beneath
the stone sinks, felt sick with disgust. They had excluded him
from their festivities, and for once he was glad. It was now, when
everyort? was celebrating, that he missed his home and family most
keenly. Anvar crouched in his dank, cramped refuge, nursing his
bruises and grief. Had he not been late that morning, Ria would be
alive now. He and Sara would be married, and looking forward to
the birth of their child in the spring. Anvar wondered where she
was tonight, and how she was spending her Solstice. Overcome with
despair, he wept. Anvar was exhausted. His body was weak and
aching from grinding toil and Janok's brutal beatings, and
activity in the kitchen that day had been frantic, because of the
Mages' feast. Despite the din, he eventually dozed. When he
awakened everything was quiet. The fire had burned low and the
servants were snoring where they lay, sleeping off the ale. Anvar
sat up, his pain and weariness forgotten. This was his chance to
escape! At

AUR1AN          '       119

last he could see Sara, and set his mind at rest. Perhaps they
could run away together!

D'arvan thought the Great Hall looked magnificent in its festive
finery. He loved this vast, imposing chamber. For some reason, it
had always been the place where he felt most at home. Its double
row of supporting pillars, cunningly carved from dark stone in the
shape of trees whose branches interlaced to support the ceiling,
had been decorated with bright-berried evergreens, and Magelight
blazed golden in crystal globes on the walls. The dancing flames
of scarlet candles were reflected in the polished wood of the
tables, and a huge log fire roared in the massive fireplace.

It was late, and most of the Magefolk had already retired. Elewin,
the Academy's Chief Steward, was up in the gallery serving mulled
wine to the tired musicians, to fortify them for their journey
home through the snow, and servants were clearing away the remains
of the Solstice Feast. Though traditionally only the fruits of the
wildwood were eaten at Solstice, Janok had outdone himself this
year. D'arvan had been staggered by the variety of foodstuffs


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served. Haunches of venison and a roast boar stuffed with herbs
and wild apples; roast pheasant and swan decorated with their own
plumage, and pigeon and rabbit pies. Succulent trout from forest
streams had been broiled with flaked nuts, and there were wild
roots and winter greens, dried mushrooms in a sauce of wild
garlic, and a mound of truffles. During the growing season,
Janok's nfiost trusted workers had scoured the woods near the
city, seeking ingredients for this feast, and had preserved fruits
and berries in syrups and fortified wines for cakes, tarts, and
sweetmeats crystallized with honey. D'arvan sat back, and loosened
his belt. What a feast it had been!

Aurian's yawn pulled him back from his thoughts. "Well, that's it
for me," she said. "I'm worn out. Forral almost battered me to
death in sword practice this morning, and I have to be up early
tomorrow for more of the same, Solstice Day or no. Good night,
D'arvan."

"Good night, Aurian, and—" D'arvan cursed the wretched shyness
that always kept him so tongue-tied. "And thank you for keeping me
company tonight," he finished softly.

Aurian smiled. "Thank you, D'arvan. I don't know what I'd have
done without you. Gods, but these Magefolk feasts are

dull!"

The wealth of feeling in her words was a comfort to him. She had
stayed with him for most of the evening, telling him about her
current Healing studies with Meiriel, and her new Mortal friends
at the Garrison, but all the time he had thought she was doing it
from pity, since Davorshan had so hurtfully ignored his presence.
His twin had spent the whole night dancing with Eliseth, dining
with Eliseth, laughing and flirting with her. He had eyes for no
one else. Now the pair were seated near the fire, lingering over
their goblets of wine, deep in conversation.

Aurian, as if she knew what was troubling him, frowned at Eliseth
and her rapt companion. "D'arvan," she said, "It's none of my
business, but maybe you spend too much time with your brother. If


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you want, you would be welcome to visit the Garrison with me
sometimes. They're good people, you'd like them, and I think you
need a change of company."

D'arvan stared at her, startled and lost for an answer. Go among a
lot of strangers? Alone? The notion terrified him. He had never
done anything without his brother! Yet he appreciated the kindness
of her offer. It seemed she had noticed that during these last
months, Davorshan had been spending more and more time with
Eliseth and her friends.

D'arvan twisted his hands together beneath the table, fighting
despair. Davorshan had said that the Weather-Mage was teaching him
to bring forth some of his dormant powers. If it was true—and his
brother never lied to him—then he, D'arvan, was now the only
powerless Mage in the Academy! He shivered. How long would Miathan
let him stay, if he had no powers? Where would he go if the
Archmage cast him out? "Are you all right?" Aurian sounded
concerned. D'arvan longed to confide in her and ask for her
help—oh Gods, he needed a friend right now! But his crippling
shyness kept him silent, and he didn't want her to blame his
brother. For some reason, she had never liked Davorshan. "I must
be tired," he prevaricated. "Perhaps I'll go to bed."

Aurian raised a skeptical eyebrow, then shrugged slightly. "Good
idea—that's where I'm going. Anyway, think about

what I said. The offer is always open. And D'arvan, if you ever
need someone to talk to—well, I'm available."

After she had gone, D'arvan sat alone, waiting for his brother.
Eventually, growing weary, he went to bid his twin good night.
Davorshan sat beside Eliseth, his arm around her shoulders, their
heads very close as they talked in soft voices. The Magewoman was
stunning in a gown of shimmering ice-blue. Her long hair was
intricately braided and coiled with a thin, interlacing silver
chain. At D'arvan's hesitant approach, Davorshan looked up
sharply. Attuned as always to his twin's thoughts, D'arvan sensed
annoyance, a flicker of guilt—and something else. Something wrong.



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Before he could identify it, Davorshan's shields slammed down,
shutting him out for the first time in their lives. D'arvan reeled
as though he had been struck. He had never felt so alone —as if a
part of himself had been brutally torn away. The isolation—the
loss—the uncertainty—he was too overwhelmed by pain and confusion
to speak.

"How dare you spy on me!" Davorshan shouted, his face flushing
crimson. "I'm sick of you following me around with that pathetic
expression on your face! Get away from me, do you hear? Leave me
alone!"

D'arvan was stunned by the bitter hostility of his brother's tone.
As he fled, gulping back sobs, he was pursued by the sound of
Eliseth's silvery laughter.

Anvar tiptoed across the floor of the cavernous kitchen, carefully
avoiding the sleeping bodies. The door opened silently to a swirl
of fine, wind-driven snow. Anvar grabbed an empty flour sack to
cover his head and shoulders and slipped outside, closing the door
quietly behind him. The night was bitterly cold. The darkened
courtyard was empty, and no lights burned in the Mages' Tower. The
two guards at the upper gate were huddled over a brazier in the
gatehouse with a shared bottle, playing dice and keeping out of
the icy wind that pierced Anvar's filthy, ragged clothing as he
lurked in the shadows. Every minute or so, one of the guards would
look up from the game, keeping an eye on the gate. Anvar cursed.
He had to escape—he had to! Butiiow? The bitter wind was rapidly
suck-

ing the heat from his body, and every minute he lingered here
increased his chance of being discovered.

Voices! Anvar jumped. His heart hammering wildly, he peered round
the corner of the building, to see the door of the Great Hall
open, spilling golden light onto the snow. A group of figures came
out, all cloaked and hooded, and bearing a variety of oddly shaped
burdens, well wrapped against the cold. Of course! Anvar
remembered hearing that there would be musicians at the Mage's
feast. Now they were going home. Going


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out!

Not daring to consider the risks, Anvar hid in the shadows of the
narrow alley between the infirmary and the kitchens until they had
all passed him, heading for the gates. He darted across the
intervening space, keeping low, and tagged on to the end of the
group, hoping his sack would pass for a hood in the dim light. The
tired musicians, muffled deep in their cloaks and only concerned
with getting home out of the cold, never noticed the addition to
their number. Nor did the tipsy guards. "Joyous Solstice," they
called as the musicians went through. As the gate clanged shut
behind him, Anvar sagged with relief.

There was a new watchman in the gatehouse at the bottom of the
hill. He was younger than the one Anvar remembered from years ago.
He was mulling ale at his small fireplace as the musicians
approached, and was more concerned with his steaming jug than
anything else. He opened the spiked iron gates with scarcely a
glance, and waved them impatiently through. Free! Anvar's heart
soared^The musicians passed over the causeway and into the tree-
lined avenue leading to the bridge that crossed back into the
city. Anvar detached himself from the group and hid until they
were well away, before crossing the slender stone span himself.
Once across the river, he circled through the back streets to give
the wharves a wide berth, keeping a watchful eye out for patrols
from the Garrison. Avoiding groups of drunken revelers, he angled
back toward the towpath and made his way upriver.

The journey seemed longer than he remembered. The snow fell
thicker now, and was heaping in drifts across the path. Visibility
was poor, and Anvar was forced to stay near the thickets on the
bank with their clutching, thorny limbs—or run the risk of
blundering into the river. The exertion of his

AUR1AN          '       123

escape had intensified the pain of his battered body, and he shook
with cold and fatigue as the wind blew into his face, blinding him
with its burden of snow. Stubbornly he staggered on, drawn by the


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thought of seeing Sara again.

The shadowy figure of a woman, cloaked and hooded against the
snow, stood by the mill looking down at the speeding, glimmering
waters of the millrace.

Anvar's heart beat fast. "Sara?" he whispered.

The woman spun round with a sharp exclamation. "Anvar!" It was
Verla, Sara's mother.

"Please," Anvar begged her, ignoring the hostility in her voice.
"I've got to see Sara. Is she all right?"

"How can you ask? How dare you come here, after all the anguish
you've caused us?"

"What do you mean?" He grasped her shoulders. "What has happened?
Tell me!"

"All right!" Verla spat. She shook herself free from his grip.
"After what happened," she said grimly, "Jard refused to let Sara
bear your child. He took her to a back-street midwife in the
city."

"No!" Anvar tried out in horror.

"Oh, yes. The woman got rid of the babe, but things went amiss,
and now Sara will never bear children."

Anvar sank to his knees on the snowy path, his head in his hands.
"Oh, Gods," he whispered. Sara! His child!

"After that," Verla continued remorselessly, "Jard sold her in
marriage to Vannor." - j

"What? The Vannor?" Anvar gasped. No one crossed the most powerful
merchant in the city—especially if they had heard the dark rumors
about his violent past on the wharves, before he became rich and
respectable.


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"The same," Verla said bitterly. "He didn't mind that she was
barren. He has children from his first wife. He wanted Sara in his
bed, and he was prepared to pay. I don't know whether she's
happy—we never see her. I hope you're pleased with what you've
done, Anvar. Now get away from here. I never want to set eyes on
you again!"

Anvar was opening his mouth to protest, when a heavy blow cracked
across the back of his head. Stunned and half blind with pain, he
collapsed onto the snow. The last thing he
heard was Jard's voice. "Well done, Verla! Tie him up, while I go-
for the Guards." The miller seized his hand, examining the brand
by the light of the torch he carried. "There's sure to be a reward
for a runaway bondservant."

It was Midwinter's Night, the longest of the year, and D'arvan,
lying awake, had counted many dark hours before Davorshan returned
with the dawn to the rooms that he shared with his brother.
D'arvan had been left in no doubt as to the way in which his twin
had passed the night. With his concentration distracted by
passion, Davorshan's shielding was fitful; his link with his
brother was too strong and reflexive to be broken on a whim.
D'arvan had been tortured by such thoughts, such feelings, such
glimpses of Eliseth, lying naked on a white fur coverlet. The
chiming silver of her laugh—the burning of her touch, imprinted on
his skin as it was on his brother's—the slippery touch of cool
satin sheets—his own lone and shameful spending, which had echoed
the climax of Davorshan's frantic lust and in its passing left him
drained and guilty, and sick at heart.

Even after the storm of Davorshan's passion had finally and
mercifully spent itself, D'arvan had passed a wretched night. His
thoughts, still scattered by the shock of the brutal, abrupt
isolation from his twin's mind and the maelstrom of lust that had
followed, had been wavering back and forth between grief and anger
and guilt—blaming his brother, blaming Eliseth, and blaming
himself. Davorshan is all I have—that thought wove through and
through the others in an endless litany of despair. It's always
been that way, but now he has someone else . . . What will I do


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without him?

Throughout their lives, the twins had been forced to depend on one
another, D'arvan could barely remember his father and
mother—Bavordran and Adrina had elected to pass from their lives
when he had been very small, but the fact that they had chosen to
bear two infants, and then abandoned them so precipitately, made
no sense to the young Mage. The older Magefolk would never speak
of it, but his parents had not been happy together, D'arvan was
sure—as sure as he was that his mother, at least, had not wanted
to leave him. He had a vague, confused memory of a savage quarrel,
and Adrina's face all

AURIAN          •       125

streaked with tears as she rocked him to sleep. He had never seen
her again. With their parents gone, the twins had been raised, in
a careless fashion, by Meiriel and Finbarr and the Academy's
servants, and had very naturally compensated for the lack of
parental love by their devotion to one another—a bond that had
been suddenly, and savagely, severed by Eliseth.

Before Davorshan entered their room, D'arvan had sensed his
return. He always knew when his brother was close. And though he
dreaded seeing his twin once more, he was glad of any respite from
his anguished thoughts—until the brother of his soul crept in,
grinning smugly, and reeking of wine and Eliseth's heavy perfume.
He tiptoed past D'arvan's bed without sparing him a single glance.

"It's all right—I'm awake. You needn't bother to creep!" The venom
in his own voice surprised D'arvan—but the anger had won out,
after all.

Davorshan lacked even the grace to look guilty. Not for a single
moment did his complacent expression alter. Shrugging, he sat down
on the bottom of D'arvan's bed, all openness and charm, his
hostile shielding seemingly banished. "You have good reason to be
angry with me," he said. "Listen, D'ar—I'm sorry about what
happened earlier, at the feast. It was just that I wanted to be
alone with Eliseth—you'll see how it is, when you find someone of


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your own. I never meant to shut you out so suddenly, but there are
some things that you just cannot share —not even with your own
dear brother."

Even a few short hours ago, D'arvan would have believed him. Would
have trusted him, and rejoiced that their differences had been
explained, and dismissed. Davorshan's mind was open to him once
more, in all its old comforting familiarity. Except . . . Acting
on pure instinct, D'arvan swept up all the bitterness and
treachery and pain that had formed the dregs of this wretched
night, and fashioned them into a lancelike probe of will that
stabbed searchingly into his brother's mind.

Davorshan had no warning—no time in which to react. "Curse you!"
he shrieked, recoiling and slamming up a block with which to foil
the piercing attack. But it was too late. D'arvan's probe had
already encountered the hard, dark, pulsing core of secrets that
his brother had so cunningly concealed behind his open guise. _ ^

Shaking, D'arvan snatched back his probe as though he had been
burned. Gods—why did I do it? he thought despairingly. Why
couldn't I leave well enough alone? This second betrayal hurts
even worse than the first!

"Why did you do that?" Davorshan's sorrowful whisper echoed his
thoughts. "I want this—I want her, and nothing— not even you—will
keep me from her! But truly, brother, I had no wish to hurt you."

It might have been the truth—Davorshan certainly seemed
sincere—but D'arvan had had enough of lies and treachery. He could
not risk a third betrayal. "Leave me alone—just leave me alone!"
For the first time in his life, he closed his mind to his brother,
and turned his face away, staring steadfastly at the wall through
tear-blurred eyes until he heard Davorshan seek his bed. It was
the hardest, most painful thing he had ever done. To distract his
mind from the crushing weight of loneliness, he fueled his
faltering courage with his anger against his brother, and forced
himself to think of Aurian and her offer. Perhaps she was right—if
he could no longer count on his brother, perhaps he ought to meet
other people. After the Solstice, he would ask her to take him to


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the Garrison. Until then, he would simply mourn.

Chapter             9

A   WARRIOR'S             HEART

he muscles in Aurian's back and shoulders screamed in protest. The
sword felt unbelievably heavy in her tired hands. She stepped back
to give herself a little extra time to react, her blade lifted
defensively as she watched Forral through narrowed eyes, trying to
anticipate his next move. It was a quick sideways strike—low,
almost taking her legs out from under her. Aurian jumped back,
parrying clumsily, feeling the shock of the clashing blades run
numbingly through her hands. She caught the quick white flash of
Forral's grin through his curling brown beard.

Lifting her blade again, Aurian cursed the swordsman's
tirelessness, cursed his insistence that they practice even on
Solstice Morn, cursed her stupidity in drinking too much the
previous night, and not going to bed sooner. Drat that D'arvan!
Sweat ran down stinging into her eyes and dripped onto the sands
of the Garrison's great, barnlike practice arena. Trembling with
weariness, she forced her sword up to parry Forral's lightning
thrusts. Why on earth had she nagged him to resume her sword
training? She would never have believed that she could be so out
of condition, so out of practice. And four months of sweaty, back-
breaking torture on these sands seemed to have brought little
improvement. Would she ever get her old skills back? - s

Forral drove in suddenly, his heavy sword a flickering swirl of
light as he employed the famous circling twist of the blade— his
own trademark, which neither Aurian nor anyone else could seem to
master. She gasped with pain as her wrists snapped round, and her
sword flew spinning from her hands to land some distance away.

Forral shook his head. "You're dead!" he said. Before Aurian had
time to react, he spun her round by the shoulder and whacked her
hard across the backside with the flat of his blade. It was a
trick she was all too familiar with—one that he used on all his
pupils as an incentive not to repeat their errors.


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"Ow!" Aurian wailed indignantly, rubbing at the sting. Tears of
exhaustion and/rustration sprang into her eyes.

Forral's arms went comfortingly around her, one big hand kneading
the tight, aching muscles across her shoulders and in the back of
her neck. "Never mind, love," he said softly. "I know it's hard,
but you simply can't afford to make mistakes that will kill you.
It's coming back to you, though—I can see the improvement. You're
making up a lot of lost time, that's all. Just stick at it, and
we'll soon have you back in fighting

shape."

Aurian leaned into his chest, smelling clean sweat and the tough,
scarred leather of his fighting vest. His words of encouragement
warmed her, and she was grateful for the support of his brawny
arms round her weary body. "All right, Forral," she murmured
trustingly.

Lightly, he kissed the top of her head, and at his touch, Aurian's
heart give a dizzy lurch. A tingling heat swept through her body.
Again. It happened now, whenever he was close to her. Oh, Forral!
She'd loved him since she was a child, but after his return, the
change in the quality of that love had left her baffled and
thwarted. She had finally admitted to herself that she wanted
more, now, than the affectionate comradeship they had always
shared.

Aurian tightened her arms round his neck and looked up searchingly
into his face, unable to hide her longing. As always, his eyes met
hers for an agonizing instant, then flicked away. "Come on," he
said gruffly, stepping back from her. "Vannor's coming this
morning, remember? We'd better get cleaned up for that snooty wife
of hi*rV Without looking at her, he walked away. Her throat tight
with misery, Aurian retrieved her fallen sword and followed him
out of the arena.

Vannor and his lady had arrived early, and were waiting in
Forral's rooms. Aurian felt a stab of annoyance as the elegant


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young woman wrinkled her nose fastidiously at the sight of her in
her battle-scarred leather vest and breeches. Aurian had taken an
intense dislike to Vannor's new wife. The slender, blond young
woman looked around Forral's wood-paneled, workmanlike quarters
with an air of distaste, as though disgusted to find herself in
such a lowly place. Sourly, Aurian wondered how, since the girl
was so much shorter than herself and Forral, she could still
manage to look down her nose at the two of them. With her own
feelings still stinging from Forral's

latest rebuff, she found the besotted look in Vannor's eyes as he
gazed at his wife very hard to take.

Aurian was fond of the blunt, straightforward merchant. Short and
stocky, his beard and hair cropped very short, Vannor resembled
exactly what he was—a former dockside tough made good. His rough
voice was still edged with the gritty accent of the wharves, and
he took no pains to alter it. But his hard exterior disguised a
warm, generous heart. He plainly doted on Sara. She was
magnificently clad in rich, fur-trimmed velvet, her hair done up
in an elaborate knot, her fingers, wrists, and ears dripping with
the jewels he had bought her. She looked flawlessly
beautiful—except for her haughty expression, and the hard,
calculating look that came into her eyes whenever she looked at
her husband.

Vannor, as Head of the Merchants' Guild, had planned this Solstice
visit to the Garrison as a courtesy to the new Commander. The
Archmage, the third member of the Ruling Council, was expected
later. It was not a lively gathering. Though Vannor and Forral
were good company as a rule, the normally bluff and hearty
merchant seemed constrained by his wife's presence, and Forral was
unusually quiet, frowning more than he smiled. Aurian, nursing her
heartache, was wondering if she should excuse herself and go back
to the Academy, when there came a knock at the door. Forral went
to answer it, and Aurian, relieved at the interruption, followed
him into the outer chamber.

It was Parric, the Cavalrymaster/rhe leathery, balding little man
was Duty Officer for the day, and his manner was apologetic,


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"Sorry to disturb you, Forral, but a miller along the river has
caught a runaway bondservant. We've just brought him in."

Forral sighed. Aurian knew that he loathed the practice of
bonding, but unfortunately, he had been unable to influence the
Council against it. The Archmage supported it, and Vannor was
forced to bow to the wishes of the merchants that he represented,
who increased their profits through not having to pay their bonded
labor.

"For goodness' sake, Parric!" Forral said testily. "Why bother me
with this now? Just lock him up, and we'll deal with him tomorrow,
artetushf holiday."

Parric looked uncomfortable. "Sir—I think you should see him. The
poor sod's in an awful state—beaten black and blue! Honestly, I
don't blame him for trying to run away. I wouldn't treat a dog the
way he's been treated."

Forral frowned. "Sorry, Parric—that's different, of course. We had
better look into it. I won't have people getting away with that
kind of abuse. Who is he bonded to?"

Parric hesitated. "Well, it's a bit awkward, you see—"

"Come on, man, you've seen his mark! Stop maithering

and tell me!"

The     Cavalrymaster                 glanced             uneasily             at        Aurian.             "He's

bonded to the Academy."

"What!" Aurian was stunned. "But he can't be—"

"He is. And it's a bloody disgrace, let me tell you." Parric's
look was plainly accusing.

"Steady on, Parric," Forral intervened, putting his arm around the
indignant Mage. "Just bring him in, and we'll get this


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straightened out."

"He's outside." Parric beckoned through the open doorway, and two
guards entered, supporting a limp, ragged form between them. The
man stank. His clothing was tattered and filthy, and soaked
through. He was shivering violently, and his skin had a bluish
tinge. His face was swollen and covered in

bruises,

Aurian was horrified. Who at the Academy had treated the poor man
so badly? Suddenly his eyes opened—the most brilliant, piercing
blue that Aurian had ever seen. They looked straight past her, and
stretched wide in joyful astonishment,

"Sara!" the man gasped.

Aurian whirled to see Vannor's wife standing in the inner doorway,
her face deathly white. Drawing herself upright, Sara looked down
on the runaway servant with icy contempt. "Who is this wretch?"
she demanded coldly, "I never saw him before in my life!"

"But he knows your name," Forral pointed out with a

frown.

Sara shrugged. "I'm married to the most important merchant in the
city. Lots of people know my name. Vannor, take me home. This
revolting creature is making me ill!"

Vannor shrugged helplessly. "All right," he said. "Forral, you'll
excuse us?" Taking his wife's arm, he led her out.

As they passed the prisoner, he struggled free from the guards and
fell at Sara's feet, clutching at the hem of her gown. "Sara,
please . . ." he begged.

With an exclamation of disgust, the woman twitched her skirts from
his grasp and swept out of the door. Aurian closed her eyes
against the naked hurt and betrayal on his face. Sara was lying,


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she was sure. The man buried his face in his hands, and began to
sob. Aurian, galvanized by the tortured, hopeless weeping, dropped
to her knees at his side, her heart aching for him.

"Poor man," she said softly. "Don't worry, we'll take care of you.
And whoever did this to you ..." Her voice grew fierce. "I'll make
sure it never happens again!"

Anvar looked up at the call, red-haired woman. He could tell from
her appearance that she was a Mage, and recognized her as Forral's
companion when the swordsman had come to the shop, that day so
long ago. Her eyes were flinty with anger. In his horror at Sara's
betrayal, he had failed to hear her comforting words, and thought
her rage was directed at him. Anvar made a strangled sound of fear
deep in his throat—then broke out into a sudden fit of sneezing.
The Mage frowned, and fished in her pocket for a handkerchief,
which she handed to him. No ladylike scrap of lace, this, but a
large square of white linen that, judging from the oily smearr,
locked as though it had last been used for cleaning & sword. As he
blew, she placed a cool hand on Anvar's brow. "Forral, he's ill!"
she said sharply. "Help me get him inside. Parric, fetch some
broth from the mess hall. He looks half starved. Hurry!"

Anvar saw the two men look at each other and shrug, then he was
hoisted up by Forral himself, and half carried into a snug inner
room where a bright fire burned.

"Put him on the couch."

Anvar wondered who she was, to be giving orders to the Garrison
Commander. Imprisoned as he had been in the Academy kitchens, he
had never come into contact with any of the Magefolk.

"But Aurian," heXfiJthy," Forral protested.

132 • MAGGIE FURRY

So this was the Lady Aurian, said to be the Archmage's favorite!
Anvar felt sick with fear. When he had been brought before
Commander Forral, he had hoped to be able to plead his case. But


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now he was back in the hands of the Magefolk—and who knew what
punishment the Archmage would have in store

for him?

The Mage spread a blanket on the couch and helped him sit, putting
an arm around his shoulders—right on the bruises where Janok had
beaten him with the broom. The pain made him cry out. In one swift
movement, she ripped away the remnants of his tattered shirt.
Anvar heard her make an inarticulate retching sound, then she
swore viciously. "Who did that?" she growled, turning him to face
her.

Anvar could feel her anger beating against him like a physical
presence. She seemed to grow in stature, and her green eyes glowed
with an icy gray light. With a sudden thrill of fear, he realized
that she was not the Archmage's protegee for nothing. He began to
tremble.

"Steady, love. He's terrified. Don't worry, lad, she's not

angry with you,"

Portal's gentle voice gave Anvar courage. "It was Janok,"

he whispered,

"The bastard\" Aurian exploded, leaping up and striking her fist
on the high marble mantelpiece with such magically impelled force
that the thick stone corner broke off in a flash of

light.

Anvar was awestruclc^but Forral simply sighed. "Aurian,"

he said, in tones of mild reproof.

Guiltily the Mage retrieved the broken piece from the hearth and
set it back into place. "Sorry, Forral." As she passed her hand
across it, the stone fused together without a trace of a join. She


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shook her head. "I can't believe this could happen in the
Academy," she said. "Wait until Miathan gets here! In the
meantime—" She returned to Anvar as she spoke. "I'll see what I
can do to help this poor soul."

"Aurian, no!" Portal's voice was urgent.

"Whyever not?" Aurian sounded astonished. "I've learned enough
from Meiriel to be able to Heal—"

"It's not that," Forral said. "He's a runaway, and—"

"It makes no difference!" Aurian insisted angrily.


"Look, love, I know it's hard, but Miathan has the right to punish
him. If he sees what's been done to him, it should go easier on
the poor lad. Besides, the Archmage should know what's going on in
his halls." Forral's voice was stern. "This has got to be
stopped."

Sara stormed into her bedroom, venting her temper on the door with
a vicious slam' that in a lesser home would have shaken the
building to its very rafters. Not here, though. Van-nor's mansion
had been constructed by master craftsmen out of the best materials
that gold could buy. Despite the entire weight of her body behind
the shove, the heavy slab of oak swung ponderously shut on its
oiled and balanced hinges, and slipped smoothly into its frame
with a barely audible click. Robbed of its expression, the
pressure of Sara's rage could only increase. Screeching
obscenities like a dockside fishwife, she picked up the nearest
object to hand—a white porcelain vase filled with hyacinth and
winter roses—and flung it at the offending door.

Sara gasped, her rage stifled for an instant by horror at the
damage she had caused—the shattered vase, a gouge in the door's
silken paneling, the crushed and twisted flowers, and the water
stains that dimmed the jeweled colors of the room's rich carpet.
Then her shoulders straightened in defiance. So the carpet was
ruined—so what? This place was hers now, as well as Vannor's. And


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she would treat it as she pleased, It would serve him right if she
tore his precious hpuse apart with her bare hands!

As her anger flared up anew, Sara paced the room, heedless of the
splintered porcelain and broken blooms that she was treading into
the carpet's deep pile. How dare Vannor take her to task for her
rudeness in so brusquely leaving that uncouth oaf of a soldier and
that hoydenish scarecrow Mage! How dare he give her such a dress
ing-down—and in front of his wretched, smirking children!

But at the thought of her husband, Sara's recalcitrance faltered a
little. This had been their first real quarrel—in all the months
of their marriage, Vannor had never before raised his voice to
her. She'd been a fool today, she suddenly realized— careless,
overconfident, too certain that she had him in her

134 • MAGGIE FURF.Y

power. She would have to make it up with him, and as soon as
possible. He was her security—her wonderful, newfound wealth and
luxury. Her protection against her father, and what he'd done to
her, against squalor and poverty and endless brutal toil, against
the scandal of having been pregnant to some stinking wreck of a
bondservant who was no better than an animal . . . As the vision
of Anvar rose up in her mind's eye, Sara began to tremble. Her
shock at seeing him so unexpectedly after all this time, her
horror when he had called her by name, had completely scattered
her wits. All she could think of was flight—of putting as great a
distance as possible between herself and the bruised and filthy
bundle of rags who had called her with Anvar's voice, and
beseeched her with those blazing blue

eyes.

With hands that shook violently, Sara unlocked the delicate
lacquered cabinet that stood by her bed and pulled out a crystal
decanter that shot splintered rainbow sparks into the room's
wintry light. It was her solace and her secret—her maid had been
well bribed to keep it filled, and keep her mouth shut. On the
nights—most nights—that Vannor visited her bed, she would lock the


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door when he had finished and gone, and sit through the long
wakeful hours, drinking wine and piling the white counterpane with
all her jewels, in little heaps that sparkled warmly in the
candlelight.

Oh Gods. She splashed wine into a goblet, drank it off, and poured
again. I'd give anything, she thought, if only this morning had
never happened! "Xt last, she knew what had become of Anvar. Tori
had simply claimed that he'd gone, and most people believed that
he had run off in the aftermath of Ria's accident, and left Nexis
for good. Her parents, of course, had assumed that he was fleeing
his responsibilities to his sweetheart and her unborn child. Sara
too had preferred to think of his departure in that light—that
way, she could accept Van-nor's suit without any bothersome
feelings of guilt— "At the wine again, stepmother?"

Sara spun round with a curse. Zanna! Vannor's younger daughter
stood in the doorway, glowering, as usual, through her unkempt
fringe of thick brown hair that had defied the efforts of a
battalion of maids to keep it tidy. Sara bit her lip in      i
vexation. How had the bloody brat crept in so quietly!-*

AURIAN          •       135

"What do you mean, again?" she mocked, trying to brazen it out.
The girl detested her, as she very,well knew, and the feeling was
mutual. The last thing Sara needed today was the little wretch
stirring up more trouble for her with Vannor!

Antor, the merchant's little son whose birth had cleared the way
for Sara to marry Vannor, was no trouble. He was too small to
really know who she was or care, and Sara simply left him to his
nursemaids. Corielle, the older daughter, had been easily managed.
She was of an age with Sara, and the two girls shared a similar
golden beauty. She was also of an age to be extremely interested
in men—and not just the scions of the rich merchant houses that
her doting father had marked out as suitable suitors. A few
occasions of careless chaperoning—of turning a blind eye to the
odd love note, and secret tryst—and Sara had won her over. Not so
with Zanna, however. Taking after her father in looks, the child


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was as plain as a pikestaff, but she was too clever by half, and
far too knowing to be only fourteen. It simply wasn't natural!

"Next time, you should tell Gelda to hide the bottle better when
she brings it upstairs ..." Though Zanna spoke respectfully to her
stepmother when Vannor was in earshot, her tone, in private, was
pert and mocking.

Sara's hands clenched tight around the fragile crystal of the
goblet. Gods, how she'd like to strangle the little bitch! When
she spoke, her voice was low, and shaking with fury, "Listen,
brat—you mention a single word of this to your father, and I'll
make you sorry you were ever bbrnf Do you hear me?"

Zanna's eyes, beneath that flopping curtain of hair that irritated
Sara so, narrowed in calculation, Vannor's blood ran true in her
veins, all right! The minx was a merchant through and through!

"I might not," Zanna said carelessly, "I'm sure that someone as
clever as you can think of some way to make it worth my while!"

It was all too much. "Get out!" Sam shrieked. "Get out now—and
send Gelda to clear up this mess!"

Zanna looked down at the shards of porcelain that littered the
floor, and her expression changed from smugness to a stony hatred
chat was shocking in one so young. "That was Mother's

I
favorite vase," she said in a small, tight voice. "Gods, I hate

you."

It was the first time                     she had actually said the words aloud. Then
she was gone, leaving                     a shaken Sara to pour herself another drink
and wonder how, after                     her own failure to slam the door, the child
could have managed it                     so effectively.

Anvar fought to stay conscious, out of fear of what the Archmage
might do to him if he were asleep and helpless. The Lady tried to


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feed him broth, propping him with one arm while she held the cup
of warm liquid to his lips with the other. He couldn't swallow it.
His head throbbed from Jard's treacherous blow, and his body ached
all over. It hurt to breathe. His stomach was knotted in
trepidation. When he heard Miathan's voice, talking to Forral in
the outer room, he began to struggle violently, sending the cup
flying and drenching both himself and

the Mage.

Then the Archmage was in the room, towering over him, his eyes
burning with rage. "You!" he snarled, reaching out to haul Anvar
to his feet. Anvar cringed back, whimpering. "Miathan, no!" Aurian
sounded shocked. "Aurian, don't    interfere,"   Miathan said
sharply.   "The wretch has broken his bond, and must be punished."

"Punished?" Aurian's voice rose in disbelief. "He's been punished
enough! Have you seen what Janok did to him?"

"She's right, Miathan," Forral said. "This goes beyond the bounds
of reason." ~~:

"You mind your own business!" Miathan snapped. "It is my
business." Forral scowled. "It's my duty to enforce the law in
Nexis, and Magefolk or not, I won't turn a blind eye to such
brutality. Even a bondservant has some rights. How would you look
if word of this got out?"

Anvar felt a surge of hope. They were defending him. They were
both defending him, even the Mage!

Miathan seemed taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "My dear
Forral, you misunderstand me," he said. "Of course there must be
no repetition of this unfortunate incident, and I assure you that
I will look into the matter—in detail." He frowned at Anvar as he
spoke. "You should know, however, that this man is a troublemaker,
and very dangerous."


"He doesn't look dangerous to me," Forral said bluntly. "The poor


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beggar's scared out of his wits. Surely you could pardon him this
time, Archmage. He's suffered enough."

"Please, Miathan—for me?" Aurian added her own plea, looking
trustingly at the Archmage. Had it not been for the desperate
extremity in which he found himself, Anvar could have laughed at
the trapped expression on Miathan's face.

"Oh, very well," the Archmage muttered at last. "I shall speak to
Janok on my return."

At the sound of the Head Cook's name, Anvar moaned. Not the
kitchens again! He couldn't! Desperate, he caught hold of the
Mage's hand as she stood by his side, and levered his weak body
down onto his knees. "Don't let them send me back there," he
begged. "He'll kill me. Please—"

"Anvar!" Miathan's voice was like a whiplash. "How dare you! Leave
the Lady Aurian alone!" He bore down on Anvar, who cowered away,
burying his face in his hands.

"No!" Anvar shrieked. "Please! Don't hurt me again!" He screamed
again as Miathan's spell took hold, its icy band of agony clamping
tightly around his brow. Helpless, he fell twitching to the floor.

"Dear Gods!" Aurian exclaimed, kneeling beside him.

Suddenly the pain was gone. Anvar, able to breathe again, looked
up and saw a clear message in Miathan's glinting eyes. // you
tell, you'll die! And he knew that Miathan had removed the pain
before Aurian could investigate. "It's all right," he muttered
helplessly. "I'm all right."

Aurian frowned. "What the blazes was that? I don't understand ..."
She looked at the Archmage. "What did he mean, Miathan? You
haven't hurt him—have you?"

The Archmage laughed harshly. "Don't be ridiculous! The man is
clearly insane."



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"I don't think so." Slowly, Aurian shook her head. "No, he's just
terrified, I'm sure. It's very strange, though. Where did he come
from?"

"Really, Aurian, is all this fuss necessary?" Miathan said
testily. "Let me send him back to the Academy, then perhaps we can
enjoy the rest of the day."

"Miathan, you can't send                        him back to the kitchens," Aurian
pleaded. "Not after what                        he's been through. Wait—I
know!" Her face suddenly                        lit up. "You've been promising me my own
servant for ages. Let me                        have him!"

"What!" Miathan thundered. "Certainly not! It's absolutely out of
the question!"

Aurian's eyes widened with surprise at his refusal. She got to her
feet, confronting the Archmage, her jaw jutting stubbornly. "I
don't see why not. It seems a perfect solution to me. Please,
Miathan."

"Aurian, no. I shall find you another servant, but Anvar is most
unsuitable. What he needs is discipline."

"Discipline, my eye!" Aurian snapped. "He's had too much
discipline, if you ask me. What he needs is kindness!"

"I will be the judge of that!" The very air seemed to crackle and
spark as the two Mages stood, eye to eye, glaring furiously at one
another, while Anvar held his breath.

"Aurian," Forral intervened urgently, "perhaps the Archmage is
right. If he's truly dangerous—"

"Don't you start!" Aurian snapped at the startled swordsman. "I'm
absolutely sick of the pair of you! I'm no longer a child, to be
constantly deferring to your so-called wisdom." Her voice curdled
with scorn. "I'm right in this case, I know it. I want to help
this poor man—to restore the honor of the Magefolk. It's our fault
that he ended up this way. But instead of letting me trust my


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judgment, all I get from you two is specious quibbles! It's
pathetic!"

Miathan looked thunderous. "Aurian!" he roared. "How dare you
speak to me in that fashion! Get back to the Academy

at once!"

"I will not!" Aurian shouted. "You may rule the Academy, but you
don't rule the world, and you don't rule me! My father and my
mother left, and so can I!"

Miathan went white at her words, and Anvar was puzzled by the
sudden flicker of panic in his eyes. Abruptly, he seemed to
shrink. "Very well, my dear," he said. "Since it obviously means
so much to you, Anvar is yours."

Aurian seemed staggered by his sudden capitulation. As the tension
drained from the room, she blushed, shamefaced. "Miathan, thank
you," she said softly. "You're so good to me. I shouldn't have
lost my temper, and I'm truly sorry."

"So am I," Miathan said feelingly. He held out his arms,

and Aurian ran to hug him. "I'll make him behave," she promised.
"I swear I will."

Miathan looked at her gravely. "Indeed you must. You are now
responsible for this man, and I hold you answerable for his
conduct. If he misbehaves—he goes straight back to the kitchens!"
He glowered at Anvar. "Anvar, I trust you will not abuse the Lady
Aurian's kindness."

Anvar, meeting that steely gaze, shivered.

Miathan smiled coldly. "Now, before I permit you to enter this
lady's service, you must swear, before these witnesses, that you
will not try to escape again."

Anvar froze. Trapped! The Mage was smiling at him encouragingly.


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Unwittingly, she had trapped him with her kindness! He had no
choice, and he knew it. With a sinking heart, he gave his word.

The Archmage was seething as he returned to the Academy through
the snowy streets. How dare Aurian defy him! And over his own,
accursed half-breed bastard! Miathan ground his teeth. He wanted
to kill Anvar, to bury once and for all the mistake of his younger
days—but he could not. If Anvar should die, then the power that he
had stolen from the wretch would be lost for good. Miathan had to
keep him alive. He needed that power.

Aurian's words still stung. So I don't rule the world, he thought.
Well, one day I will—then Aurian will pay for her defiance! And it
was fitting that Anvar should provide the means. Miathan smiled.
With the additional powers he had stolen, nothing could stop him.
It was simply a case of biding his time and waiting for the right
moment to strike.

Miathan was obsessed with power. His ambition was to restore the
great old days when Magefolk had used their power to rule the
Mortal race. To achieve this, he had wormed his way into the
position of Archmage with merciless cunning and stealth. He and
Geraint had been friends—until Aurian's father, with his
subversive affection for Mortals, had been nominated as the next
Archmage. It had been simple to engineer the "accident" that had
removed his rival, but Miathan had not reckoned with the guilt
that had pursued him at the murder of another Mage. In atojjgment,
he had originally planned to make

Aurian his successor, but now he had evolved a new plan for
Geraint's daughter. He wanted her at his side, as his consort— and
in his bed. A surge of desire consumed the Archmage at the thought
of Aurian. It had turned him cold when she threatened

to leave.

Miathan now knew that he had erred in bringing Forral to Nexis. He
had thought that by using Aurian as a lever, he would retain
control of the Garrison's voice on the Ruling Council, but his
plan had backfired. Because of her allegiance to her Mortal friend


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and teacher, his pupil was becoming increasingly intractable, and
her loyalty, which he had fostered with such painstaking care over
the years, was weakening. Unfortunately, there was no way at
present to solve the problem. If he was implicated in Forral's
removal, Aurian would never forgive

him.

Miathan resigned himself to patience. Sooner or later, he would
find an opportunity to deal with the swordsman. In the meantime,
he must at all costs keep Aurian's love and trust. With Forral out
of the way he would soon break her to his bidding, and use her
powers to further his ends. Miathan smiled to himself. How
difficult could it be, to rid himself of one man? Forral was only
a Mortal, after all.

Aurian was weary but satisfied. This had been her first essay in
the skills that Meiriel was teaching her, but everything had gone
well. Those long hours studying the intricate workings of the
human body and^ learning to channel her power to repair damage and
speed natural healing had not been in vain. Though she still had
much to learn, her first independent efforts had been a success.
As though dusting off her hands, Aurian banished the last
flickering blue traces of Magelight that marked her Healing
spells.

Her new servant rested comfortably between clean sheets in a room
that had been provided by a rather tight-lipped Forral. Now that
he was clean, she could see the bruises fading rapidly against his
pale, fair skin. Soon they would be gone, and the Mage blessed her
powers that could work such miracles. His eyes flickered open, and
Aurian caught her breath at their vivid blue intensity.

"How do you feel?" she asked.


"It doesn't hurt," he said wonderingly. "It really doesn't hurt!
Gods, I'd forgotten . . ."

Aurian swallowed a lump in her throat. How the poor wretch had


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suffered! "It won't hurt anymore," she assured him. "I've taken
care of it."

"Magefolk don't Heal Mortals!" His voice rose in disbelief. "Lady
Meiriel wouldn't Heal my grandpa, and he died!"

Knowing Meiriel, Aurian was uncomfortably aware that he could be
telling the truth. "Well, Lady Aurian Heals Mortals," she said
briskly, "and you certainly needed it!"

"Lady—what's going to happen to me?"

Aurian gave him a reassuring smile, trying to soothe away the fear
that showed on his face. "Don't you remember? From now on you'll
be my servant, and I'll make sure you're never hurt like that
again. You're safe now."

"Oh." He sounded far from convinced.

Well, what did you expect from a bondservant? Aurian thought to
herself. Gratitude? She smiled at her own folly. If I were him,
she decided, I probably wouldn't trust me, either.

This time he managed to swallow the broth she gave him, and soon
afterward he fell asleep. Aurian also needed to eat, to replace
the energy expended in her Healing, and after the appalling
business of getting her patient clean, she badly needed a bath
herself. But she lingered for a while, watching him as he slept
and trying to shake off the nagging feeling that she had seen him
before. Anvar, had the Archmage called him? His body was long in
the bed and broaH shouldered, but dreadfully thin. Well, that
could be remedied. He looked younger than she had first thought,
probably not much older than herself. His face, even in repose,
seemed melancholy, with fine lines between his brows, and at the
corners of his generous mouth. His jaw was firm, though his nose
was rather big, and his fine bronze hair curled into the nape of
his neck. And those eyes! Aurian had never seen such eyes on a
Mortal.

Forral entered the room, and found Aurian regarding her patient


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with an oddly tender expression. He was rocked back on his heels
by a violent surge of jealousy. What was it about this bloody man
anyway, that she had defended him so fiercely against the
Archmagep—and himself?

Aurian          looked            up        quickly,             her         expression                suddenly

clouded.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"I noticed." He couldn't keep the gruffness from his voice.

Aurian winced. "Forral, I'm sorry I lost my temper with you. I'm
really grateful for your help—"

"You've a warrior's heart, lass, to defend what you believe in so
fiercely—and to take on the Archmage, too! I'll always help you,
you know that, but . . . Aurian, are you sure this was a good
idea?"

"Forral, not again! Don't you understand that I'm no longer a
child?"

Her meaning was all too clear. She sounded so sad, so wistful,
that he had to fight the urge to tell her that he loved her, that
he wanted her as she so plainly wanted him. Forral pulled himself
together. It was impossible. There were reasons for the
proscription against love between Magefolk and Mortals —reasons
that she had not considered. He had to protect her. He steeled
himself against the longing in her eyes, forcing himself to be
genial.

"I'm sorry, love," he said. "I've looked after you since you were
a little scrap of a thing, remember? Us old folk tend to forget
how fast our charges grow up."

She looked away, and Forral knew she was trying to hide her hurt
from him. He left the room hastily, closing the door behind him.
Leaning against the polished panels, he swore softly and


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continuously for several minutes. How much longer could this go
on? He should never have come back! Seeing how things were turning
out, he should have left at once. He should leave now, but ... He
couldn't. He couldn't leave her again. With a sigh, Forral turned
away from Aurian's door and went off to find himself a very large
drink. These days, it was the only thing that helped.

Ohapter             1O

A     SHADOW          OF      EVIL

hen Anvar returned to the Academy as the Lady Aurian's servant, he
found that his life changed completely. He no longer had to suffer
the bullying of the kitchen workers, for the personal servants of
the Magefolk lived apart from the menials, and under very
different conditions. The Chief Steward Elewin, a tall, gaunt,
silver-haired old man with a gentle expression, ruled the
household servants with a rod of iron, but he was scrupulously
fair, and tolerated no gossip among his charges. As long as Anvar
worked hard and kept out of trouble, Elewin made sure he was left
alone.

Anvar had a bunk in the servants' dormitory next to the Mages'
Tower. Regular, hearty meals were served in the adjacent
refectory, and personal servants were issued clean, neat working
clothes every day.

Anvar was torn between gratitude and resentment for the Mage who
had rescued him. She had saved him from the Archmage's wrath, and
thanks to her, his life had improved considerably—but by asking
him to swear Miathan's oath, she had trapped him here. But he had
no other life, since Sara had rejected him so cruelly. Yet how
could he blame her? His fathering of a child on her had led to her
being sold in marriage to that brute of a merchant. Even-if she
had dared to help him with Vannor present, why should she? She had
every reason to hate him! Anvar was heartbroken and bereft. Now he
had nothing—not even hope. All he had was work. So he worked as
hard as he could, wishing that his Lady would give him more to do,
so he would have less time to think. Elewin was pleased with him,
and Anvar welcomed the Steward's kindly praise after Janok's


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abuse.

The other Magefolk took little notice of the servants. On rare
occasions when he came into contact with them, Anvar found Meiriel
brisk and efficient, Finbarr kindly but vague, and Eliseth cold
and scathing. D'arvan rarely spoke. Davorshan and Bragar were the
two to avoid. Davorshan was simply a bully, but there was a
genujjD^ streak of cruelty in Bragar. He regu-
larly abused the servants, who were all afraid of him. Even Elewin
gave the Fire-Mage a wide berth.

Anvar had expected that the Lady Aurian, having settled his fate
with typical Magefolk arrogance, would have little time for a mere
servant, but he was wrong. She always had a smile and a kind word
for him, and invariably thanked him for his efforts. Her
consideration earned her little respect from the other servants,
and this so puzzled him that he plucked up courage to ask Elewin
about it.

"It's simple enough," the Steward said. "The household staff, I'm
afraid, is somewhat lacking in imagination, and the Lady Aurian
differs from other Mages, because of her association with Mortals.
It violates what the servants see as the natural order at the
Academy, and it makes them nervous." His gray eyes twinkled.
"Personally, I find it refreshing, but don't you go repeating
that, young Anvar. And never confuse her kindness with softness.
If you take liberties, you'll soon find that she has the usual
Magefolk temper!"

Anvar took the advice to heart. He was still wary of his Lady, who
was one of the hated Magefolk, and not to be trusted. He lived in
constant dread of what would happen when the tale that he had
murdered his mother spread from the kitchens to the servants'
quarters, and thence, gossip being what it was, to his new
mistress. He wondered why the Archmage had not told her himself,
especially during their confrontation at the Garrison. But one
morning, within a month of his joining the household--staff, he
found the other servants whispering in corners and avoiding him,
and he knew that the secret was out. Even the kindly Elewin was
looking at him with a frown. Anvar was glad to collect the Lady's


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breakfast—the warm, soft, fresh-baked rolls that were all she ate
at this early hour, and a huge pot of taillin—and hurry away to
the sanctuary of her room.

The Mage rose early for her sword practice at the Garrison, and on
these iron-hard winter mornings her room was dark and chill. Anvar
laid the table and lit the lamps, and was cleaning the fireplace
when Aurian, never at her best at this hour, entered looking cross
and bleary-eyed. Anvar busied himself at the hearth, trying to
make himself inconspicuous and praying that the rumors had not
reached her. He heard her footsteps

crossing the floor behind him, the scrape of her chair on the
carpet, and the sound of taillin pouring into a cup. After a
moment, she cleared her throat.

"Anvar—I want to talk to you."

Anvar's heart lurched, as his terror of the Magefolk blazed up
within him, renewed. He dropped the bucket with an ear-splitting
clang, and to his horror, the ash flew up in a cloud to cover
every surface. The Mage leapt up from her ruined breakfast with a
blistering oath, her hair and face turning powdery gray.

Anvar threw himself at her feet, quaking. "Lady, please—" he
begged. "It was an accident!"

"Of course it was!" Aurian knelt at his side. "Don't cringe like
that, Anvar—I'm sorry I frightened you. I was half asleep, and
that noise startled me out of my wits!"

She was apologizing—to him? Anvar looked up at the Mage in
astonishment.

Aurian's lips began to twitch. "Gods," she chuckled, "you look
like the offspring of a ghost and a scarecrow!" She ran her hands
through her abundant red hair, and was immediately enveloped in a
choking gray cloud.

"Lady, I'm so terribly sorry," Anvar said in dismay, as she


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coughed and spluttered.

"Not to worry. We'll soon fix it." She gave a flip of her
fingers—and instantly every speck of ash was back in the bucket.
Throwing logs into the fireplace, she ignited them with a careless
gesture. "We Magefolk'are ^o used to people running around after
us, we forget we can do things for ourselves!" Then her manner
sobered. "Come and sit with me, Anvar. There's something I need to
ask you."

The Lady led him to the table, and gave him taillin in her own
cup. His hands were shaking as he took it. Aurian sat down
opposite, holding his eyes with her steady green gaze. "Elewin
tells me you killed your own mother," she said bluntly. "Is it
true?"

Anvar bit his lip, not knowing how to reply. He was terrified of
invoking Miathan's spell if he tried to tell the truth. Besides,
she would never believe him.

"Well?" The Mage broke the lengthening silence. "Why won't you
speak? Are»yeu afraid?" She reached across the table

to take his hand. "Look," she said gently, "I can't believe this,
and neither can Elewin. When he heard from Janok, who was
apparently told by Miathan, that you're a murderer, he was so
concerned that he came straight to me with the tale. It seems
wrong to me too, Anvar. If you were accused of murder, your case
should have come before Forral, but it never did. I want to hear
your side. If you were wrongly bonded, I'll do my best to set
things straight."

Anvar stared at her, unable to believe that she was on his side.
"It's no good," he said at last. "My father was within his rights
to bond me. I wasn't old enough—by a month—to be considered a man
under the law."

"And the rest?" Aurian said softly.

Anvar struggled to hold back his tears. "How could I have killed


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her?" he cried. "I loved her!"

With infinite patience, Aurian coaxed the story of his mother's
death from him, though he couldn't tell her how he had put out the
fire. "It was an accident," he finished, "but it happened because
of me. My father blamed me, and signed my life away for revenge."

Aurian shuddered. "Your father is a bastard," she said.

"No." Anvar shook his head, his face burning with shame. "I'm the
bastard. That was why he did it." It was the closest he could come
to telling her the whole truth.

"Anvar!" Aurian's grip on his hand tightened, and her expression
grew fierce. "Listen. Even if I can't do anything about the
bonding, I won't have you unjustly accused of murder! I'll talk to
Forral this morning. At least we can clear your name."

From that day, Anvar's relationship with the Mage began to change.
Aurian had Forral investigate his story, and after questioning the
shopkeepers of the Arcade, the Commander ruled that Ria's death
had been an accident. Aurian announced the fact within the
Academy, and at last Anvar was freed from the sideways looks and
accusing whispers. Only when it had gone, did he appreciate the
extent of the strain he had suffered, with the false accusation
hanging over him, and Mage or no, Anvar was truly grateful to his
Lady.

Aurian's kindness to him became more marked, as if she

were trying to make amends for the misery he had suffered. Often,
as he worked in her rooms, she would make him sit and have a glass
of wine, or some taillin with her, and Anvar became aware of a new
peril. As they talked, Aurian would drop in a question about his
past or his family, and he'd be lost for an answer. She was so
easy to talk to that he found himself in constant danger of
bringing the Archmage's terrible spell into effect. Sometimes he
longed to try to confide in her, and ask her help, but though she
had done so much for him, she was still a Mage, and Miathan's
favorite, and somehow he could never quite bring himself to trust


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her.

Nonetheless, as time went by, Anvar became increasingly concerned
about his Lady. She worked too hard, as though she, like himself,
were trying to drive away her troubles with activity. She would
come from her sword training, or her Healing work with Meiriel,
looking utterly exhausted. And Anvar, no stranger to sorrow, often
wondered at the sadness that shadowed her face. She began to spend
less and less time at the Garrison, eventually only going there
for her morning practice. Anvar noticed this, and wondered if
Aurian's unhappiness was somehow connected with Forral.

He knew for certain, however, that Miathan was worrying her with
his attentions. As the year went on, the Archmage began to visit
Aurian at odd hours—late at night, or in the morning when she was
bathing after her session at the Garrison. He plied her with
gifts, and was always finding excuses to touch her. Anvar saw the
gleam of possessive lust in the Archmage's eyes, and he feared for
her.

Since his terror of Miathan was undiminished, Anvar was unnerved
by his frequent visits. When the Archmage was present, Aurian
began to find excuses for her servant to be in her rooms,
inventing any number of trifling tasks to keep him there. Anvar
could hardly blame her—in fact, he was relieved that she had some
instinct of self-protection, though he could see that she was
confounded by Miathan's behavior. Unbelievable as it seemed to
him, she looked on Miathan almost as a father, and simply could
not believe that he would betray her trust in him.

Aurian may have been reluctant to face the truth, but Anvar had no
doubts^A$ he worked, he could feel Miathan's

eyes boring into his back, and if he turned around, he was
confronted by a savage glare filled with loathing and hostility—
and an unmistakable threat. The thought of crossing the Archmage
made him quake with terror. Miathan was not one to be thwarted for
long, and Anvar's only protection was Aurian, for the Archmage was
not ready to upset her by depriving her of her servant. But it was
only a matter of time. Anvar knew that Miathan's patience was


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limited, and sooner or later, matters would come to a head.

When he heard that Aurian usually visited her mother during the
summer, Anvar was tormented by fear. While he knew it would
benefit his Lady to get away from both Forral and Miathan for a
time, he was terrified that she would leave him behind,
defenseless and in the Archmage's power. He was sure that if she
did, he would not be there when she returned. He doubted that he'd
even be alive.

The day before Aurian was due to leave, Anvar was sitting on her
bedroom floor with an oily rag in one hand and one of her riding
boots in the other. He gave a final polish to the soft brown
leather, then set the boot down beside its companion and turned
with a sigh to the neatly folded clothing on the bed. H«~ was
supposed to be packing Aurian's saddlebags, but was find-j ing it
impossible to concentrate on his task. The Mage had sr'" not told
him whether he could go with her—she'd said that some reason
Miathan had refused to allow it, but she still he to persuade him.
Anvar knew what that meant. He was surprised, therefore, when he
heard Aurian enter her rooms lil a hurricane. The door slammed
shut with a resounding crasl followed by a string of lurid curses.
Anvar shuddered. Obvi^ ously, Miathan had still said no.    J

Aurian stormed into her bedroom, still swearing, pulled up
short at the sight of him. "Anvar! I didn't thit you'd still be
here!"

"I'm sorry, Lady—it's taking longer than I thought." "Never
mind—there's no rush." Aurian returned to thr other chamber and
came back with two goblets of wine. Handing one to him, she sat
down on the bed. "I'm sorry, Anvar. The Archmage just won't budge!
I don't know what's come over him lately—he never used to be like
this!"

Though he tried to hide his fear, the glass began to shake

stil

in Anvar's hands, and Aurian gave him a knowing, sympathetic look.


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"Don't look so worried," she said hastily. "I know you're afraid
of Miathan, but you won't see much of him while I'm away. Finbarr
and I were talking last night, and he suggested that you could
help him in the Archives. He's sorting documents just now, and
it's too much for one person to manage. Would you mind?"

Would he mind? Anvar felt giddy with relief. Ever since she had
discovered that he could read, Aurian had given him the task of
organizing her own researches, so by now he knew Finbarr very
well. Although he was a Mage, Anvar could not help liking the
clever Archivist, and as Finbarr's servant, he knew he'd be safe.
Down in the catacombs, he would be well out of Miathan's way,
though he wondered whether Finbarr would have much use for him.
Knowing his Lady, Aurian had probably talked the Archivist into
the idea.

When Anvar went to take up his new duties, Finbarr's dirty,
disheveled appearance disabused him of the notion. The Archivist
greeted him with relief. "My, but you're a sight for sore eyes,
Anvar! Aurian offered to help me with this appalling c, but I
insisted that she go away as usual. I've been worried jut her
lately—she insists on working too hard! Besides, all I is a quick
brain and an extra pair of hands—though you're as good to look at,
if you'll forgive my saying so. Come this '—I'm working right down
on the lower levels." He held his dusty hands with a grimace.
"There's stuff down there at hasn't been disturbed in cent-uriej!"

The days of Aurian's absence passed quickly for Anvar. He to work
harder for Finbarr than he had done for his Lady, he found an
endless fascination in sorting the ancient docu-lents. The
Archivist was delighted to have his assistance, and lore than
happy to encourage his interest.

Finbarr was attempting to use the much neglected sorting "'of the
lower levels to further his research into his own pet subject: the
ancient history of the Magefolk. "If you look into the annals, my
boy," he told Anvar, "you will find that every Archivist has had
his particular obsession. It's an odd position, this—the holder's
magical talents are of small importance, except that they can be
used to further the work in hand. My own


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powers, for instance, mainly encompass Air and Fire, but my
predecessor was a Water-Mage, and the work she did in drying out
these very lower levels, so that we can work in them, was
invaluable. But what counts most is a love of order, and an
insatiable thirst for knowledge—that's what makes an Archivist!"

While they worked, Anvar would listen happily as Finbarr expounded
his theories on the disastrous wars of the Ancient Magefolk. "So
much was lost," the Archivist would mourn, "in the destruction of
Old Nexis. There are vague, unsubstantiated hints, you know, in
some of the Chronicles, that we were not the only race of Magefolk
at that time! Of course, we know that the Dragonfolk existed,
though our knowledge of them is scant. But certain sources—alas,
discredited as the blackest of heretics by many previous
Archivists—hint that the Cataclysm was actually set in motion by a
Mage who could fly, if you can believe it! Still others suggest
that there were Mages who could live beneath the sea, and that all
these races had a part in the forming of the four legendary
Weapons of the Elements . . ." He sighed. "If only I could find
something that might decrease our ignorance of those times ... If
those four Implements of Power really did exist, then surely they
must still be at large in the world—and should they fall into the
wrong hands, then history could easily repeat itself . . ."

Though Anvar, unlike Finbarr, refused to lose sleep over the
possibility of another Cataclysm, he hoped that the Archivist
would find what K? sought. There was a time, he knew, when
Finbarr's pursuit of knowledge for knowledge's sake would have
angered him, given the poverty and suffering that existed among so
many Mortals. But the Archivist meant well ... In all honesty, he
found Finbarr's enthusiasm very contagious.

On a bright, crisp day that presaged the turning of the season to
autumn, Finbarr decided it was time to tackle the lowest level of
all. "I must make the most of you, before Aurian gets back." He
smiled. "She is due any day now. I wonder what she'd say if I
decided to steal you for good?" For a moment, Anvar was tempted by
the idea. He had enjoyed assisting the Archivist, but more to the
point, he had seen nothing of the Archmage while Aurian was away.


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He'd be safer as Finbarr's ft,

AURIAN          •       151

servant, and he would also escape the torment of Miathan's visits
to his Lady. Nonetheless, he felt a strange pang of reluctance at
the thought of leaving Aurian. Lately, he had found himself
looking every day for her return, and had finally been forced to
the astonishing conclusion that he missed her.

Anvar followed Finbarr down through the maze of passages and
stairways that had been hewn out of the living rock of the
promontory. They passed beyond the upper levels where the
Archivist had set lights of glowing crystal, until their only
illumination was the glowing ball of Magelight that Finbarr sent
before them. Their shadows, cast by the iridescent, silvery globe,
bobbed and danced like puppets on the rough stone walls.

"I thought we would make a start in here." Finbarr ducked through
a doorless archway, and Anvar followed him into a small stone
chamber whose walls were filled with crumbling wooden shelving.
The place was shrouded in dust and cobwebs, and many of the
shelves had collapsed beneath the weight of documents. Scrolls and
papers lirtered the floor in haphazard piles. The Archivist
sighed. "By lonor the Wise," he muttered, "my predecessors
neglected these lower levels disgracefully! It's a lifetime's work
to put it right, Anvar my friend—and that being the case, we'd
better get started!" He felt in the pockets of his robes, and
grimaced in irritation. "Drat! I forgot to bring my crystals with
me to light our labors!"

"I'll go," Anvar offered. "I know where you keep them, Sir."                                                                   -
j

"Never mind. If you trek all the way up to the library and back
again, we'll lose half the day. Besides, it's a tricky route for
the uninitiated." Finbarr's eyes twinkled. "Aurian would never
forgive me if I lost you in the bowels of the earth! We'll
manage." He tossed the ball of Magelight toward the ceiling, but
it went too high, splattering against the buttressed stone in an


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explosion of sparks and plunging them into utter blackness.

"Festering bat turds! I'm always doing that!" Finbarr's voice
echoed, sharp with annoyance, out of the darkness.

Anvar caught his breath. His night vision had always been
excellent, but he had never experienced such absolute darkness. It
pressed on him as though the entire weight of the hill were
resting on his shoulders. In panic, he turned to flee. His foot

caught in a pile of scrolls and he overbalanced, falling hard
against the wall. The shelves above him collapsed in an avalanche
of papers and splintered wood—then an entire section of the wall
gave way beneath his weight, in a cloud of dust and a rumble of
stone.

Finbarr struck a new light. "By the Gods, Anvar! See what you've
found!" His young-old face was alight with excitement. Anvar
scrambled out of the wreckage, brushing off rubble and dust.
Beyond the wall was a chamber—no, a cave. A tunnel led from it at
the far side, promising further secrets beyond. Finbarr's eyes
glowed with rapture as he looked at the treasures within. Ancient
volumes, their gilded bindings winking in the Magelight, were
piled in chests and scattered across the floor, as though they had
been abandoned in a hurry. Tapestries lay stacked in a corner, and
a pile of artifacts—personal belongings by their look—were tumbled
against the opposite wall. As Anvar looked, a beautiful golden
chalice toppled from the pile and rolled across the floor toward
him. He stepped forward to catch it, but Finbarr thrust him back.

"Wait! There's magic here! This place is protected!" Seizing his
arm, the Archivist hauled Anvar out of the chamber. "If I'm not
mistaken," he said, "you have just made the most valuable
discovery of our age! We must fetch the Archmage at once!"

Before she entered the Mages' Tower, Aurian took a good long look
around the familiar courtyard of the Academy and decided that she
was glad to be back. Although she'd enjoyed her visit with Eilin,
she had missed Forral dreadfully, and had also been worried about
Anvar, and how he had managed in her absence. Once again, she


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wondered why he was so afraid of Miathan, and why the Archmage
seemed to have taken such a marked dislike to him. If Miathan had
truly believed that Anvar was a murderer, it would explain the
mystery—but if that was so, then why had his attitude not altered
when her servant's name had been cleared?

As she lugged her heavy saddlebags up the stairs of the Mages'
Tower, Aurian found herself wishing that Anvar had been there to
help. Somehow, she'd been disappointed not to find him standing in
the courtyard waiting for her. "Aurian,

you are an idiot \" she told herself, as she panted her way up the
steps. "How could he possibly know you were coming? Besides, he
has better things to do!"

All thoughts of Anvar vanished as she let herself into her rooms.
Miathan was already there, waiting for her. "My dearest Aurian!"
The Archmage stepped forward, hands outstretched in welcome. "I
saw you ride into the courtyard from my window. How glad I am that
you're safely home!"

Aurian stepped back hastily from his effusive greeting, dropping
her saddlebags. As Miathan's arms went round her, she felt herself
stiffen with panic. How had he managed to get into her rooms?
She'd thought that she and Anvar had the only keys. Had something
happened to her servant? She flinched away from the fey brightness
of Miathan's eyes, the excitement betrayed by his jerky movements.
It had been easy, while she was away, to convince herself that his
odd behavior had all been her imagination, but suddenly she knew
better. And now, at last, he had her alone.

As he left the library, Anvar saw Aurian's horse standing
patiently outside the door of the Mages' Tower, and all thoughts
of his amazing discovery in the catacombs fled. "My Lady!" he
cried joyfully. "She's back!" He raced across the courtyard and up
the tower stairs, followed by a smiling Finbarr.

"No! Get away from me, Miathan!" Aurian's cry rang out just as
Anvar and Finbarr reached_her.quarters. Anvar gasped with horror.
The Archmage! He tugged frantically at the handle of the door, but


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it was locked. Without thinking, he threw himself at the door,
hammering loudly on the wooden panels, and heard the Archmage
curse. After a moment, the door was flung open.

The hem of Miathan's robe was tattered and smoldering, and his
hands were blistered and black with soot. His face was livid with
rage. "How dare you interrupt me," he snarled, raising his hand to
strike, but Finbarr stepped forward quickly between the Archmage
and his prey, and Anvar blessed the Archivist's presence of mind
as Miathan drew back quickly with a stifled oath.

"I interrupted you, Miathan," Finbarr said calmly, for all

154 • MAGGIE: FUREY

the world as though nothing were amiss. "You must excuse the
servant's excitement—we've made an incredible discovery in the
Archives that you must see at once." Without waiting for a reply,
he pushed past the dumbfounded Archmage and entered the room.
Anvar followed him quickly—and stopped dead, at the sight of his
mistress.

Aurian was backed into a corner, her clothes torn and her eyes
blazing with anger. Her hair, untangled from its intricate
braiding, swept almost to the floor in a tide of crimson. Her hand
was drawn back like a claw, clutching a searing fireball, and a
smoking scar on the carpet proved that it was not the first. As
she saw Finbarr and her servant, the Mage extinguished the flame
between her fingers and leaned back against the wall, white and
shaking.

Anvar went rigid with fury, but Finbarr laid a restraining hand on
his arm. "Is anything wrong, Aurian?" He gave the Archmage a hard
look.

Miathan shrugged. "A simple experiment with Fire-magic that got
out of hand," he replied calmly. "I was trying to help her when
you arrived."

"Shall I send for Meiriel?" Finbarr addressed the Archmage, but


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his eyes went to Aurian as he spoke.

"That won't be necessary," Miathan snapped. Then he turned to
Finbarr, all smiles again. "Well, shall we go and look at your
amazing discovery? I'm sure the Lady will join us, too." It was
little short of a command, and Anvar knew that the Archmage was
reluctant •«> leave her alone.

"She'll follow when she's recovered," Finbarr said blithely. "I
know how draining these . . . experiments can be. Come,
Archmage—this won't wait." He shepherded Miathan out of the door.
Once the Archmage had gone, he turned back to Anvar with a frown.
"Take care of your mistress," he whispered. "I'll deal with
Miathan." Then he was gone.

Aurian crossed the room and sat down on the couch, shuddering, her
face hidden in her hands. "He was waiting for me," she whispered.
"When I got back, he was waiting. He—he just seemed to go mad,
Anvar! He said he'd waited long enough, and didn't want to wait
any longer. Oh Gods!" Her gasp was half a sob. "How could he! He
was always like a father to me!" Not knowing what else to do,
Anvar poured her a glass of


wine. She took it gratefully, and he knelt at her feet. He could
hardly bear to look into her horrified, pain-shadowed eyes.
"Lady—he didn't . . ."

Aurian grimaced, and shook her head. "No," she said shakily. "He
had a damned good try, though! It's a good thing I know how to
fight!"

Anvar saw the gleam of tears in her eyes, and a startling surge of
protectiveness swept over him. Greatly daring, he took her hands.
"Don't worry, Lady, Finbarr saw what had happened. He said he'd
speak to the Archmage. Besides," he added fiercely, "Miathan won't
get another chance—I'll see to that! I'll stay with you, no matter
what he says. I'll never leave you alone with him, I promise."

"Thank you for that, Anvar. I know it's hard for you, because


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you're afraid of the Archmage—and after today, I can begin to see
why!" Aurian shuddered.

"It'll be all right, Lady. Surely he couldn't do anything in front
of a witness." Anvar wished that he could make himself sound more
confident.

Aurian sighed. "I only hope you're right. Otherwise—I don't know
what I'm going to do."

CxKapter                11

TRIAL         BY        COMBAT

t's truly autumn now, Aurian thought, as she rode through the
deserted streets toward the Garrison. The weather was fine and
clear as dawn stroked the city's roofs with golden fingers, but
the light was paler now, the air clear and crisp. For the first
time in months Aurian wore her cloak, and was grateful for it.
Miathan had given her a new one, a luxurious mantle of thick soft
wool dyed her favorite emerald-green, but it hung neglected behind
her door while Aurian instead wore Forral's sturdy old soldier's
cloak made from the tough oily wool of mountain sheep. She knew it
was foolish, but wearing his cast-off cloak seemed to bring him
closer to her. The swordsman was still keeping a discreet,
unbridgeable distance between them, and she was close to despair.
She had loved him for so long! Ever since her childhood. She
hadn't known then that it was forbidden for a Mage to love a
Mortal, and now it was too late. How could she ever love anyone
else?

Which brought her back to her other, far more pressing problem.
Miathan. Since the Archmage had first adopted her as his pupil, he
had treated her like a favorite daughter, and she'd loved and
respected him as such, But yesterday's happenings had changed
everything. Aurian shuddered, unable to shake off a crawling
feeling of uncleanliness. Though she had never taken a lover,
she'd been well educated by her earthy friends at the Garrison,
and the idea of sKSring Miathan's bed filled her with revulsion.
His cruelty to Anvar had first given her cause to doubt him—and


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had he deliberately lied about the servant being a murderer?
Aurian knew that she would never be able to trust the Archmage
again, and her relationship with him was now tinged with an
undercurrent of fear. Last night, in the excitement caused by
Anvar's discovery, she had managed to avoid being alone with
Miathan, but how long could she keep avoiding him? He was the most
powerful person in the city, and what he wanted, he could take.

Apart from Finbarr, Aurian dared confide in none of the Magefolk.
If this had been Miathan's intention all along, any or all of them
might be in the plot. To be chosen by the Archmage

as a consort was deemed the greatest of honors. Eliseth would give
her right arm for it, Aurian thought wryly. She thought of
discussing it with Maya, but then Forral would be sure to find
out, and she wanted to avoid that, knowing full well how he would
react. He was no match for the Archmage.

It's no use, Aurian thought despairingly. I should leave Nexis and
go back to the Valley. But though it was the only sensible option,
she could not stop the tears coming at the thought. How can I
leave? What will happen to Anvar without me? He belongs to the
Academy—I wouldn't be allowed to take him. And how can I leave
Finbarr, and Maya and Parric and Vannor? And, oh—Forral! How could
I bear to lose him again? Weary as she was after yesterday's shock
and a sleepless night, her thoughts circled in hopeless misery,
without ever coming near to a solution.

Absorbed in her troubles, the Mage rode through the great stone
gateway of the Garrison, scarcely aware that she had arrived. Too
late, she heard the thunder of hooves bearing down on her. Her
training saved her—that, and blind instinct. She felt the wind
from the sword stroke whistle over her head as she dived beneath
the belly of her horse, one foot still in the stirrup, one hand
clutching the reins and the pommel of the saddle. Drawing her
dagger with her free hand, she sliced the girth of her assailant's
mount as it passed, then hauled herself upright and wheeled her
horse around in time to see the other's saddle rock and tip,
dumping the rider into the dust of the parade ground, Aurian
grinned. Parric, with-wljjwn she had lately been training, sat on


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the hard-packed earth, swearing horribly.

"Got you!" Aurian crowed, her troubles, for the moment, vanished.
"You owe me a beer, Parric."

The little Cavalry master gave her a sour look, and spat out a
mouthful of dust. "Pah! Beer, indeed! You were so bloody slow, I
could have had your head off if I'd wanted!"

"Rubbish!" Aurian retorted. "What are you doing down there, then?
Go on, admit it, I won."

"Didn't!"             '                         )

"Did!" She looked around for support, and saw Maya over on the
archery range at the far side of the parade ground, watching
D'arvan shooting at targets with Fional, the Garrison's crack
archer.     _J._

"Maya, did you see it?" she called. "I did win, didn't I?"

Forral's Second-in-Command—the slender, dark-haired young woman
whose luminous, delicate beauty belied whiplash reflexes and one
of the most aggressive, effective fighting styles that Aurian had
ever seen—stood little over five feet tall, but she had no trouble
keeping order—even the biggest trooper feared her acid tongue. Yet
she was quiet and shy among strangers, preferring the company of a
few intimate friends. Since their first meeting so long ago in the
Fleet Deer, she and Aurian had become very close. What was more,
Maya seemed to be acquiring a taste for Magefolk. Since D'arvan
had started coming with Aurian to the Garrison, he and Portal's
Second-in-Command could usually be found together.

Aurian was delighted that the shy young Mage had found a friend
outside the Academy. He had grieved so hard, at first, over
Davorshan's defection to Eliseth. D'arvan's early visits to the
Garrison had been strained and awkward, and for a while she had
despaired, but his shyness had eventually been vanquished by the
discovery of an incredible talent for archery, of all things. Then
Maya had won his trust at last, and taken a weight of worry from


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the Mage's shoulders. The twins, at this point, seemed to have
called a truce; though they had moved to separate rooms, they had
apparently learned to live with the differences that had alienated
them from one another. And Aurian, to her surprise, had been well
repaid for her kindness to D'arvan, for she had gained another
friend within the Academy where she had least expecTed to find
one.

Aurian was brought back from her thoughts by Parric's voice.
"Well, you heard her—did she win?"

Fional simply shrugged, and D'arvan, intent on his shooting, gave
the two assailants an absentminded wave. Maya, however, sauntered
across to them, grinning. "Parric's right, you were slow," she
said to Aurian.

"See?" the Cavalrymaster jeered. Aurian's face fell.

"But," Maya went on, "you were bloody effective. Cutting that
girth was the neatest trick I've seen in ages! Face it, Parric,
you've taught her too well. I give the result to Aurian."

"Ha!" Aurian pointed at the little man. "Told you!"

"Bloody           women!"             Parric            muttered             disgustedly                 as        he

picked himself up, beating the dust out of his clothing. "Always
stick together!"

Aurian dismounted with a smile. An outsider, she thought, would
have been horrified by the incident, but within the Garrison, such
surprise attacks were commonplace. The troopers were a close-knit
family. They policed the city and its surrounds, dealt with any
trouble, and fought any battles or wars that the Council needed
fighting; and they were well aware of the dangers of their
profession. Hence the potentially lethal tricks they played on one
another. They pushed themselves and their comrades to the limits
out of friendship—to sharpen their wits and skills, and increase
their chances of survival. It was very effective. Now, thanks to
Forral and her comrades-in-arms, she was a better fighter than she


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had ever been, and the friendships she had made were worth more
than gold.

Aurian suddenly became aware that Maya was speaking to her. "What
did you say?"

"I said, how was your visit to your mother?"

"Oh, I don't know—about the same as usual." Gods, had she only
returned yesterday? It seemed unbelievable to Aurian.

"Honestly, you're miles away this morning," Maya said. Linking
arms, the two women strolled towards the barnlike building that
housed the Garrison practice floor.

"I've been up all night, as D'arvan might have told you, had you
been able to get his attention away from his archery," Aurian told
her. "There's great-excitement at the Academy. Finbarr found some
caves beneath the archives, filled with old documents that might
hold the lost history of the Magefolk, before the Cataclysm."

Maya shuddered at the mention of the long-ago magical wars that
had almost destroyed the world, and made a sign against evil.
"Gods," she said, "I thought everything had been destroyed!"

"We all did, but apparently someone had the sense to hide this
stuff away out of danger. Although the Academy of that time was
leveled along with the rest of the city, these artifacts survived
the centuries," Aurian said. "It took us half the night to unravel
the spells protecting them, just so that we could touch them, and
thea-they started to disintegrate. We spent the

rest of the night working preservative magic so that we wouldn't
lose the lot."

"If you ask me, you should have left them well alone," Maya said
darkly. "Mark my words, Aurian, no good will come of digging up
ancient evils."

At her friend's words, Aurian felt her skin prickle. The day


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seemed to darken with the presentiment of some impending
catastrophe. She shivered.

"What's wrong?" Maya asked sharply.

"Nothing. I'm tired, that's all." She tried to convince herself
that it was true.

"Are you sure you should fight this morning?" Maya sounded
anxious. "Tired people make mistakes, you know."

Aurian stopped in her tracks. "Great Chathak! I'd forgotten all
about that!"

"Wonderful," Maya said dryly. "This year Forral chooses you, out
of everyone in the Garrison, to partner him in the demonstration
duel for the new recruits, and you forget. It's only an honor
given to the best warrior in the place. No wonder such a little
thing slipped your mind!"

"Oh shut up, Maya!" Aurian snapped.

"Staying up all night hasn't made any difference to your legendary
grouchiness first thing in the morning!" Maya teased, then her
face grew serious, "I'm sorry, Aurian. I can see that something's
bothering you. Look, do you want to talk about it? We have time.
Forral overslept again." She made a wry face.

Aurian sighed, as her friend's sympathy tempted her to spill out
all her worries. With an effort she pulled herself together.
"Thanks, Maya, but it's something I'll have to sort out for
myself," she said. "If we have time, though, I could kill for some
tat//in!"

As they sat in the deserted mess hall cradling their steaming
cups, Maya returned to the attack. "It's not this business with
Forral, is it?" she persisted.

"What?" For an instant Aurian thought her friend had discovered
her feelings for the swordsman, but Maya's next words disabused


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her. "He's managed to hide it from most of the Garrison, but no
one can drink like that without it coming to light sooner or
later."

Aurian's heart sank. "How long has this been going on?"


Maya shrugged. "Weeks—months, really. But lately it's been getting
worse, and as Forral's friend, as well as his deputy, I'm worried.
He's losing his edge, Aurian. I can see it already, and you know
what it's like around here. Sooner or later somebody will pull a
stunt on him like Parric did to you this morning, and he's going
to get hurt." Maya stopped short at the horrified expression on
Aurian's face. "Damn my big mouth! You didn't know, did you?"

"It's all right," Aurian said weakly. "I wish you'd told me
sooner. Maybe I can talk to him about it." /

"Thanks, Aurian. I'm sorry to burden you with this, but he might
listen to you. He—" Maya suddenly shut her mouth, her eyes
narrowing. She stood up abruptly. "Come on," she said, "It's time
we were going."

The banks of wooden benches around the practice floor were packed
to capacity. The new recruits sat on one side, and the remaining
seats were packed with every off-duty member of the Garrison who
could squeeze in. The annual no-holds-barred exhibition fight, to
show the newcomers what would eventually be expected of them, was
always spectacular, and no one wanted to miss seeing the world's
greatest swordsman in action—especially this year. Forral always
chose the best warrior as his opponent, and in nominating Aurian
he had risked the charge of favoritism. The troopers, however,
knew better, and the wagering—strictly illegal—on the fight was
heavier than usual.

The atmosphere was tense with excitement as Aurian entered the
arena. She'd done the exercises and meditations to prepare her
body and mind for the coming fight, but still she found herself
glancing worriedly at Forral as he entered. Apart from a slight
puffiness about the eyes, he seemed well enough, and Aurian forced


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herself to put Maya's confidence out of her mind until later. The
two contestants, clad alike in sleeveless leather fighting vests,
leather breeches, and soft boots, bowed to each other formally,
and the fight began.

Aurian circled warily, knowing better than to commit herself too
hastily with a warrior of Forral's caliber. Suddenly he lunged,
finding an opening she could have sworn was never there. She leapt
back, feeling his sword's very tip graze the tough leather of her
vest just over her ribs. Good thing she was fast on her feet. She-
feigned a stumble, then drove in to one

side. A trickle of blood appeared on Forral's left arm, and the
audience's startled gasp echoed Aurian's own. First blood to her,
and so soon! He should never have fallen for an old trick like
that. She had to do something. She drove in again, straight this
time. Forral blocked her blow with his upraised sword, and they
strained against each other, nose to nose, blades locked. Aurian
heard the spectators gasp again. They thought she had made an
error in closing with the burlier, stronger man, but her move had
been deliberate. "Slowing up, old man?" she taunted softly.
"Today's the day I beat you, Forral."

She saw shock and anger flick across his face, but there was no
time for more. In a whirling flurry of steel he disengaged, almost
wrenching Aurian's blade from her hand. Then the fight was on in
earnest. To Aurian, time seemed to slow as she and Forral wove
their intricate dance of death across the sands. All other
concerns were forgotten as the world narrowed to herself, her
opponent, and the gleaming steel they wielded.

Coronach screamed its death song as it clove the air, and Aurian
exulted with the blade—and became the blade with its clean, sharp
flicker followed by the jarring impact that ran up her arms as the
two swords clashed again and again. She registered the warm
trickle of blood from a dozen minor wounds, then forgot them.
Forral was also bleeding in several places. He was red-faced and
panting now, his movements less fluent than her own. With a sudden
shock, Aurian realized that she could beat him, though the split
second's distraction almost cost her the fight. She saw Forral's


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downswing just in time, tucked in her head and rolled, coming up
again, sword still in hand, to press the attack. Step by step, she
began to force him backward.

The awareness that he was losing began to dawn on Forral's face,
and with it, the atmosphere of the fight was changed. He was proud
of her—Aurian knew it as though she had picked the thought from
his mind. As they fought, the air was charged with a tension
between them, a bond so close that they were almost fighting as
one, and Aurian knew that they were no longer fighting against
each other—they were fighting with one another, though each was
striving their utmost to win. Despite her wounds and the tiredness
that was creeping over her, the feeling was like heady wine. A
slow smile spread across Forral's

face, and she found herself grinning back in answer. Never had
they been so utterly together.

The fight went down in Garrison legend. Those fortunate enough to
witness it said afterward that the moves were so fast that they
could hardly be seen. No one knew how long it took —Aurian lost
all track of time in the exhilaration of the contest. Then,
abruptly, it was over. Forral was sprawled on the sand at her
feet, the tip of her sword at his throat.

The audience was stunned into silence as Aurian lifted her blade
to salute him, sagging with exhaustion as the tension of the fight
drained from her limbs. Leaning on her sword, she put out a hand
to help Forral to his feet. As he rose, their eyes met, and in
that one glance, all the words, all the feelings that they had
hidden in their hearts for so long, passed between them. There was
no more hiding now. Supporting each other, they left the arena.
The crowd, as if released from a spell, leapt to its feet and
burst into tumultuous cheers. Aurian exchanged a startled look
with Forral. They had both forgotten all about the crowd.

Without a word, they limped back to Forral's quarters. Before the
door had time to close, they were in each other's arms. They made
love right there on the floor—blood, sweat, sand, and all. The
touch of Forral's hands sent delightful shivers over Aurian's skin


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as he discarded her bloodstained clothing, and his own. She
remembered crying out once, as he first penetrated her, and later
she found bruises on his shoulders where her fingers had clenched
in that instam>of pain. Forral cried out as his body tensed and
shuddered; he had longed for this moment for so many years, he
could delay no longer. Then he relaxed against her, kissing her
eyes, her neck, her mouth. Aurian moaned, still tense, wanting . .
. She felt his hand caress her breasts, her thighs, then between
her thighs, and as he brought her to her own release he entered
her once more, and this time, when the moment came, they were
together; their passion lasting and deep and strong with
friendship and respect and the deep, deep joy of an old love
turned new.

They lay in each other's arms, letting the world drift slowly back
to them. Aurian was filled with awe. She had passed through the
most important event in a woman's life— and Forral loved her.
JSJpt as the young girl he had known, but

i

as a woman. She felt transformed, and so,                                        somehow, was he. Aurian
felt unaccountably shy in the presence of                                        this muscular, hairy
man—her lover. Then he turned to her, his                                        face alight with
tenderness, and he was Forral again, whom                                        she had always loved and
trusted.

"Ah, love," he murmured, "if you only knew . . ."

Aurian reached out to touch his face. "I've known ever since I was
a little girl. I told you then, remember?"

"Aye, so you did. 1 thought it was just a childish fancy, though.
I didn't take into account how stubborn you can be, And what a
fighter! Gods, but I was proud of you today!"

"You taught me, Forral—and now you've taught me something else."
Aunan's eyes danced. "Who do you think won this time, then?"

"Wretch!" Forral laughed. "Who do you think won?"


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"I think," Aurian said happily, "it was a draw." And she kissed
him.

They bathed, and doctored each other's wounds from the duel.
Aurian wanted no magical Healing today. She had magic of another
kind, and every one of these scars was precious to her. None of
the cuts was serious, but now that Aurian was noticing them, they
stung. She was beginning to stiffen up after being sweated up in a
battle then making love on a drafty floor. But it made no
difference. She and Forral were stupefied with wonder. They could
hardly stop touching each other, and gazing into one
another's^eyes. To Aurian it was like coming home.

Their ministrations might have developed into something more, but
they were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Forral
swore, and went to answer it. No one was there, but a large tray,
laden with food and drink, had been left on the floor. As Forral
put it on the table, Aurian spotted a slip of folded paper propped
against a flask of wine. Forral opened it, and burst out laughing.
"I might have known!" He handed the note to Aurian, who recognized
Maya's neat, compressed hand. "About bloody time!" it said.

After they had eaten, they decided to see if their love felt as
good between clean sheets. It was even better. Dusk found them
sitting up in bed, sipping peach brandy as the sound of


Maya's voice drilling the hapless new recruits in the parade
ground drifted through the open window.

Aurian sipped the mellow spirit. The warm glow, as it trickled
down her throat, matched the glow she felt inside. But it reminded
her of more serious matters, and she turned to Forral. It was best
to get things right out in the open.

"Why have you started drinking so much?" she asked him.

Forral almost dropped the glass. His face flushed guiltily. "Who
told you?"


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"Maya. She's worried, Forral, and so am I."

"Gods, does that wretched woman know everything? Between the two
of you, a man doesn't stand a chance!"

"That's because we care about you," Aurian said softly,

Forral put his arm round her, "I know, love, and I'm sorry, A man
gets defensive when he knows he's been acting like a fool. It was
just—well, it was you."

"Me?"

He nodded, "I don't know when I stopped thinking of you as a
child, but when I did—well, I've had women before . . ."

"Oh?" Aurian's voice had a dangerous edge. His previous lovers
were the last thing she wanted to discuss right now!

"But not for a long time," Forral said hastily, ruffling her hair.
"Anyway, I knew you felt the same, I tried to avoid this
happening, to protect you, but I knew I was hurting you, and it
hurt me too—-and so I started drinking,"

"Well, why didn't you say something?" Aurian demanded, "Think of
the time we've wasted!" j

Forral sighed. "Look, let's talk about this another time. We've
been so happy today, I don't want to spoil it."

"No," Aurian said fiercely, "I want to know. You said yourself
that I'm not a child anymore. Is it something to do with this
stupid Mage—Mortal proscription? Because I've already thought
about that, and I don't care. If need be, we can go away together.
Miathan doesn't own the world."

"No, it's not Miathan, though we'll have trouble enough when he
finds out about this. But there's something that you haven't
considered." Forral's face looked very grave. "Aurian, you're


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Mageborn. Unless something kills you, you can live as long as you
want. It's different for me—I'm a Mortal. I'm not a young man—I'm
over forty now—and even if I survive the
dangers of a warrior's life, how many years do you think I'll have
left? I tried to stop this from happening because I love you, and
all too soon I'll be dead, and I can't bear to think of you left
alone to grieve."

Aurian felt a dizzy lurch in the pit of her stomach. She had never
considered Forral's mortality. As she stared at him in horror, the
room seemed to vanish around her, and she felt the same
premonitory shiver of dread that she had experienced that morning.
It seemed as though his features had been overlaid with a vision
of that same dear face, but pale and still, the eyes closed in the
sleep of death.

"No!" Her own tearing cry brought her back to reality. The vision
vanished as she buried herself in Forral's arms, sobbing.

He held her tightly, and it seemed as though his warrior's
strength were flowing into her. She stiffened her spine and wiped
her eyes, and her chin went up in the old stubborn gesture. "If
grief is the price of our love," she said, "then I'll pay it. Not
willingly, maybe, but in full. I love you, Forral. I've waited
years for this, and I'm not losing you now. Even Magefolk don't
live forever. We may be parted for a while, but someday I'll find
you again, I promise, in the worlds Beyond. I already have Miathan
to fight—I'll take on Death too, if need be."

There were tears in Forral's eyes, but he smiled. "My warrior," he
said gruffly. "I'm^lad you're on my side."

"Always. And I'll be there for a long time yet!"

Forral hugged her. "The Gods help anyone who tries to come between
us. One thing though, love. When I'm dead—"

"Don't say that!" Aurian cried.

"Just this once," Forral said firmly, "and I want you to remember


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what I'm going to tell you now. You don't know grief yet, but I
do, and I want to warn you. When I die, at first you may want to
follow me. Don't. You've been blessed with the gift of long life,
Aurian, and many other gifts besides. It would be a grave sin to
throw those gifts away. I can't go on with our love if it will rob
you of your future. No, love—when I'm gone, I want you to find
someone else, if you can, and be happy."


"How can I?" Aurian protested bitterly. "How could you ask such a
thing of me?"

"Because I love you, and I don't want you to go through the years
alone. That would be foolish and unfair. I've seen people waste
their lives moping around the graves of their loved ones. Don't
you ever make that mistake, because I won't be there. I'll be with
you, wherever you are, in your heart. If I ever catch you at my
graveside, I'll—I'll make it rain on you, see if I don't!"

Despite her anguish, Aurian had to smile at that, and as the
moment lightened, they turned to talk of happier things. But
Aurian kept his words in her heart. She felt older now, and
sadder, but stronger and more determined than ever. Now that she
understood its transience, her love for Forral was bittersweet,
but infinitely precious.

Miathan had missed Aurian the previous day. As soon as she entered
the room, hand in hand with Forral, he knew where she had been—and
why. Forral did not bow. "Archmage," he said calmly, "Aurian and I
have become lovers."

At the words of this upstart Mortal, Miarhan felt his guts twist
with icy rage. Aurian met him eye to eye, her face pale but her
expression unrepentant. He turned his fury on Forral.
"Lawbreaker!" he hissed, his voice shaking wi.th anger. "Seducer!
Transgressor!"

"What?" Aurian was aflame with indignation. "You dare accuse
Forral—" She bit off her-wojds with a sideways look at the
warrior, and Miathan saw her fighting to conquer her anger. Ah, he


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thought. So she had never told him.

"What you have done is forbidden," he snapped.

"Nonsense!" Aurian retorted. "The Mage—Moral proscription isn't a
law, and it's not in the Mages' Code. It's a recommendation made
for practical reasons. If Forral and I can live with the problems,
what affair is it of yours?"

Miathan was beside himself with rage. "This affair will be the
scandal of the whole city! How dare you embarrass the Magefolk,
and me, in this way?"

"Not so, Miathan," Forral intervened. "The people view Aurian
differently from the other Magefolk, after that business of the
drought. They^s.ee her with me, or going to and fro from

the Garrison, and frankly, they find her much more acceptable than
the rest of you. My people already think of her as one of
themselves, and the troopers will soon deal with any loose talk.
Vannor is fond of her too, so there'll be no trouble from the
merchants—"

"Well, there will be trouble from the Magefolk!" Miathan stormed.
"I'll break you for this, Forral. I'll have you thrown off the
Council! Banished from the city—"

Forral smiled coldly. "I don't think so, Archmage, You see, it's
no longer up to you to arrange the military presence on the
Council. You might be interested to know that I've already
appointed my successor^-in case anything should go amiss. You know
Maya, my Second-in-Command? For some reason, she has no time for
this idea of the Magefolk running Nexis, You'll really have fun
wrangling with her on the Council! Vannor is looking forward to it
already."

"But—but you can't do that!" Miathan spluttered. Forral grinned.
"Oh, yes I can. Vannor seconded the nomination, and we had it set
down in the official records."



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The Archmage was aghast. He took a step toward Forral, intending
to blast him into oblivion. But Aurian stepped quickly in front of
the swordsman, raising her hand in a sweeping gesture. Miathan saw
the air blur and shimmer as her magical shield snapped into place.
There was a look of pure hatred on her face that he had never seen
before.

"Just try it, Miathan," she growled, "I'm not your pupil for
nothing. Let's see how rtTuch you've taught me!"

She meant it! Miathan was on the verge of losing her completely,
and his carefully tended plans would be lost with her. His age-old
cunning reasserted itself. He was an expert in deceit, and he was
ruthless. He knew now that he had erred badly in letting his lust
get the better of him when Aurian had returned from the Valley.
Somehow, in her absence, he had persuaded himself that once he
possessed her body, he would win her heart. Witless fool! This was
no simple Mortal girl, to be overawed by his position and his
powers. And now, thanks to his clumsy haste, he had driven her
right into the arms—and the bed—of that swordsman. A just
punishment indeed, for his

own stupidity!

Miathan knew he must win back Aurian's trust—and in

order to do so, he'd have to swallow his pride. Trembling with
strain, he forced down his anger and schooled his features into a
semblance of regret. "Aurian, please forgive me. I'm truly sorry
—for everything. I have behaved very badly to you, and I truly
wish to make amends. Forral, my deepest apologies. I should have
anticipated this long ago, knowing how Aurian feels about you." He
sighed. "I cannot say that I approve—but I love Aurian, and I
value your support. If this is what you want, I must accept it. Be
happy, then—for as long as you can."

Aurian hesitated, suspicion written clearly on her face.

"My dear, I beg you." Miathan forced tears into his eyes. "Don't
punish me for my hastiness. I would rather lose anything in the


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world than your good opinion. I swear by my very magic that I
accept and respect your decision."

"Thank you, Archmage."

Though her reply was spoken calmly, the Archmage saw Aurian relax
a little, and heard relief in her voice as she lowered her shields
at last. But where she would once have come running to hug him,
she remained where she was, with one hand on Forral's arm. Miathan
gritted his teeth against the surge of possessive desire that
welled up in him. By the Gods, when he finally took her, this
humiliation would be repaid a thousandfold ...

Once Aurian and Forral were safely away, the Archmage took out his
fury in a blast of force that shook the tower to its foundations.
He strode across the, smoking carpet, kicking the splintered
furniture aside, and pressed a section of the blackened wall. A
panel flew open with a click, revealing a hollow space. Miathan
reached inside and took out a golden goblet, He sat by the window
on the one undamaged chair, staring blindly out and caressing the
rich, intricately chased metal. The cup was wide and shallow, with
a slim golden stem and a broad, heavy base. It hummed with power—a
power so ancient and so great that it brought the very air alive.
Miathan smiled. Not all was lost—he had found this precious thing
in the cave that Finbarr had discovered, and had stolen it
secretly away before the others saw it. He knew what it was, and
it changed everything.

In the dark years following the Cataclysm, most of the
history and lore of the ancient Magefolk had been lost. All that
remained of the shining Elder Age were vague, colorful legends, so
corrupted by time that it was impossible to sift the truth from
minstrels' lays and old wives' tales. One legend, however, Miathan
now knew to be true. It spoke of the four great magical Weapons of
the Elements—the Harp of Winds, the Staff of Earth, the Sword of
Fire—and the Caldron of Rebirth. Although it now took the form of
this golden chalice, Miathan was sure that he held a fragment,
possibly refashioned to disguise it, of the Caldron, He was also
certain that it held the Caldron's power, and that, given time, he
could learn to master it,


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Miathan's eyes burned. Let them wait, those who dared defy him!
Aurian, Forral, Vannor—-and Anvar, that accursed abomination who
had thwarted him when he'd been so close to his goal. Let them
enjoy their petty victory for a while. Let Finbarr labor like a
blind mole in his Archives, unwittingly providing his Archmage
with the very information that he needed to bend the world to his
will. Let Aurian copulate like an animal with that thrice-damned,
rutting swordsman, blithely unaware of the fate in store for her .
..

Fear pierced Miathan's heart like a sword of ice. How history
repeated itself! He thought of Ria~so sweet, so compliant beneath
him—and remembered his disgust when she had told him he was to be
the father of a half-breed monster. What if it should happen
again—to Aurian? The thought of her bearing Forral's brat turned
him sickjto the very core. But wait—what if the child, if child
there were, should really be a monster? That would suit his ends,
for such a creature could hardly possess magical powers,'and it
would also punish Aurian and Forral for their perfidy.

Miarhan drew his power around him, and as he did so, he felt the
chalice quiver in his hands. Choosing his words carefully, he
summoned a deadly bane against any such babe, that it should take
the form, not of the human that had fathered it, but of the first
beast that Aurian set eyes on after she had given birth. As he
spoke the curse, the grail flared with a brief, cold light and
there was a noise like a thunderclap, far across the city.

Triumph swelled within                        the Archmage's heart.                        So the

thing retained its powers! It would take much study to learn how
to wield it effectively, but in the end this weapon would give him
mastery over the world—and over Aurian. After that, he would have
all the long ages to make her pay for what she had done.



I



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CKapter             12

THE         NlGHTRUNNER

t was the day before Solstice Eve, but Vannor's daughter Zanna was
finding that seasonal goodwill was in short supply. She and
Dulsina, the housekeeper, had been forced to make a special trip
to the food markets of the Grand Arcade for Vannor's cook, who had
been in a terrible mood. It was Sara's fault, of course. The meals
for the festival required considerable planning in advance, and
Hebba, who had cooked for the family for years, had her Solstice
routine organized with immaculate timing, right down to the last
delicious morsel. Her reaction, therefore, when Sara had decided
the day before the Solstice celebrations were due to begin that it
was time to make some changes, had been a mix of horror,
outrage—and utter panic. Vannor was out, and his eldest daughter,
Corielle, had recently wed the son of a wealthy sea captain, and
moved to the port of Easthaven with her new husband. It had been
left to Zanna, as usual, to deal with the trouble as best she
could.

As Hebba would not trust the kitchen maids with the errand—("What?
Send them girls down there to dawdle and dally all day?")—Dulsina
and Zanna had been sent off with a long list of delicacies by the
frantic cook, who was turning the kitchen upside down in her
frenzy. Zanna was glad to escape— the two kitchen maids had
already been in tears. She couldn't blame poor Hebba, but Zanna
resented the fact that the rest of the household, and herself in
particular, had to bear the brunt of the cook's temper, while
Sara, as usual, had escaped the consequences of her
thoughtlessness. While Hebba might call Sara "a little
guttersnipe" behind her back, she was not prepared to cross the
mistress of the house.

Because it was almost Solstice, the Grand Arcade was crowded to
overflowing. At first, Zanna had enjoyed the bustle. The long,
colonnaded aisles were brightly lie by endless lines of glowing
Vamps, and the air was fragrant with the mingling aromas of
spices, cheeses, smoked meats, and seasonal fruits. The
stallholders were shouting to draw attention to the best of their


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wares, and people called out cheerful greetings to friends that
they met in the crowd.

AURIAN          '       173

As time wore on, however, and the stocks of delicacies were
depleted, folk became tired, cross, and despondent. The crowd
seemed to be increasing all the time, and the building, for all
its vast size, became unbearably stuffy and hot. Zanna,
overburdened with purchases, felt sweaty and bedraggled. Her ribs
were bruised where she had been elbowed by the thrusting crowds.
Her feet had been trodden on repeatedly, and were sore from
trudging the hard stone floors of the Arcade. Her head ached, she
was desperately thirsty, and the tottering pile of packages in her
aching arms was hampering her progress through the crush of
people. Really, she decided, this is impossible! We've done
enough, and if Sara wants anything more she can bloody well come
and get it herself. She turned to say as much to Dulsina—and
discovered, to her horror, that the housekeeper was nowhere in
sight. I must have lost her in the crowd, she thought. Dear Gods,
how will I ever find her again?

Zanna tried to stop, and was cursed by impatient folk who jostled
her roughly aside. Because of her short stature, she couldn't see
a thing, and she was carried along helplessly, forced to move with
the flow in order to stay on her feet. Zanna bit her lip,
determined not to panic. I have to get out of here, she
thought—but how?

"Ho, Zanna? Are you all alone?" A steadying hand grasped Zanna's
shoulder. A slight, but respectful space opened around her in the
crowd, and to her relief, she found that she could breathe again.
She looked up, with gratitude, into the kindly face of the Lady
Aurian, who was -accompanied by Lieutenant Maya from the Garrison.
"Gods, what a dreadful crush," the Mage said cheerfully. "I'm not
surprised you were struggling! Maya and I slipped down here to buy
a gift for Forral, and we've been just about trampled to death!"
Her arching brows twitched together in a slight frown. "Could
Vannor not spare a servant to send with you?"



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Zanna, who had met both the Lady Aurian and Maya on several
occasions when she had wheedled her father into taking her with
him to the Garrison, admired both women tremendously. But the
Mage, in particular, was everything that Zanna wished to be.
Feeling overawed at finding herself in such exalted company, she
explained about losing Dulsina, and found herself telling her
syrqpa|hetic rescuers the whole story of her
disastrous day. At the mention of Sara's name, she saw the two
women exchange a grimace. Aurian opened her mouth as if to
comment, but, on catching Maya's eye, closed it grimly again, with
a slight shake of her head.

"Right," Maya said briskly. "Let's get you and your parcels back
to your carriage—if Dulsina has any sense, that's where she'll be.
I expect she's in a rare panic by now!"

The Mage and Maya divided Zanna's purchases between them, and
escorted her out of the Arcade. The crowd seemed to melt away
before the two grim-faced women in their fighting clothes, and
Zanna was tremendously impressed. As Maya had predicted, they met
the housekeeper in the great arched en-tranceway. Dulsina, frantic
with worry, had been just about to go back inside to search for
her missing charge, Zanna was embarrassed by her fussing, and
grateful to Aurian for cutting her short.

The Mage herself helped Zanna into the carriage, and settled her
packages around her. Vannor's daughter looked back wistfully as
the carriage drove away, calling out her thanks again to the two
women, who were already turning away to walk along the street. The
sound of their conversation floated back to her on the still
evening air,

"Gods, Maya," she heard the Mage say, "That wife of Vannor's is
such a bitch!"

"You're telling me! If it were up to me, I'd drop her in the
river—in a sack! Do you fancy a beer now?"

Zanna smiled to hersejf. Somehow, it helped a lot to know that she
was not alone in her opinion of her stepmother.


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The errands had taken longer than Zanna had expected, and dusk was
falling as they clattered across the Academy bridge and turned to
climb the wooded hill that led to home. It looked as though it
might snow again. The hazy sky above Nexis was suffused with an
unearthly copper glow, etched by lines of smoke that rose straight
as penstrokes in the still air. Zanna snuggled into the thick fur
of the carriage rug, fidgeting with the discomfort of frozen
fingers and aching feet. She sighed wistfully at the thought of
the cookfires glowing in the city's different homes, the scents of
citrus and spices and roasting meats, and the bright, excited
faces of children. She knew that she would be going home to a very
different scene. Hebba

never worked well when she was flustered, and after today's
upheavals, this year's Solstice celebrations at Vannor's house
were likely to be a disaster.

The lamplighters were at work, and as the carriage labored up the
steep, snowy hill, a string of golden globes burst into life one
by one, to mark the road ahead.

The snow had been raked from the curving sweep that led to the
mansion, and the coachman, relieved at getting up the slippery
hill without injuring Vannor's priceless black horses, finished
the journey in style, rattling up to the door in a spatter of
gravel. Zanna had meant to accompany him to the back door, to help
unload the precious packages, but Dulsina was having none of it,

"No you don't, my girl!" she said. "Get inside and I'll fetch you
a nice hot drink. Put your feet up for a while. It's bad enough
you had to traipse round the market like a serving wench—your poor
mother, bless her, would turn in her grave . , ."

Zanna let her rattle on as they went inside, knowing that the
housekeeper's indignation was really on behalf of them both.
Dulsina bore her years well; her skin was clear and un-lined, and
her dark hair without a trace of gray. She had been very close to
Zanna's mother, and it was that friendship, so kitchen gossip
said, that had kept her feelings hidden frpm Vannor after his


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wife's death. The servants, however, had looked upon her eventual
marriage to the merchant as a certainty— until Sara had come
along. ** J

As Dulsina bustled off down the kitchen stairs, Zanna paused in
the spacious hall to unwrap the cloaks and shawls in which the
zealous housekeeper had swathed her. She sighed. Dulsina meant
well, but she was tired of being coddled like a child! Inevitably,
her thoughts turned to the Lady Aurian. Mage and warrior, she
could ride and fight like a man, and you wouldn't find anyone
wrapping her in half a shipment of wool! I wish I could be like
her, Zanna thought. She was unwrapping her scarf from around her
ears when she heard a resounding screech of rage, Gods! Not
another disaster today! Zanna ran. She was halfway upstairs when
she heard the howls of her little brother.

The noise came»fe>m Sara's room—and in other circum-

fr
stances, Zanna might have laughed. Antor, now a mobile and
mischievous three-year-old, had escaped his nursemaid, and found
his way to Sara's open door. Unfortunately, she had been out at
the time, but the collection of jars on the mirrored night table
had proved an irresistible temptation to the child.

The reek of spilled perfume hit Zanna as she entered. She took in
the whole scene at a glance—the powder spilled across the carpet;
the upended jars and bottles, their lotions pooling on the table;
a frieze of greasy, colored handprints that tracked across the
wall, the furnishings, and even the counterpane. And Sara, her
face contorted and flushed with rage, was hitting Antor over and
over again.

Zanna never stopped to think—her resentment of Sara and her fierce
protectiveness toward little Antor fused in a flash of rage.
"Leave him alone, you bitch!" She flew across the room and dragged
the child away. She had never meant for things to get out of
hand—this was her stepmother, after all—but when Sara slapped her,
Zanna lost all sense of restraint. She got in one good hard blow
before Sara started hitting back, and then they were on the floor,


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biting, scratching, pulling each other's hair and screaming like
wildcats, with Antor, in the background, adding his own shrill
wails to the commotion.

Neither of them heard Vannor enter. The first that they knew of
his presence was when he waded into the fray and flung his
daughter and wife apart. One look at his face, and the fire of
Zanna's rage turned to ashen horror. Antor's howls were the only
sound that broke the silence—until a chuckle came from the
direction of the door. "On my oath, Vannor—you've a pair of
hellions here! I had no idea your home life was so interesting."

To Zanna's horror, a stranger stood in the doorway, witness to the
disgraceful brawl. Despite her acute embarrassment, she felt her
heart turn over at the sight of the handsome young man. Vannor
scowled, looking angrier than ever, then he turned to the visitor
and forced a smile.

"Why don't you go downstairs, Yanis, while I sort this out," he
said. "You know where the drink's kept!"

The interruption had given Sara time to gather her wits. As soon
as the stranger had gone, she seized her husband's arm.

AURIAN          •       177

"Vannor, she attacked me! And look what that wretched brat has
done! I insist that you punish them, or—"

"Or what? You'll go back to the poverty I took you from?" Vannor's
face was bleak as stone. Sara turned white at his words, and shut
her mouth abruptly. Zanna sighed with relief. Her dad was so
entranced by his new wife that she had feared he would take Sara's
part—but her relief was short-lived when Vannor turned to look at
her. With a sinking heart, Zanna realized that Sara was not the
only one who was in trouble. "Get to your room," Vannor growled.
"I'll deal with you later!"

Zanna had been prepared for her father's anger, but his
disappointment was more than she could bear. "I thought I could


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depend on you to be sensible," Vannor stormed at her. "I know you
miss your mother—don't you think I miss her, too? I know you don't
want Sara in her place. But I won't have my home turned into a
battlefield, Zanna! Sara is your stepmother, and you'll treat her
with respect!"

Zanna, choking with tears, was unable to speak. Vannor, who had
been about to leave, turned quickly and came to her, putting his
arms around her as she sobbed. "Look, lass, don't cry. I'm not
such a fool as to put all the blame on you for what happened—I've
spoken to Sara." He looked so grim that Zanna wondered what had
been said between them. "She'll not mistreat Antor again, I
promise. But she isn't used to children, and—"

"Curse it, Dad, why must you make excuses for her? Can't you see
she's—" The mad, untirrielywords spilled out of Zanna before she
could stop them—and were silenced abruptly by Vannor's slap. "You
watch your mouth, girl, or by the Gods I'll—" His face twisted
with rage and anguish, Vannor stamped out, slamming the door
behind him.

The merchant went downstairs, completely at his wits' end. He was
ashamed of what he had just done, and sickened by his earlier
scene with Sara. He adored both his wife and daughter—but why
couldn't they try to get along? He rubbed his aching head. Gods,
what a night! When he'd left that morning, everything had been
running smoothly as usual. He had come back a few short hours
later to find the house in an uproar!

In the brief time *ince his return, Vannor had calmed his
bawling son and turned him over to a bristling Dulsina, (who,
judging by the look on her face, meant to have words with him
before the night was out). He had dismissed the nursemaid, who'd
been outside, flirting with the gardener, while Antor was getting
into mischief. Having sent the girl packing, in tears, he had
found himself confronted by a furious cook, with baggage, who
announced that if her Solstice Feast was no longer good enough for
him, he had better make his own in future! Hebba had marched out,
leaving him gaping. As if these disasters were not enough, he had
followed them up with a blistering row with Sara, who was no


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longer speaking to him, and had hurt his favorite daughter. What a
bloody awful Solstice this is going to be! Vannor thought
bitterly.

It was only then, as he was heading for the welcome sanctuary of
his library, that he remembered the visitor. Vannor groaned. If
that idiot Yanis was desperate enough to come to the house, it had
to mean trouble. Yanis, who was sitting by the roaring log fire,
leapt to his feet when Vannor entered the library, his handsome
face taut and anxious.

"Vannor, I'm sorry to come here like this. I know what you said
about secrecy, but . . ." He looked away, biting his lip. "Oh
Gods," he muttered. "It wasn't my fault, I swear! How was I to
know they would—"

"Whoa, whoa!" Vannor held up a hand to stop the young man in mid-
protest. "If this is more bad news, Yanis, for the Gods' sake, let
me get myself a drink first!"

Vannor had not been Zanna's only visitor that night—her stepmother
had come close on his heels. Sara's visit had been brief, and she
had said very little, but her words had turned Zanna cold with
fear. "Well, brat—since you are so protective of children, perhaps
you ought to have some of your own," she had said, with vicious
sweetness. "Now that you've turned fifteen, I must take my duties
as a stepmother more seriously, and start casting around for a
suitable husband for you!" And with a whirl of skirts, she had
gone.

Long after Zanna had wept herself out, she lay awake in the
darkness, dreading the future. She knew that Sara would never rest
now, until her troublesome stepdaughter was out of the way for
good. Vannor s daughter was a practical girl, and she

AURIAN          '       179

faced facts squarely. Marriage was the obvious solution to Sara's
problems, and Zanna felt a chill go through her. Oh Gods, she
thought. She'll dress me up like a stupid doll, make Vannor give


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me an enormous dowry, and hand me over to the first witless,
overbred merchant's son who wants the money! The thought filled
her with such panic that she wanted to run—but where could she run
to? Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the face of her father's
mysterious visitor came into her mind: his shaggy dark hair
falling across those dark gray eyes, which crinkled at the corners
when he smiled . . .

The door of her room opened quietly, and Zanna started, blushing
as though her thoughts must be transparent. To her surprise, her
visitor was Dulsina. "Shhh," the housekeeper whispered. "Light the
candle and get dressed—you're going away for a while."

"What?" Zanna froze. Horror congealed like a choking lump in her
throat. "Dad?" She could hardly form the whispered words. "Is he
sending me away?"

"No, you goose—as if he ever would! Listen, Zanna. Your stepmother
is as furious as a wasp in a bottle tonight. Now that you've made
trouble between her and Vannor, she'll—"

"I know what she plans to do," Zanna said wretchedly, "and it's
worse than you could possibly imagine. She wants to marry me off,
Dulsina!"

"I heard," Dulsina said grimly. "It's a housekeeper's privilege to
eavesdrop! Not that Vannor is such a heartless dolt as to force
you to wed against your wilt . j. But you know how desperate he is
for his daughters to make a good match. There would be pressure on
you to consent. Anyway, you're young yet to be thinking of
husbands, no matter what the custom is among these witless
merchants! I thought to send you to my sister Remana until the
fuss dies down. Antor can go, too— doing without the pair of you
for a while might bring that old fool Vannor to his senses!"

Zanna wondered if she was dreaming. Though it might be wise to get
away until Sara had calmed down, it was not like levelheaded
Dulsina to come up with such a wild idea. And never before had she
heard the housekeeper criticize her father. In a daze, she dressed
herself warmly and began to pack some clothes under


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Dulsina'^direction, while the housekeeper ex-
plained: "You've a good head on your shoulders, Zanna—I know you
can be trusted with the secret. My sister Remana is— was, I should
say—wed to Leynard, leader of the Nightrun-ners."

Zanna gaped at her, a nightgown, half folded, forgotten in her
hands. The Nightrunners? The elusive smugglers who traded with the
prohibited Southern Kingdoms for silks, gems, and spices and had
driven generations of Garrison Commanders to despair? Prim Dulsina
had a sister wed to a smuggler?

"You may as well know," Dulsina was saying. "Your dad made his
fortune through trading in partnership with the Nightrunners. His
visitor tonight is my nephew Yanis—he became leader last year when
Leynard was lost at sea. When he goes back, he'll be taking you
with him." She paused, her eyes twinkling. "Mark you, he's afraid
of Vannor, so the less he knows of the truth, the better. I'll
give you a note for my sister —Remana will take care of you."

"But    what about Dad?" Zanna protested. "He'll be so angry. And
what    if Sara arranges a husband for me in any case? Anyway, if I
know    Dad, he'll come and fetch me straight back again. Besides,
I'll    miss him so! How can I leave him—and at Solstice, too?"

"Child, you worry too much!" Dulsina hugged her. "Vannor won't
blame you—it's me he'll be angry with. And Sara will be much too
busy to make mischief." She grinned. "With you away, Vannor will
see who was really running the household— and I won't be taking
up^"where you left off! Let Sara occupy herself with all those
tiresome details that you and I have been taking off her
shoulders. If she wants to play the great lady, it's time she
learned that there is far more to it than sitting around counting
her jewels!"

"But what if Dad comes after me?" Zanna persisted.

"Impossible!" Dulsina said briskly. "The smugglers' hide-out is a
deadly secret—so much so that Leynard wouldn't even tell his
partner. Vannor won't know where you are, and I won't tell him—not
unless there is a real emergency. Just trust me, my dear, and all


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will be well."

Zanna hesitated. Then she thought of what her future would be
like, married to a dull merchant's son who did not love her. She
had no illusions about her looks—she was short

AURIAN          •       181

and sturdy, like her father, with a plain, no-nonsense face: A far
cry from the willowy, delicate creatures that the well-heeled
merchant classes liked to decorate their opulent homes. She was
clever and quick-minded, and it was her greatest frustration that
her dad would never let her work with him in trade. "Whoever heard
of a lady merchant?" he would chide her gently. "Why, it's just
not done!"

There are lady Magefolk, though, Zanna thought resentfully—and
lady warriors. Why not a lady merchant, I'd like to know?
Inevitably, her mind went back to that afternoon, and her meeting
with Aurian and Maya. Well, you wanted to be like them, she told
herself—maybe this is your chance. Lifting her chin, she turned to
Dulsina. "You're right," she said. "I'm ready to go!"

Yanis left the mansion in a hurry, by the back door, his ears
still ringing from Vannor's epithets. Dear Gods, but when his
father's old partner flew into a rage, it was enough to scare the
wits out of a man! "It wasn't my fault," he muttered helplessly.
After the unpleasant evening he had just spent with Vannor, the
excuse was starting to sound rather thin, even to himself.

"Where am I going wrong?" he sighed as he made his way back to the
river, slinking through the merchant's terraced garden with his
sea boots crunching softly on the snowy ground. It had all seemed
simple when he had accompanied his father to the South. Leynard
had taught him^how to find his way to the remote, secluded bay
that was the clandestine rendezvous with the Southerners. Yanis
knew the series of lamp-flashes that were the secret signal to
grant him safe passage in Southern waters. Unfortunately, the one
vital piece of information that his father had not passed on, was
how not to get swindled by those slimy Southern bast—


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"Hist! Yanis!"

The smuggler whirled abruptly, his hand on his sword. He was
astonished to see his aunt Dulsina beckoning to him from the
bushes at the bottom of the garden, near the small, ornate
boathouse where Vannor kept his pleasure craft. In the dim
snowlight, it looked as though she were carrying a large bundle,
so thickly swathed in shawls that it looked almost circular.
Grabbing his arm with her free hand, she pulled him into the
shelter of the shrubbery.

"Listen," she told him without preamble. "Vannor wants you to take
his children to stay with Remana for a while."

Yanis blinked. "He does? He never mentioned it. And why are you
all hiding in the bushes, Aunt Dulsina?"

Dulsina sighed. "Because you shouldn't be here, remember? Vannor
thought that if you left the house with the youngsters, it would
attract too much attention, so I brought them down here to meet
you. Off you go now—take good care of the children, and remember
to give my love to your mother. And Yanis—be careful. Don't get
caught!"

Before Yanis could say a word, she had dumped Vannor's son into
his unready arms and bustled away, with a quick parting hug for
the cloaked and muffled figure that must be the merchant's
daughter. Yanis, speechless, thrust his squirming burden at the
girl, and bent to pull on the rope that tethered his small boat
beneath the concealing sweep of willows at the water's edge.
Somehow, he managed to get them, with their several bundles, off
the frost-slick jetty and into the little craft. The girl was
sniffling into a lacy slip of a handkerchief, and the smuggler's
heart sank,

"Are you all right?" he asked nervously,

"Yes." The voice was little more than a whisper—then to his
relief, she sat up straight, settled the infant on her lap, and


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put the handkerchief away. "Yes," she repeated firmly. "I'm fine.
I don't like leaving Dad, but I always wanted adventure. I'm sick
of sitting at home sewing, and all that tedious female stuff!"

Yanis grinned. She was going to be all right, after all, "You
sound tike my mum," he told her. "She wanted adventure too— and
ended up marrying a smuggler!"

A chuckle emerged from the shadows of the girl's hood. "Xt \east
Ym going to the right pVace, then."

She was a droll little thing, and no mistake.' Snorting with
laughter, Yanis picked up his oars and set off to row swiftfy
downriver through the frost-glittering night, to his fast little
ship that vjas mooted in a quiet cove around the headland from the
port of Norberth.

AURIAN          •       183

Yanis, thankful that it was Solstice, and the hours of darkness
were so long, ordered the ghost-gray sails to be unfurled.
Steering his sleek little ship out of the twisting inlet that had
shielded it from prying eyes, he headed, with a tremendous sense
of relief, out to sea. His passengers were safely asleep below,
tired out from their journey. Two children would only be in the
way as he dodged along the treacherous coastline in the darkness,
avoiding the safer sea lanes that were crowded with fishing fleets
from the villages and the clumsy, wallowing vessels of the
legitimate merchant-traders.

Besides, it was best to keep the youngsters out of sight of the
crew, who were in a state of near rebellion after the disastrous
voyage to the South. They had made it clear to Yanis that they
were far from happy with the responsibility of these unexpected
passengers. Vannor might have made the Nightrunners rich through
his trading connections, but they were still in awe of his
reputation as a dangerous man to cross.

"What if there's a storm?" Gevan, the mate, had whined, "What
happens if the young'uns fell overboard and drown? What will


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Vannor say if we're caught with his brats on board, by one of
Forral's patrols? That big bastard from the Garrison is getting
too clever by half!"

"What if—what if!" Yanis had mocked, "Why, Vannor himself sent his
youngsters with us!"

"And what about that girl?" Gejran had continued, undeterred. "I
always said a ship's no place for a woman!"

"You'd better not let my mam hear you saying that," Yanis grinned.
"She'll stretch your guts for rigging!"

"I don't count your mam as a woman—she's a sailor born and bred,
that one—which that little lass below is not!" The mate stumped
off, still muttering darkly.

In truth, Yanis had his own misgivings, but they differed from
those of his crew, who had only seen Zanna's small figure muffled
up in cloaks. They thought she was still a child—but he had seen
her up at the house, brawling with Vannor's wife, and she was
older than she looked.

During the long and tiresome trip downriver, Yanis had been
putting two andjwo together—and he was for from happy

with the result. Why had Vannor suddenly decided to send his
children to the smugglers? Why had he not mentioned it earlier?
Why had Aunt Dulsina appeared with them so unexpectedly, and
hurried them off so quickly? There could only be one answer. "That
cunning bastard!" Yanis muttered. "He's sending his daughter to
spy on me!"

Suddenly it was all too clear. Vannor, angry because Yanis had
been cheated by the Southerners, had sent his wretched girl to
mingle with the smugglers and probe their secrets. And then —Yanis
swore. The leadership! Vannor meant to depose him, and take over
the smuggling operation himself.

"Oh—we're sailing!"


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The voice, so close at hand, made Yanis jump. That wretched girl
had crept up so quietly while he stood at the wheel that he was
taken completely by surprise. Startled and unthinking, he gave
voice to his suspicions. "Spying already, eh? Well, I know what
you're up to, girl, and it won't work, see?"

Yanis had been so kind to Antor and herself on their way downriver
that Zanna was shocked by his sudden hostility. Biting her lip,
she fought back tears. The rest of the crew had looked so
unfriendly when she ventured up on deck that she had been counting
on the support of their leader. What had she done to earn his
anger? Remembering the grave, dignified manner with which Dulsina
deflated Vannor's fierce rages, Zanna drew herself up to her full,
albeit scant, height. "If you know what I'm up to," she said
coldly, "I hope you'll tell me—for I'm sure I have no idea."

"You have no idea, indeed!" Yanis mocked her. "You and Vannor
didn't think I had the wits to work it out, did you? Poor, daft
Yanis—he'll never guess he's being spied on—he's so thickheaded
that he gets cheated by Southerners!"

Most of this outburst was a mystery to Zanna, but she heard the
bitterness in his voice—and caught the name of Vannor. "Dad? But
he doesn't even know I'm here—" Horrified, she caught herself up
with a hand to her mouth, but it was too late. Yanis looked at her
with narrowed eyes. "What?" he yelped. "He doesn't know you're
here?"

Gods, but he looked so fierce! Zanna backed away from

AURIAN          •       185

him, the words tumbling out of her as she tried to explain. "Well,
he must know now, of course, because Dulsina will have told him,
but he didn't know, when we came away ..." Her words trailed off.
Yanis looked at her, stone-faced, not helping at all.

"I had to get away from Sara!" she protested. "She meant to marry
me off to some moon-faced merchant's son—"


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"Vannor didn't send you?" Yanis was gaping at her.

Zanna sighed. No wonder he was cheated by the Southerners, she
thought. "No," she repeated. "Dulsina said you wouldn't take us if
you knew, so—" She shrugged. "I'm afraid she didn't exactly tell
you the truth—"

"Gods' bloody teeth! I have to get you back, before he finds out!"
Yanis spun the wheel, and the ship lurched and shuddered, heeling
over as the wind spilled from its sails. Curses and shouts of
protest could be heard all over the deck as the crew were tumbled
about.

"No," Zanna cried. "You can't!" Without thinking, she tried to
wrench the wheel from his grasp, to return the ship to its
original course. For a grim moment they grappled, while the vessel
wallowed and tipped.

"You idiot!" Yanis bellowed. "You'll have us over!" Giving in to
her, he let the ship swing round, heaving a sigh of relief as the
tilting vessel straightened and the wind swelled its shadowy gray
sails once more. "Get below!" he snapped at Zanna. "I ought to
throw you overboard!"

"Not until you've heard what J haye to say." Zanna stood her
ground. "You can't take us back," she insisted. Didn't this fool
realize that she was trying to keep him out of trouble? Yanis was
not to blame for the disappearance of Vannor's children—but her
father wouldn't see things in that light! Desperately she tried to
think of a way to change the young smuggler's mind. "Do you want
your crew to see how you were taken in? You'll be a
laughingstock!"

"What in the name of all the Gods are you playing at, Yanis? Are
you trying to send us to the bottom?" Gevan thrust forward, his
weatherbeaten face pale with anger.

"It was my fault," Zanna said quickly, trying to look meek. "I—I
thought I could steer it, but—"


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"You let this child take the wheel?" Gevan turned on Yanis.

"Have you lost your mind?" The crew, limping and rubbing their
bruises, were gathering around, awaiting the outcome of the
confrontation with avid curiosity.

"You can't blame Yanis—I told him I knew how to do it," Zanna
insisted.

"What?" Yanis looked baffled. "But—"

Zanna kicked him sharply in the ankle. "I'm truly sorry, sir—I
only wanted to try . . ." She turned her most winning smile on the
mate—and jumped, as Yanis whispered in her ear.

"Take the wheel a minute—just keep her exactly as she is," Before
she knew it, Zanna, rigid with anxiety, was hanging on to the
wheel with trembling hands.

"Thara's titties!" Gevan spat disgustedly. "I don't know which of
you is the bigger fool—" His words ended in a choking gurgle as
Yanis lifted him off the deck with a twisted handful of shirt, and
pinned him, struggling, across the ship's rail with a knee in his
groin and his head hanging down toward the waves that surged and
foamed along the vessel's side.

"Now," said Yanis, "you'll apologize to the lady for your foul
language, and then you'll apologize to me!" He loosened his grip
slightly on the pop-eyed mate's collar, still holding him in his
perilous position while Gevan gasped out his apologies, Yanis
lowered the terrified man to the deck and stepped back to look at
his dumbstruck crew.

"I know you don't think much of me, compared with my dad. Oh
yes—I've heard you muttering and whispering in corners! But there
can only begone captain of this ship, and one leader of the
smugglers, see? If anyone else wants to take over, you can speak
up now or not at all, but you'll have take me on, first—and you'll
take the leadership over my dead body!" For a long, grim moment he


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held their eyes, until one by one, the crew turned and slunk away.

Zanna felt like cheering. She gazed at Yanis with shining eyes,
but he was looking past her at—

"Look out!" Pushing her roughly to one side, he seized the wheel
and wrenched it hard over. The ship swung and heeled, its timbers
creaking in protest, and Zanna, as she tumbled into the scuppers,
caught a glimpse of a dark, jagged shape against the starry sky,
and the thundering crash of waves on rock.

As the vessel straightened, Yanis turned to her with a grin,

AURIAN          '       187

and extended a hand to help her to her feet. "Got to keep your
eyes skinned, sailing this close to the coast at night," he said
cheerfully. Zanna, her heart still hammering, looked at him
openmouthed.

"Apart from that, though," he added condescendingly, "you did very
well for the first time. We'll make a sailor of you yet!"

"I wouldn't count on it," Zanna said weakly. "Gods, Yams —I never
saw that rock! It was se dark. How did you know?"

Yanis winked at her, and his teeth flashed white as he laughed.
"See—not as daft as you thought, am I? Even though I did get
cheated by the Southerners!"

"I never said you were daft!" Zanna protested.

"No, but your dad did, and a lot more besides!" Though he spoke
lightly, she could hear an undercurrent of bitterness in his
voice,

"What happened?" she asked him softly,

Yanis sighed. "It's been going on for a long time, this trade with
the Southerners—in the family, you might say. When Vannor came in


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with Dad, and found us new markets, we started to prosper. We
trade with the Corsairs, who are supposed to defend their coast,
but who are the worst bunch of knaves and scoundrels you'll ever
see. They'll do anything to line their pockets!"

"What do you trade?" Zanna was fascinated,

Yanis shrugged, "Various things. Theirs is a hot, desert country
and not much grows thece. We trade them wood and wool and grain,
mostly—-common enough stuff here, but worth a fortune to the
Southerners. In exchange, we get spices, silks, and gems—or we're
supposed to!" he added glumly, "This time, when we got back and
opened the caskets, they had the good stuff on top, but the rest
was worthless sand!"

"But didn't you think to check?" Zanna asked in amazement.

"Check?" Yanis glared at her fiercely. "It's not a bloody game,
you know, it's deadly serious—and deadly dangerous. We have no
time to check! We slip in, exchange the goods as fast as possible,
then we run for home as fast as we can."

"Hmm . . ." Zanna frowned thoughtfully, "Then the whole operation
depends on good faith," A surge of excitement

ran through her. This was a real challenge! "Leave it to me!" she
told Yanis. "I'll think of a way to beat those crooked
Southerners—I promise!"

The young smuggler's mouth twitched for an instant, but he failed
to hide his smile. "Of course you will," he said kindly, as though
addressing a very small child.

Drat him, Zanna seethed. He doesn't believe I can do it! Still,
Yanis had only just decided not to take her back to Vannor —she
wouldn't risk a quarrel now. Zanna turned away from him angrily.
"I ought to get back to Antor," she said mildly— but really, it
was an excuse to go below and do some hard thinking. I'll show
him, she thought. Just wait. He may not know it, but he needs my
brain. I can make a place for myself among these smugglers, I know


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I can. I'll make them respect me if it's the last thing I do!

CKapter             13

A   SOLSTICE            GIFT

urian leaned back in her chair and took another pull at her flagon
of ale. "I'm still astonished that Miathan has accepted the fact
that you and I are lovers—especially after—" She stopped abruptly,
biting her lip. She had never dared to tell Forral about Miathan's
attack on her. "If he was only pretending to approve, I think the
facade would have slipped by now, but after almost four months . .
." She shrugged. "Admittedly I haven't see much of him lately—he's
busy with some pet project of his own—but when I do, he's as
kindly as ever. And the way he turns a blind eye to you sleeping
at the Academy with me, and defends us from the other Magefolk—"
She broke off with a sigh.

"This unpleasantness with Meiriel is still bothering you, isn't
it?" Forral prompted.

"I can't help it, Forral. I don't mind about the others— Eliseth
and Bragan were always rotten to the core, not to mention
Davorshan—but Meiriel ... I would never have believed she could be
so prejudiced! She had even refused to teach me any more until
Miathan intervened and made her continue my lessons. It's awful to
lose a friend like this, but not even Finbarr can talk her round."

"Never mind, love." Forral covered her hand with his own. "If she
wants to be like that, there's notning we can do about it. If she
had been any sort of friend in the first place, she would be glad
for you."

"That's what Anvar said." Aurian managed a smile. "He's come a
long way from that terrified creature we rescued last Solstice.
You must admit, I was right about him."

"You were indeed, and I'm glad. He turned out to be a good lad,
Aurian, despite what Miathan said about him."



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"I wonder about that." Aurian frowned. "He does a mar-velous job
of looking after me, but he rarely smiles, and he's still
terrified of the Archmage, although he won't tell me why. What's
more, he won't talk about his past, his family—anything. I'd like
to help.him—he always looks so unhappy—but
how can I if he won't trust me?" She glowered into her beer.
"Gods, how I hate mysteries."

It was Solstice Eve, and the two of them had started the seasonal
celebrations early with a visit to the Invisible Unicorn.
Conveniently close to the Garrison, the tavern was the favorite
haunt of the off-duty troopers. The long, low taproom was shabby
but homely with its ceiling of sturdy, lamp-hung beams and huge
arched fireplace of red brick that always housed a welcoming
blaze. The once white walls were mellowed by a patina of smoke,
and the floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust to soak up
spilled ale and the blood from the occasional rowdy brawls that
were overlooked—usually—by the tolerant landlord. The company was
good, and the beer was excellent. It was one of Aurian's favorite
places, but tonight she had too much on her mind to be able to
relax and enjoy herself.

Forral reached over and topped up their beer from the big pewter
jug on the table. "You can't really blame the lad, you know. It
must be terrible to be a bondservant, even with the kindest of
mistresses. He's lost his family and future—and supposing he had a
girl before? What would have happened to her? Gods, this bonding
is barbaric!"

It was a sore point with Forral, one over which he had clashed
repeatedly but unsuccessfully with the other Council members,
especially the Archmage, during the past year. "But if Anvar won't
confide in you, what can you do?" he added, "After rescuing him
the way you did, I find it odd that he won't trust you, at
least.**£ The swordsman frowned. "You're right, though—it's
strange how Miathan hates him. The other servants are beneath his
notice." Seeing Aurian's gloomy face, he sought to lighten her
mood. "Don't worry about it now, love. It's Solstice Eve, and we
should be enjoying ourselves, I'll tell you what—why don't I take
Anvar out with me tonight while you're at the Mages' Feast? I wish


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you didn't have to go to the damned thing, but we'll have our own
celebration later. And it might cheer that poor lad of yours up to
get out with me and the troops."

Aurian brightened. "That's a kind thought, Forral. I'll tell
Elewin when I go back to the Academy. There are always enough
servants in attendance at the Feast, so Anvar won't be missed. I
wish I could come with you, but I daren't risk upset-

AUR1AN          •       191

ting Miathan—not when we're on such shaky ground with the
Magefolk. Anyway, Finbarr and I have a plan to cheer up D'arvan
tonight—he could use the company. He's had a rough time of it this
year, what with his brother joining Eliseth's clique—and there is
still no sign of his powers surfacing, and Miathan is looking on
him with greater disapproval every day. I suspect that Eliseth is
trying to persuade the Archmage to get rid of him, so that she can
have Davorshan to herself. It's a blessing that D'arvan has made
some friends at the Garrison— Maya, especially—but at the Academy
he's becoming increasingly isolated. I do feel sorry for him."

"More good deeds, eh?" Forral chuckled, but she saw the gleam of
pride in his eyes, and knew that he approved,

"Well, it is the season of goodwill and all that," Aurian made a
face. "I think I had better start fortifying myself. Is there any
of that beer left?"

Anvar sat alone on his bunk in the servants' dormitory, playing a
mournful air on the little wooden flute that his grandfather had
carved for him so long ago. It was the only one of his instruments
that he'd been able to bring with him to the Academy, and oh, how
he missed them! Elewin, at the Lady Aurian's request, had excused
him from serving at the Feast, and while he appreciated her
kindness in giving him the holiday, what was the point? He had
nowhere to go. As usual, at this time of year, his thoughts were
with the loved ones he had lost-Grandpa and his mother—and
Safa.^who was equally lost to him now. Trying unsuccessfully to
put them out of his mind, Anvar played on, merging his loneliness


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with the achingly sad notes of Grandpa's flute.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and Commander Forral stood
there. "There you are!" he said, "I've been looking all over for
you. What are you doing here all alone, lad? Aurian has to attend
the Feast tonight, so we thought you might fancy keeping me
company while I have a few beers with the lads and lasses from the
Garrison."

He tugged the astonished Anvar to his feet, barely giving him time
to snatch his cloak from its peg on the wall. Its threadbare
appearance stopped Forral in his tracks. "What's this?" he said,
frowning^ "You can't go out in that dishrag, lad.

It's snowing! Here—" He unclasped his own thick, weatherproof
soldier's cloak and draped it round Anvar's shoulders, kicking the
offending old garment under the bunk. "That's better. It suits you
too, us being about the same height and all. I know—you keep it. A
Solstice gift, for looking after Aurian so well. I've a spare in
her room, so we'll just go and get it, then we can be off."

Anvar was overwhelmed. This was his second Solstice at the
Academy, and in all that time, no one had ever given him a gift.
Swallowing hard, he tried to stammer his thanks, and Forral
clapped him on the shoulder in a comradely fashion.

"Not at all, lad. You deserve it. Now let's get off to the tavern.
There's good ale just begging to be appreciated, and it's our duty
to do our share!"

Anvar had a wonderful time at the Invisible Unicorn. The troops
from the Garrison were full of Solstice cheer, and the talk and
laughter and ale flowed in equal quantities. Then someone
discovered that Anvar could sing, and a battered old guitar was
borrowed from its usual decorative place on the wall, despite
feeble protests from the long-suffering landlord. The pleasure of
playing a real instrument soon overcame Anvar's diffidence about
performing, and the troops joined in with great enthusiasm. Soon
the walls were ringing to the sound of rowdy, bawdy barrack-room
ballads whose general subject matter and volume soon sent the


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tavern's more sobersided customers scurrying for home.
The4andlord, noticing the rate at which his ale kegs were
emptying, had long ago ceased to object.

All too soon, the evening had flown and everyone said farewell.
Reluctantly Anvar hung the borrowed guitar back on the wall. It
took several attempts, because he couldn't see which of the two
nails was the real one and couldn't hit, either. He and Forral
made their unsteady way back to the Academy through the crisp new
snow, leaning against each other at an acute angle with their arms
draped round one another's shoulders. They each carried a large
bottle of wine in their free hands and sang as they went on their
way, trading rude folk ballads for scurrilous soldiers' songs, and
threatening to awaken the entire city with their noise. Anvar
didn't care. Tonight, for once, he was truly enjoying himself.

AURIAN          •       193

Meiriel was not enjoying the Mages' Feast. She swirled the meager
ration of wine around in the bottom of her cup and took a chaste
sip, glowering across at the merry group who occupied the opposite
table.

"Finbarr seems happy tonight." Eliseth slid into the empty chair
beside the Healer.

Meiriel frowned. She could have done without the Weather-Mage and
her sly insinuations. She shrugged, forcing the appearance of
nonchalance. "It's a rare occasion when Finbarr can be dragged out
of his Archives to a celebration. He isn't used to all this wine,"
Despite her efforts to hide it, her anger broke through. "It's all
very well for Aurian—she's accustomed to carousing all hours with
those low-born Mortal scum from the Garrison."

"Don't we all know it!" Eliseth said sympathetically, "Believe me,
Meiriel, we can see the shape of things to come. Why, that
wretched swordsman of hers already spends half his time here,
profaning our halls with his presence. Before long, she'll be
inviting the rest of her Mortal friends, and our peace and
seclusion will be gone forever. Why does Miathan not put a stop to


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it?"

"You know why," Meiriel said sourly. "Aurian has the Archmage
wrapped around her little finger!"

"And not only the Archmage, it seems." Eliseth indicated the next
table, where Finbarr and D'arvan were laughing and drinking with
Aurian. The gibe hit home.

Meiriel, her emotions already inflamed by the wine, felt her face
flush hot with rage. "You mind your own business, you bitch!"

Eliseth's sympathetic expression did not alter. "I simply wished
to warn you," she said smoothly, "but if you've noticed ..." She
left the thought hanging, the more powerful to Meiriel for being
unstated. "Have you thought," she went on, "that if Aurian should
abandon her Mortal lover for ambition's sake—for she could never
be the next Archmage with such a scandalous encumbrance—she would
need to seek a mate among the Magefolk?"

Meiriel stared a&J^r. "Just what are you trying to say?"

Eliseth shrugged. "Only that the possibilities are limited. She
hates Davorshan and Bragar, D'arvan is next to useless, and it's
rumored that she has already rejected Miathan, fool that she is."

"Finbarr would never leave me!" It hardly sounded convincing, even
to herself. Meiriel had been harboring jealous thoughts of late,
since Finbarr had taken Aurian's side over the disgraceful
business with that Mortal,

"Well, that's all right, then. You have nothing to worry about,"
Eliseth said heartily. "I was about to offer a small suggestion
that might be to your interest, but—"

"What?" It came out more sharply than Meiriel had intended, and
she cursed the slip as she saw the Weather-Mage smile.

Eliseth leaned close. "You know Miathan's abhorrence for half-
breeds. If Aurian were to bear the swordsman's brat, then the


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Archmage would surely exile her for good." She drew back, looking
closely into Meiriel's face.

"But Aurian would never let that happen—and her control of such
matters is too good—A taught her myself."

"But you are the Healer, Meiriel. You must have the power to undo
what you've taught—that is, if you want to. Just think —one small
counterspell would rid us of Aurian and her unsavory influence for
good. Really, it would be a favor to everyone concerned. Aurian's
loyalties are pulling her more and more toward the Mortals,
unthinkable though it is. With the decision made for her, she'd be
happier elsewhere, and she and Forral could be together in peace."
Eliseth shrugged. "And what better opportunity could you have than
tonight? Aurian has already drunk a good deal—she is enjoying
herself too much to notice your interference. Why, she'll think
she has made the slip herself—when she finds out. She would never
suspect you."

As she rejoined Davorshan and Bragar, Eliseth was smiling. "Well?"
Bragar asked her. "How did it go?" The man would never learn
subtlety.

"It could         scarcely be better." The Weather-Mage seated herself,
smoothing         her skirts with fastidious care, and poured herself a
goblet of         wine. "As I thought, it was no trouble at all to make
Meiriel's         ridiculous jealousy work in our favor. Oh, she

protested of course, and said she could never contemplate such a
thing—but the seed has been sown. She'll do it, never fear."

She turned to Davorshan with a dazzling smile, smugly noting the
anger on Bragar's face. While the fools were at each other's
throats vying for her favors, she could easily control them both.
"Well, Davorshan," she purred, "now that Aurian is taken care of,
we can turn to the business of removing your unfortunate brother.
Why don't you fetch some more wine? Suddenly I feel like
celebrating!"

When they got back to the Academy, having been sternly "shushed"


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by the guards at the gate, Anvar and Forral came to an unsteady
halt outside Aurian's rooms. "Come in, lad," Forral said gaily if
somewhat indistinctly. "Come and have a drink with Aurian. You
haven't had a drink with Aurian yet, and she'll get mad if you
don't. And we don't want to make her mad," he added in an
exaggerated whisper, making such a face that Anvar had to prop
himself weakly against the wall, he was laughing so much. Forral
opened the door and the two of them practically fell into the
room,

Aurian had been doing a fair amount of celebrating herself,
judging by her flushed face and the brilliance of her sparkling
green eyes. She'd discarded the somber Mage's robes or practical
warrior's garb that she usually wore, and was instead dressed in
holiday finery—a tawny gold gown of velvet with a deep neckline
and long flowing sleeves. Her -wealth of fiery hair was caught
back in a loose web of gold, and she glowed like a living flame in
the soft candlelight. Anvar felt his heart give a couple of
unsteady thumps. He had never realized that she was so beautiful.

Forral swooped down on her and, totally unembarrassed by Anvar's
presence, covered her face with kisses. She laughed, and flinging
her arms around him, kissed him back,

"You look as though you've been having a good time," Aurian said
'with a smile,

"Me an' Anvar have been down to the Unicorn with the lads and
lasses," Forral informed her, "but we missed you."

"And I missed you two—ah—too." Aurian laughed. "I've been pining
for my SoTstice kiss all night." She made a doleful

face, and Forral kissed her again. Then she discovered the bottle
of wine that he held. "You love! Is that for me?"

"We couldn't celebrate without you," Forral declared grandly.
"I'll open it." Divesting Anvar of cloak and bottle, he poured
wine for the three of them and they stood in front of the fire and
lifted their glasses to each other.


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"Joyous Solstice, love," Aurian said to Forral. "Joyous Solstice,
Anvar."

And to Anvar, for the first time in two years, it truly was.

They sat together round the table and, to Anvar's embarrassment,
Forral told Aurian about his impromptu concert. "Truly, love, it
was amazing," he said. "Anvar here played that guitar like—like
you handle a sword—all rhythm and fire and flow. I wish you could
have heard him."

"So do I," Aurian said. "It sounds wonderful. Wherever did you
learn to play like that, Anvar?"

Because Anvar felt so happy, and because the wine had loosened his
tongue, he found himself telling them about Ria teaching him
music, and how his grandpa had made instruments for him that he
had lost when he came to the Academy. Tears filled his eyes as he
spoke of the two people he had loved so much, who were both dead
now,

Gently, Aurian reached across and brushed a tear from his face.
"Don't be sad, Anvar, They're still with you, in the gift of music
that you love so much. They'll always be there—in your hands, and
in your heart."

She exchanged a look-with Forral—a look filled with such depths of
love and sorrow that Anvar, suddenly understanding, became
uncertain whether his tears were for himself, or for these two who
had been so kind to him, and whose love was doomed to someday end
in tragedy.

Their glasses were empty, and Aurian got up a little unsteadily to
fetch some wine that she said was perfect for a special occasion.
"Miathan gave me this for Solstice," she said, uncorking the dusty
bottle. "It's one of his special vintages. He would have fifty
fits if he found out who'd been drinking it!" The two men
chuckled, and thanks to the Archmage's gift, the party soon
cheered up again.


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The three of them sang together, unaccompanied and softly, because
the hour was late. A fleeting thought of having

to get up to serve breakfast crossed Anvar's mind, but he ignored
it. How could tomorrow ever come? This night was held forever in a
timeless web of delight. Aurian's contralto voice thrilled him.
He'd never known that she could sing. By the time they reached the
bottom of the bottle they were back to bawdy ballads and silly
children's songs, and all three were laughing helplessly.

"Oh, dear," Aurian gasped, wiping her streaming eyes. "I haven't
had such a good time in ages!" She tilted the bottle to refill
their glasses, but only a few drops trickled out, "Bat turds!" She
muttered Finbarr's favorite curse. "That's the last!"

"I should go anyway," Anvar said, struggling to his feet. "I have
to get up in the morning to bring you lazy lot your breakfast." He
had spoken thoughtlessly, confident for once that his words would
not cause offense, but Aurian's face fell. "Oh, Anvar, I'm sorry.
I wasn't thinking . . ."

Forral frowned, "Look, lad," he said, "you know it's not Aurian's
fault. She can't release you from your bond, and my hands are
tied. I'd have this bondservant business stopped tomorrow if I
could, but I'm outnumbered on the Council. Don't think I haven't
tried. And why blame poor Aurian? She didn't make you a
bondservant—she only tried to help you. Does she treat you like a
slave? She's been worrying herself silly over you these last
months, did you know that? She'd like nothing better than to free
you if she could, and this is no way to treat her in return!"

That was too much, "I know that!" Anvar cried angrily. "But how
would you feel if you were in my place? You don't know what it's
like to have nothing—no freedom, no future, no hope! To always
force yourself to be respectful, to watch each word lest you're
punished for speaking out of turn, to always be at someone's beck
and call. You and the Lady Aurian have a place in the world. You
have respect; you have each other to love, and to love you. Can I
ever hope for that? I'm a bondservant—I'm not free to love. Can


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you imagine how lonely that can be? For the rest of my life I'll
have nothing to look forward to—nothing and no one of my own!"

"Oh, Anvar." Aurian's eyes brimmed with sympathy. Going to Anvar,
she took his hands, "I wish there was something I could do," she
said sefcty.

Anvar, already ashamed of his outburst, felt guiltier than ever.
"Lady, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to sound as if I were
complaining about you. Why, you've been so kind to me . . ." He
struggled to find the words. "I wouldn't have missed tonight for
all the world."

"Nor would I," Aurian assured him, and he knew his apology had
been accepted. She dug into a drawer and produced a small packet
of herbs which she tucked into Anvar's pocket. "Make that into a
tea in the morning," she said. "It's one of Meiriel's cure-
alls—wonderful for aching heads. I'm sure I'll be in no state
tomorrow to attempt any Healing! Sleep as late as you want, Anvar,
and when you get round to it, bring enough

breakfast for three."

Anvar assumed that Miathan must be breakfasting with Aurian and
Forral, and suddenly the evening was ruined. With a sigh, he
turned to go. But Forral detained him, putting an arm around his
shoulders. "We understand, lad," he said softly. "Both of us do. I
don't know if we can influence the Archmage, but maybe next year
we can try to get you down to the Garrison. I know you said that
Aurian has been teaching you a bit of swordplay. If you look like
you can learn, and it suits you, maybe Miathan would let you join
my troop. You're too good a man to waste your life drudging for
bloody Mages—begging your pardon, love," he added quickly,
glancing at Aurian and covering his mouth in embarrassment. "I
didn't mean you, of

course."

To Anvar's surprise ^Aurian, far from being angry, was delighted.
"Forral, what a splendid idea!" She hugged the swordsman fiercely.


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Anvar felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his
heart. In an excess of gratitude he hugged Forral too, joining in
the general embrace, his face cracking in a grin so wide it almost
hurt.

Then Aurian was hugging him, and Forral suddenly said: "Here, you
haven't given Anvar a Solstice kiss yet. Fancy forgetting that!"

"Goodness," Aurian said, "you're absolutely right!" She put her
arms around Anvar's neck and he felt her lips brush his cheek,
light as a butterfly's wing.

"That's pathetic, lass!" Forral roared. "Can't you do better than
that? Go on, it's Solstice. Kiss him properly!" And she

did. Not a kiss of passion, such as Forral had received, but a
gentle, generous kiss nonetheless, and to Anvar, strangely
precious. Once again, he felt his heart pound unsteadily, the
touch of her soft lips on his making him tremble.

"That's more like it!" Forral said, and suddenly Anvar remembered
his presence. "You've brought back his smile, love," the swordsman
said to Aurian.

"Well, I should hope so!" the Mage replied. For an instant she
looked deep into Anvar's eyes. "You should smile more often,
Anvar—it suits you. Well, if things work out, maybe you'll have
more reason to smile in the future."

"I'll drink to that," Forral said. "Oh, curse it—we can't!" So
they said their good-nights instead. That night Anvar's bed seemed
less hard and cold than it usually did, and his dreams were sweet.

Anvar paid for the previous night's celebrations on Solstice Morn.
His head was pounding fit to fall off, and he wished it
would—anything to be rid of the pain. But Aurian's remedy worked
wonders, and soon he felt able to get her breakfast tray ready,
though the smell of the food gave him some queasy moments.

As he carried the tray up the tower steps to Aurian's door, Anvar


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heard the sound of hurrying footsteps behind him and turned to see
the Mage herself, cloaked and booted for a trip outdoors. She was
out of breath and carried a large, flattish wooden box in her
arms. He wo'hdefed where she had been so early, especially if she
felt as delicate as he did. As she approached, Anvar saw that she
looked rather tired and drawn, but the cold had brought a glow to
her cheeks and a little of last night's sparkle back into her
eyes. Snowflakes were melting into brilliant diamond drops in her
wind-tangled hair and the spicy, musky perfume that she favored
was overlaid with the fresh, invigorating scent of the snowy open
air.

Thinking of her kiss the previous night, Anvar felt himself blush.
Would she regret what had happened under the influence of the
wine? Would she turn away in embarrassment or scorn? But the smile
she gave him was frank and friendly—and sympathetic.

"You, too?" slwssid with a wry smile, putting a hand to
her forehead. Anvar nodded. "Never mind," she said. "It was worth
it. I enjoyed every minute of last night."

Anvar was startled. Did she know what he'd been thinking? Did her
words carry some hidden meaning? Frowning, he followed the Mage
into her rooms.

"Gods, what a mess!" Aurian grimaced at the litter of bottles and
goblets, and went to open the curtains.

Anvar put down the tray and began to tidy the debris while she lit
the fire—a task that never took her long. The sound of their
bustle must have awakened Forral, for Anvar heard a groan from the
bed in the adjacent room. Aurian ran to the swordsman, her face
full of sympathy, and Anvar cursed his own stupidity. Hidden
meanings, indeed! What a fool he was! Thoroughly ashamed of
himself, he turned to go.

Aurian's face appeared round the bedroom door. "Don't go yet,
Anvar!" she said.

Anvar waited reluctantly as she mixed some of Meiriel's medicine


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and took it in to Forral. The loving closeness of the pair
emphasized the emptiness of his own life, and he felt left out
and, in truth, a little jealous. Besides, he didn't want to risk
meeting Miathan.

"When are you expecting the Archmage, Lady?" Anvar asked as Aurian
came back into the room.

"Miathan? Is he corning? Has there been a message?"

Aurian frowned.

Anvar gestured at the table set for three. "No, but I

thought ..."                      • -*

The Mage's face broke into a grin. "Gracious, no," she said.
"Miathan won't eat with me while Forral is here. I thought you
might like to join us this morning, since it's Solstice Day. Go
on, sit down. Forral's coming."

When the swordsman appeared, his haggard face turned green at the
sight of the food. "Do I have to eat that stuff?" he asked
plaintively.

"Go on, try it," Aurian urged. "It's just what you need."

"Bossy!" Forral grumbled, but sure enough, the food and Aurian's
medicine soon began to work, and by the time the last plate was
cleared, everyone was feeling much better.

Aurian turned to Anvar. "Forral and I exchanged gifts last night,"
she said, "and it occurred to me that I hadn't given you
anything, so . . ." She leaned across and lifted the box that had
been propped in the corner. "This is for you."

Anvar held the box on his lap, not knowing what to say. It was
almost too much. Forral, last night, had given him the cloak—and
now this. Slowly he opened the lid. There, cradled by a thick
padding of cloth, lay a beautiful guitar, its gleaming wood rich


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with intricate inlay—work of real quality. He stared at Aurian,
not daring to believe.

"Is it all right?" she asked. "I should have let you choose for
yourself, but I wanted to surprise you. I'm sure the maker would
change it if you don't like it, even though he wasn't too pleased
at being knocked out of bed this morning!"

Anvar lifted the instrument carefully out of the box and struck a
chord. It needed tuning after its journey in the cold, but the
tone was mellow and sweet. "Oh, Lady, thank you," he whispered.
His throat felt tight, and his eyes filled with tears. No matter
how much he feared and hated most of the Magefolk, he knew now
that Aurian was a very special exception. If he had to be a
bondservant, he could not have hoped for a kinder mistress.

In the snowy weeks that followed Solstice, Anvar's life was
brightened by the Lady Aurian's gift. The Mage suggested that he
keep it in her rooms, rather than leaving the precious instrument
unattended in the servants' quarters, and since she was away from
the chambers so much, -he cpuld practice there to his heart's
content. At their suggestion, he began to accompany Aurian and
Forral down to the Invisible Unicorn in the evenings to play for
the troopers, and his talent was so well appreciated that he
suddenly found himself gaining many new friends.

One night, Anvar was at the Unicorn with his Lady and her warrior
friends, Maya and Parric. Forral was occupied at the Garrison with
work for the next day's Council meeting. Since Forral and Aurian
had become lovers, the swordsman had been clashing more and more
with Miathan, and Anvar knew that Aurian was becoming increasingly
concerned. She was quiet and distracted that night; her brow was
clouded with a frown that not even Parric 's,jnost outrageous
sallies had been able to
lift. The arrival of Vannor, however, brought a new animation to
the Mage's face.

"Well?" Aurian demanded, as the merchant settled down with his
ale. "Did you find Dulsina? Did you ask her to come



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back?"

Vannor gave her a mock-fierce scowl. "Did I have much choice,
after that tongue-lashing I got from you and Maya? Yes, I found
her—she was staying with a cousin who has a lodging house near the
Garrison. Yes, she consented to come back— after she'd made me
grovel, that is!"

"Serves you right for dismissing her in the first place!" Maya
snorted. "We have no sympathy, do we, Aurian?"

"Not a bit!" the Mage chuckled. "You must admit, Vannor, it wasn't
a very clever move, considering that Dulsina is the only one who
knows where your children are! You said she had sent them to stay
with her sister, didn't you?"

"That's right," the merchant said, with a heartiness that Anvar,
looking on, found oddly false. "But there's no mystery," Vannor
went on. "Dulsina's sister lives up the coast somewhere near
Wyvernesse. Dulsina didn't want to tell me at first—I think she
expected me to go charging up there causing trouble." He signed.
"I miss them, you know—especially Zanna— but Dulsina's sister will
take good care of them. It'll do them good to get out of the city
for a while, and I must admit that it's restful not to have Sara
and Zanna squabbling all the time. On reflection, Dulsina was
right to do what she did—I should have known that she was-acting
in the best interests of everyone."

"I'll wager that Sara's glad to have Dulsina back!" Aurian's eyes
glinted wickedly, and Anvar pricked up his ears.

"I'll say!" Vannor snorted. "In truth, we're all glad to have her
back—the household was falling apart around our ears without her.
Even Sara said—"

At this point, Anvar went to fetch a new jug of ale. Listening to
Vannor talking of Sara as his wife was just too painful. He was
returning to the others at their favorite table by the fireside
when a pale, faltering figure appeared in the tavern doorway.
Anvar caught his breath in astonishment. D'arvan! What was he


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doing here?

"Aurian—thank the Gods you're here!" The young Mage

staggered to the table, flinging himself on Aurian, who had leapt
to her feet. "Miathan threw me out! And Davorshan— he—"

"D'arvan!" Aurian had automatically put her arms around the
distraught Mage's shoulders. Anvar saw her recoil as though she
had been stung, and her hands, when she took them away, were
covered with blood. The Mage recovered herself quickly. "Hurry,"
she hissed at Anvar. "Help me get him out of here, before anyone
notices!"

"Do you want me to help?" Vannor asked.

Aurian shook her head. "No, Vannor—just divert attention, if you
would. I don't want the word to get out that a Mage was attacked!"

"We'll follow in a moment," Maya whispered, looking alarmed. Anvar
helped the Mage catch D'arvan as he collapsed, and she made her
hasty good-nights to Parric and Maya. They headed for the door,
supporting his limp body between them.

"Honestly," Maya was saying to Vannor in a loud voice as they
left, for the benefit of anyone who might be curious. "She's told
him time and again about drinking so much!"

Aurian was relieved when they finally reached the door to Forral's
quarters. D'arvan's breathing was becoming more and more labored,
although, since he had managed to get from the Academy to the
Unicorn, she didn't think the wound was too serious. She had acted
decisively in the tavern, getting him away before the other
customers harf time to become curious, but now the shock was
taking its toll, and she was weary from half dragging D'arvan
through streets filled with slippery slush, taking a circuitous
route through the back lanes to avoid the stares of passers-by.

"Aurian! What the bloody blazes has happened?" A tired-looking
Forral opened the door, his mouth slack with astonishment. Without


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answering, Aurian helped Anvar to lay D'arvan on the couch. Forral
put his arms around her, and she relaxed for a moment, leaning
against his shoulder. "Are you all right, love?" he asked her, and
she pulled herself upright and kissed him, glad that he was there.

"I am, but D'arvan isn't," she said. "He's been hurt. Forral,
will you light another lamp and get us all some wine while I see
to him? Anvar will tell you what happened."

Sitting on the edge of the couch, Aurian pulled away the torn
remains of D'arvan's robes to expose his back, feeling a mixture
of relief and consternation. The wound was a long slice, bloody
but shallow—and it had obviously been done with a knife. It wasn't
serious, thank the Gods—but who in the world had tried to stab the
Mage? Aurian was well aware that most of the Magefolk were
unpopular with the city's inhabitants, but this was unthinkable!

By now, Aurian was well advanced in the skills of Healing. As she
concentrated her powers, the wound was suffused by a faint violet-
blue glow, and she had the satisfaction of seeing the sundered
tissues start to knit before her eyes as the bleeding stopped and
the gash began to close. As D'arvan's pain ceased, she felt his
body relax beneath her hands, and his eyes flickered open. She
helped him to a sitting position, and Forral handed him a cup of
wine.

Just then the Cavalrymaster entered with Maya, "Don't worry,"
Parric assured Aurian. "Whoever attacked him, they didn't follow
you here."

"Is he all right?" Maya asked anxiously. "Has he told you how it
happened?"

"Not yet." The Mage frowned. "I'm just about to ask him."
D'arvan's fine-boned face was even paler than usual, but he was
conscious, and seemed fairly alert. "You'll want to sleep," Aurian
told him, '*but drink your wine, before you rest." She sat down
beside him, gratefully taking a goblet of wine from Forral,
"You're safe now," she said, "We're in the Garrison. D'arvan—can
you tell me what happened?"


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D'arvan shuddered. "Miathan," he whispered, "He sent for me. He
said that I was never going to be any use, and told me to get out
of the Academy," His hands trembled so that wine slopped out of
the cup. "He had the guards throw me out of the top gate. I—I
didn't know what to do; so I was coming to find you. Then, as I
was crossing the causeway, Davorshan—my own brother—leapt out from
behind the wall and tried to stab me."

Aurian caught her breath. Davorshan? A Mage attacking another
Mage? Brother against brother? One thing was certain, she thought
grimly. Eliseth was behind this, somehow.


"I knew he was there," D'arvan went on. "We're so closely linked,
it saved me. I saw my murder in his mind, and I dodged, but the
knife caught me, then we struggled and I managed to get away. The
guards at the lower gate heard the disturbance, and he had to stop
to talk to them. Aurian—how could he do this?" He dropped the cup,
burying his face in his hands.

Aurian put her arms around him, "You say you knew his mind," she
prompted gently, when he became calmer. "Do you know why he did
it?"

D'arvan nodded. "He—he's been working with Eliseth, and making
some progress with Water-magic," he said, "He had decided that we
must have only enough power for one Mage between us, and since
Miathan had banished me, he could kill me so that all the power
would be his."

"But that's ridiculous!"

"I don't think so," D'arvan said. "I've suspected as much myself.
It's the only explanation. We've been tangling up this power
between us, but since Davorshan discovered where his skills lay,
he's been able to reach some of it. Maybe I could, if I had any
talents, but I've tried everything—"

"Wait a minute!" Aurian sat up abruptly, "No you haven't! Gods


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take me for a fool, why didn't we think of it sooner? You haven't
tried Earth-magic, for the simple reason that there's no one at
the Academy who teaches it. D'arvan, we'll send you to my mother!
No one will know where you are, so you'll be safe. Eilin can
shield you, and she'll teach you. And it would be a great help for
her. She won't admit it, but she desperately needs some company."

"But I'm not sure ,                     .     ." D'arvan began doubtfully,

"Oh, nonsense. You have to try, don't you see? At least you'll
know for certain. And you can't let that brother of yours get away
with this without a fight!"

"Well .         . . I've always liked plants and things . . ."

"Of course you have," Aurian noticed that D'arvan's eyelids were
drooping, "Look, get some rest now, I'll get a blanket and you can
sleep on the couch. You'll be safe here, and in a day or so we'll
see about smuggling you out of the city. At all costs, the other
Magefolk mustn't find out where you are."

"I'll send Maya with him," Forral suggested. "She'll see that he
gets there safely."

"Of course I'll go," Maya said. Stooping, she embraced the young
Mage. "Don't you worry," she told him. "We'll take care

of you."

When Maya and Parric had gone to their beds, Aurian and Forral
stood with their arms around each other, looking down at the
sleeping Mage. Now that D'arvan was asleep, Aurian could no longer
contain her rage at the way he had been treated. "Forral, I don't
like what's happening. Nothing's as it should be anymore at the
Academy, and as for Miathan—well, after the way he treated Anvar,
and—and now this . . ." Still she couldn't bring herself to tell
Forral about the Archmage's attack on her. But her decision had
crystallized. "Forral, I've had enough! I'm sick of the
Academy—and the Magefolk, most of them. We have so many powers,
but we never think of using them to help people! Think of the good


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we could have done, if my people had not been so arrogant and self-
absorbed. I want to leave—to find my own way in the world. And I
want to be with you—all the time, not just for these snatched
moments!"

Forral looked at her gravely. "Maybe you're right," he said
softly. "I've felt this way about the Magefolk for so long— Gods,
if it hadn't been for you, I'd have left long ago. Of course we
can go, love. But we'll have to make our plans carefully, and we
must flee fast and far to escape Miathan. He won't let you go

easily!"              ^

"We must take Anvaf with us, too," Aurian said urgently. She
looked around at her servant, who had fallen asleep in a chair.
"At least we can give him back his freedom." Gently, so as not to
wake him, she covered him with another blanket from

Forral's bedchamber.

"We could all do with some sleep," Forral suggested. "Once D'arvan
and Maya are safely on their way, we'll be able to make some plans
of our own." He yawned. "Come on, love. Come to bed. We're too
tired to think straight—and I want my wits about me tomorrow. I
have another wrangle to face in Council with that bloody
Archmage—can you believe he wants to raise the sewer tax again? He
won't be satisfied until he's bled this city dry. If this is to be
my last fight with him, I mean to make it a good one—especially
after what I've seen tonight!"


Aurian climbed gratefully into bed with her lover, ruefully noting
the scarcity of covers. "You'd better not steal the bedclothes
tonight," she told Forral. "I'll have trouble keeping warm as it
is." She snuggled close to him. "It reminds me of when I was
little, when I gave you all my blankets so that you wouldn't have
to leave the Valley." She flung her arms around him. "Oh Gods,
Forral, I love you! I couldn't bear to think of losing you."

Forral held her close, stroking her hair. "You'll never lose me,"


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he reassured her. "Never, while I live."

As he spoke, Aurian again felt that premonitory prickle of dread,
like ice sheeting over her bare skin. She shuddered, and tightened
her grasp on Forral until he grunted a sleepy protest. It can't be
true, she assured herself desperately. I'm tired and worried,
that's all—I'm imagining things. She closed her eyes firmly, and
did her best to thrust her fears from her mind. But weary as she
was, Aurian got no sleep that night.



1

1I

Cxhapter              14

THE     DEATH         WRAITHS

he meetings of the Council of Three were held in the ____
Guildhall, a magnificent circular building near the Grand Arcade.
The decisions that ruled the city were made at a small gilded
table in the very center of the vast round chamber, and anyone
wishing to observe the proceedings could watch from the gallery of
the hall, though usually only a few stalwarts were present.
Narvish, the City Recorder, sat with the Three to record what took
place.

When Forral arrived at the Guildhall, every seat in the gallery
was taken. Interest in this meeting was unusually high because the
matter under discussion would affect every man, woman, and child
in the city. The Archmage wanted to raise the sewer tax, the sum
paid by every citizen in Nexis for the upkeep of the sewer system
that made life so pleasant and healthy for them. Magic kept the
water circulating, pumping the city's waste away downriver, and no
one objected to giving the Magefolk a small tithe for the
convenience, but Miathan's new demands were extortionate,
especially for those with large families. There was a great deal
of anger among the city's people at the prospect, and feelings


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against the Archmage and the Council were running high.

Vannor had already arrived, and was seated alone at the table,
looking uncomfortable. When Forral took the Garrison Commander's
chair, the Head of the Merchants' Guild leaned toward him, his low
voice masked by the general hubbub in the room. "Forral, no
offense, but I know that Miathan has you in an invidious position
on this Council, because of Aurian. But have you thought this
business through? The tax will cripple the poor people of the
city, and it'll be your job to enforce it. What will happen to
those who can't pay? What if they all refuse to pay it? The way
feelings are running at the moment they well might. If this new
law goes through, we'll be up to our necks in shit—in more ways
than one!"

In spite of himself, Forral grinned. "You have a wonderful way
with words, Vannor."

"So they tell me." The blunt-faced merchant returned his

smile, and Forral regretted that his relationship with Aurian had
always prevented him from outfacing the Archmage in a public
display of opposition. Vannor deserved better. It would be a real
pleasure to help him out this time.

Miathan swept into the room, making his grand entrance as usual,
flanked by that obsequious little toad Narvish. Forral's mouth
tightened at the sight of the City Recorder—a stringy, gap-toothed
old fossil who was the bane of the swordsman's life. Rumor had it
that Narvish took bribes from Miathan, and to Forral's certain
knowledge, the records of recent meetings had been slanted in
favor of the Archmage. Nothing major, of course. Nothing that
could be proved. But an altered emphasis, perhaps, or an odd word
or two displaced, that threw the account of a straightforward
discussion into confusion and doubt. Well, there would be no
chance of that today, Forral thought grimly. This would be a
public debate, settled by a simple majority vote, and now that
Aurian had decided to leave the Magefolk, the swordsman no longer
had to dance to the Archmage's tune. Miathan was going to be in
for a big surprise, Forral thought. He was looking forward to it


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immensely.

The debate took up the whole of its allotted three hours, and
Forral could feel the surprise emanating from the audience. Such a
thing had never been known during the Archmage's tenure. Miathan
had always made sure that he had at least one supporter on the
Council, and had always had his way, sweeping any opposition
easily aside. But not this time. After a while, Vannor no longer
bothered to^iide his smile, as the two Mortal men systematically
destroyed every one of the Archmage's suave arguments between
them. Forral contented himself with smiling inwardly as he watched
Miathan's expression gcow blacker and blacker.

At last the Voting Bell was rung, putting an end to any further
debate. Narvish, who had been looking increasingly alarmed as the
discussion continued, rose to his feet and addressed the meeting.
"The Archmage Miathan has put forward a motion to this Council to
increase the sewer tax by ten silver pieces," he intoned. "Those
in favor of accepting the motion into the city's statutes, please
rise."

There was utter silence as the Archmage rose to his feet— alone.
Forral saw Miaih^n turn to him, expecting him to have
risen also. With a show of nonchalance, he leaned back in his
chair, and put his booted feet up on the gilded Council table. A
gasp echoed through the room. The Archmage's expression changed
from complacency to baffled rage. Narvish, completely at a loss,
looked wildly around, as if searching for a means of escape. "Ah
... Is that everyone?" he squeaked.

"Get on with it, man," Vannor growled, but his eyes were
twinkling. The merchant appeared to be enjoying himself hugely.
The greasy little Recorder sidled away from the fuming Archmage.
"Ah . . . All those against?"

Slowly, Forral removed his feet from the table and stood                                                       up with
Vannor, as the chamber erupted into tumultuous applause.                                                       The
Archmage, his face absolutely livid, opened his mouth to                                                       speak,
but Forral held his glare with a look of stony defiance.                                                       Miathan
turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, for once                                                       in his


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life utterly defeated.

The Archmage paced the floor of his chamber, barely able to
contain his rage. This time, Forral had gone too far. How dared he
stand with that upstart Vannor, flaunting the supremacy of those
Mortal scum over one of the Mageborn! Miathan knew that the rule
of the city was slipping out of his grasp, along with all his
greater plans. Enough was enough. Aurian or no Aurian, Forral had
just signed his own death warrant.

Miathan frowned, remembering something else. Something that he had
not previously connected with Forral's defiance. Since he had
exiled D'arvan last night, the Mage had simply vanished. Where
could he be? Miathan's spies had failed to locate him in the city,
and the Archmage wondered if he had made the right decision in
acceding to the pleas of Eliseth and Bragar to get rid of D'arvan,
who, they insisted, was impeding his brother's progress. Better to
have one working Mage loyal to us, they had said, than two who are
useless. But Miathan wondered now. Someone of Mage blood was still
a potential source of power, and it disturbed him to have D'arvan
away from his influence. What if he was hatching some plot with
Forral and— Miathan winced at the thought—Aurian? And what did
Eliseth and Bragar mean by "loyal to us"? Was Davorshan loyal to
the Archmage, or simply to them? Miathan wrestled with the
possibilities, falling into the classic trap of those who spend
their

lives plotting and scheming against others. He was convinced that
the others, in their turn, were plotting to overthrow him.

Eliseth and Bragar appeared to be loyal, but he did not completely
trust them. Certainly not enough to tell them about this. Miathan
stroked the burnished golden rim of the chalice that stood on the
table before him. This would serve him well, if they should move
against him! Finbarr's research had provided him with the answers
he needed. Here indeed lay the power of the Caldron, and like all
the tools of Gramarye, the High Magic, it could be used as boon—or
bane. Miathan smiled. The Mages' Code was for simpletons! Here,
under his hand, lay a weapon so formidable—



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His deliberations were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
Miathan cursed, and quickly pulled an embroidered cloth over the
chalice to hide it. "Enter," he called.

It was Meiriel. She bowed low. "Your pardon, Lord Archmage," she
said, "I must speak with you urgently."

"This is very formal, is it not, Meiriel?" Miathan forced
joviality into his voice. There was no evidence that the Healer
was against him, and he might need all the support he could get.
"Come, sit. Let me pour you some wine."

Meiriel seemed very disturbed. Her jaw worked; her eyes darted
everywhere as she sat and accepted the cup from him. Before he had
time to sit again she had blurted out her news. "Aurian is with
child, Archmage!"

Miathan froze, half seated as_he .was. The room seemed darker, and
suddenly chill. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

"I'm certain," Meiriel said. "The aura of a Mage changes once a
child is conceived. A Healer can see it, though Magewomen
themselves are later than Mortals in making the discovery, since
we are trained to suppress the cycles that would otherwise warn
us. It can be little more than two months yet and I don't think
Aurian knows—she can hardly have expected it. But soon—very
soon—she will know."

Miathan fell heavily into the chair. "Oh Gods," he whispered.
"Gods—not this!"

The Healer, braced as she was for a furious outburst, looked at
him in confusion, then took a sudden, gulping breath. "How could
you let this happen!" she spat. "With a Mortal!"

"Be silent!" Miaffiaft snapped, not listening. He was re-
membering a day long ago when a blue-eyed Mortargirl had wept
before him, as she told him similar news—and, more urgently, a day
not so very long ago, when he had conceived a terrible curse . . .
His Aurian, gravid with that cursed Mortal's monstrous spawn—a


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monster that he himself had helped to create, just as much as
they—

"Archmage?" The Healer was tugging urgently at his

sleeve.

"Curse you, Meiriel, get out—no, wait!" He crushed her hands in an
iron grip. "You are a Healer—could you get rid of this child?
Without Aurian knowing?"

"What?" Meiriel stared at him. "What are you saying?" "Listen."
Miathan leaned close. "You said that Aurian is unaware of her
pregnancy. We must end it, Meiriel, and as a Healer, it would be a
simple matter for you. But if Aurian finds out, she would never
allow it, and she has power enough to prevent you. So we must act
quickly. I'll summon her now, and put spells of deep sleep on her
while you dispose of the child. When she wakes, she will be none
the wiser. We can say she was taken ill—that she overtaxed herself
again, and"—the Archmage shrugged—"the matter will end there." His
eyes met those of the Healer. "After that, I shall deal with that
thrice-cursed swordsman once and for all. This must not be allowed
to happen again!"

The Healer gaped at him. "But . . ." she floundered, "you weren't
supposed to—I mean, I—"

"Meiriel!" the Arcrfmage barked. "Can you do it or not?" With an
effort, the Healer got hold of herself. "I suppose so," she
whispered unhappily.

"Excellent." The Archmage smiled. "My dear Meiriel, I am well
pleased with you. This will not go unrewarded. Are you sure that
no one suspects? Finbarr? Anyone?"

"As if I would tell Finbarr!" Meiriel's lip curled. "He'd be no
friend to us in this. He's besotted with the wretched woman!" Her
eyes flashed angrily.

Miathan's eyes narrowed. So she was jealous of Aurian? He filed


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the information away in his mind, for future use. "Very well," he
said. "I'll send for Aurian now."


"Blasted, bloody thing!" Aurian tugged fiercely at the brush,
which was inextricably tangled with a snarl of her hair. Then in
temper she threw the whole thing away from her— brush, hair, and
all—with the inevitable result.

"Ouch!" She banged her fist hard on the table, making the mirror
tremble.

"Lady, let me." Anvar hurried to her side, hastily retrieving the
brush, which swung in midair, dangling from the tangled lock of
hair. He freed it carefully, then, while she rubbed at her head,
he brought her a glass of wine, taking the brush with him to
forestall a further outburst. For some reason, his mistress seemed
to be growing awfully moody of late.

Aurian took a huge gulp of the wine and smiled at him. "Thank you,
Anvar. I don't know what I'd do without you." She rubbed irritably
at her forehead. "Stupid of me, to carry on like that. I don't
know what's the matter with me these days. You had better give me
the brush back, or I'll never be in time to meet Forral."

"Shall I do it, Lady?" Anvar offered. "I used to brush my mother's
hair ..." He flinched from the memory. Why did it still hurt so,
to think of her? "Anyway," he went on hastily, "she always said I
was gentle."

"Perhaps you should," Aurian agreed. She looked surprised at the
mention of his past, but Anvar knew that she had given up trying
to question him about it.

Anvar took up the brush and began to work on her hair, carefully
unknotting the snags with his fingers before carrying on. He
enjoyed the feel of the long, thick strands that slipped like
heavy silk through his hands. Soon he was brushing in long, smooth
strokes, and he saw the rigid set of Aurian's shoulders beginning
to rela^,


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"That's lovely," she sighed. "Bless you, Anvar. I can't think how
it got so tangled—it usually doesn't when it's braided. It must
have been Parric's cavalry practice. I've been on the horse, off
the horse, underneath it even, all day—and that doesn't count the
times when I fell, or was knocked off!"

"Is fighting on horseback very different, Lady?" Anvar asked.
Lately, she had been teaching him the rudiments of swordsmanship,
and he was determined to excel.

Aurian nodded. "Completely different," she said. "For one
thing, you count on force rather than agility because you are far
less maneuverable. There are different fighting styles, depending
on whether your opponents are mounted or on foot. If they're on
foot, they'll be trying to get in underneath and disable the
horse, which in itself is a very formidable weapon— warhorses are
trained to fight as well as their warriors—" She broke off with a
rueful smile. "Sorry, Anvar. I didn't mean to start a lecture.
Parric has me eating, sleeping, and breathing horsemanship at the
moment."

Anvar smiled back at her reflection in the mirror, enjoying the
ease that existed between them nowadays. "Shall I braid it

again?" he asked.

"You can do that, too?" Aurian sounded surprised. "Gods, Anvar, is
there no end to your talents?" She chuckled. "I suppose you
realize that you've just talked yourself into another job? All
that braiding makes my arms ache!"

"I'd be happy to do it, Lady," Anvar said, and was surprised to
realize that it was true.

"Thank you, Anvar. I appreciate that. But not tonight. We're
dining with Vannor, and I think I'll look like a lady, rather than
a warrior." She slipped a fillet of twisted gold over her
burnished hair to hold the fiery mass in place, and stood,
smoothing the skirts of her emerald-green gown. "Well," she said,


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"I must be off. See you later, Anvar—oh, drat! Who can

that be?"

Anvar went to answer the door. It was a servant, summoning the
Lady Aurian to "the presence of the Archmage. Aurian scowled when
he gave her the message. "Bat turds! I'm going to be late! Did he
say what Miathan wanted?"

"I'm sorry, Lady." Anvar shook his head. The Mage gave a long-
suffering sigh, but he had glimpsed the flicker of fear behind her
casual pose. "Lady—if you want to get away, I'll go and tell the
Archmage that I made a mistake, and that you've already gone," he
offered.

"Thanks—but I'd better go myself. Miathan is the sort to blame the
messenger for the tidings! I'll come back for my cloak before I
go—hopefully this won't take too long."

When Aurian had gone, Anvar busied himself about her rooms,
tidying away the clothing she'd discarded on her return from the
Garrison. He picked up her leather fighting clothes

and her sword belt and boots, rolling them into a bundle with the
cloak that had once belonged to Forral. He left them by the door,
near her sword that stood propped against the wall. He'd clean
them later, he thought. They stank of horses. He emptied her bath,
built up the fire, and placed a new flask of wine on the table,
ready for her return. His tasks completed, Anvar was about to
reach for his guitar to while away a solitary hour or two, when he
saw her staff, which had rolled beneath the bed, forgotten.

A staff was a vital tool for a Mage, serving to focus and
concentrate their power. Each of the Magefolk, on reaching a
certain degree of aptitude, would make a staff from one of the
traditional magical trees—from a branch or a root, as they
preferred—and fuse it with their power and personality. Aurian had
delayed long over making her staff, knowing she was clumsy at
carving and afraid that the result would be a disaster.



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Seeking a way to repay her generous Solstice gift, Anvar had gone
to the woods south of the river and found a twisted root of beech,
Aurian's favorite tree. He had carved it carefully, using the
skills his grandpa had taught him and using the natural twists of
the wood to form the two Serpents of the High Magic—the Serpent of
Might and the Serpent of Wisdom— that coiled, intertwining, up the
length of the staff from bottom to top. It was the most beautiful
thing he had ever made, with a force and life of its own, even
before it was imbued with magic. Aurian had been overjoyed wi/h
it, and her delight had been reward indeed for Anvar.

Anvar bent to pick up the staff—and dropped it as though it had
burned him. When his fingers had touched the wood, he'd felt a
jolt of fear—a flash of panic as though Aurian had cried out to
him in helpless desperation. Cautiously, he reached for it again,
but this time, there was nothing. Turning the staff in his hands,
Anvar frowned. What had happened to Aurian? She had been gone for
ages! Was something wrong? Had she managed to reach out to him via
this implement that he had made, and she had infused with her
power? A knot of pain formed between Anvar's eyes at the thought,
but he refused to be put off, remembering the flash of fear on her
face when she was summoned by Miathan. Terrified though he was of
the
Archmage, Anvar knew he would have to find out if she was all
right.

With dragging feet, he climbed to the topmost floor, trying
without success to convince himself that he'd imagined the whole
thing. Miathan's door was slightly ajar. Anvar was lifting his
hand to knock when he heard voices within. The Archmage —and
Meiriel? Where was Aurian? He froze, one hand lifted, chilled by
what he heard.

"It isn't working, Miathan." Meiriel's voice was strained. "Even
under your spells, she instinctively fights to protect the

child."

"Plague on it! Is there nothing you can do?" "Well . . . There's
a drug that I could try. It would work on her mind, to make her


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malleable to our commands. We might be able to make her expel the
brat herself." "Do you have it with you?"

"Of course!" Meiriel snapped. "We must hurry, though. It will take
the drug about an hour to take effect, and if we should be
discovered in the meantime—"

"Don't worry. Eliseth and her companions will no doubt be occupied
in plotting their usual mischief, and you know that Finbarr never
leaves his Archives! Get on with it, Meiriel! For-ral's child must
not survive this night!"

Anvar gasped, steadying himself against the cold stone wall of the
tower, his mind spinning with confusion . . . Aurian's babe,
destroyed as Sara's had been, and for similar reasons . . . His
child-^Forral's child . . . Forral! Turning, Anvar ran, soft-
footed until he was well around the first curve, then descending
the spiral stairs at a breakneck pace. Without thinking, he thrust
the staff into his belt as he reached the bottom, then pelted
across the torchlit courtyard to the stables next to the
guardhouse. "A horse, quick!" he yelled to the startled guards.
"I'm on an urgent errand for the Lady Aurian!" They knew by now
that he was the Lady's trusted servant, and did not hinder him. He
snatched a bridle and forced it onto the nearest animal, then
without waiting for a saddle he vaulted astride, ducking beneath
the stable doorway. He spurred out of the gate just as the guards
raised the signal lantern that would alert the gatekeeper to open
the lower gates.

Anvar reached the gates of the Garrison, pursued by several

mounted troopers who had taken exception to him hurtling through
the city streets, heedlessly scattering the passersby who got in
his way. Two guards stood forth to bar his way, and Anvar wrenched
at the horse's mouth, throwing himself off the startled beast
before it had time to skid to a halt. He thrust the reins at the
astonished soldiers. "Commander Forral!" he gasped. "Quick—where
is he?"

Luckily one of the guards was Parric. "In his quarters, but—" He


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was talking to empty air. Anvar had gone, shouldering past him and
running across the parade ground to the officers' quarters. The
troopers, arriving close on his heels, looked at Parric, who
simply shrugged.

Anvar hammered frantically on Forral's door, almost hitting the
Commander in the face as he opened it.

"Anvar, what in the world                           .     .    ."

Anvar almost fell into the room, barely noticing Vannor seated by
the fire. Clutching at Forral's tunic, he gasped out his story.
The result was unexpected. Anvar, knowing Forral as a cool,
capable, professional soldier, had failed to realize that the
swordsman might have a blind spot where Aurian was concerned.
Forral's face went absolutely white; all reason fled from his
eyes. "Miathan," he howled in an inhuman voice, and snatching up
his sword, he fled from the room. Vannor and Anvar stared at each
other, horrified, then, as one, they rushed out after the berserk
swordsman.

By the time they had found norses and made their way through the
crowded streets of the clty^Torral was well ahead of them. The
gatehouse on the causeway showed the horrific evidence of his
passing: the gatekeeper lay huddled and twisted in a pool of
blood. In the courtyard above was a worse scene of carnage, with
dead guards and servants littering the bloodstained paving stones.
Forral's warhorse stood by the tower door, its sides heaving, its
ears laid back and nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. Anvar
and Vannor hurled themselves from their mounts and dashed up the
steps of the tower—only to stop dead on Miathan's threshold,
frozen by the horror within.

Aurian was lost in a dark dream, fighting with all her strength
against something dark and nebulous, twisted and unspeakably
evil—something that strove to possess her very soul.

She fought, desperate, weaponless, feeling herself gradually
beginning to weaken, feeling her will slowly slipping away in the
face of the dark terror—the voice that strove to master her. Then


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another voice reached her, crying Miathan's name. Forral! She
clung to his voice—a lifeline pulling her up—up and

out ...

Aurian opened her eyes, saw the lamplight of Miathan's opulent
quarters, saw Meiriel cowering in a corner—and saw Forral,
splattered with blood and clutching a gory, dripping sword,
advancing on the Archmage. Miathan retreated behind the table,
snatching at a cloth that covered something ... A chalice of
graven, burnished gold. In a chilling voice, the Archmage began
to intone the words of a spell, in a language ancient and steeped
in evil. Aurian felt an agonizing buzzing within her skull as the
buildup of dark, obscene magic permeated the chamber. "Miathan,
no!" she shrieked, struggling to fight off the effects of the drug
and rise from the couch where she lay. Forral continued his slow,
inexorable advance, murder in his eyes. Desperate, Aurian sent out
a frantic mental call for help—to Finbarr, the only Mage she could
still trust.

The air thickened and grew dark. In the gloom, the outside of the
cup began to glow with a pale, sickly luminescence like rotting
fungus, its inside enclosing a black, bottomless pit from which
issued a hideous stench. The air was chill with a cold from beyond
the very grave, and reeked of rot and putrefaction. Then something
stjrred in the depths of the chalice and a shadow, like a drift of
black, oily smoke, poured over the rim. A single red eye burned
steadily within the moiling, churning vapors as the specter
expanded and coalesced. Forral shrank away as its deadly light
fell upon him. A freezing wave of malevolence filled the room,
striking the swordsman to his knees as the creature drifted
slowly   in his direction. He screamed once, horribly, his face
contorted.

"Miathan—no!" The Archmage turned at the sound of Aurian's shriek,
to see her struggling to rise from the couch, her eyes fixed in
horror on the abomination that he had summoned. Then she turned to
him, and the agony on her face struck straight to his heart. "Take
it back!" she cried. "Please,



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Miathan, spare him! I'll do anything—I swear it! I beg you, take
it back!"

For a moment, the Archmage hesitated—and his creature paused,
hovering. He already owed Aurian a blood debt for the murder of
her father, and in his own, grasping way, he truly loved her.
Anything, she had said—and he had her oath on it. Having won her
gratitude for sparing Forral, surely he would win back her heart?

He turned, fully intending to call the creature back—until he saw
the swordsman trapped in his corner. All at once, the memory of
his humiliation at Forral's hands that morning returned in force.
This—this filthy upstart Mortal was Aurian's lover! He had laid
hands on her body, had filled her with his seed—and now she
carried his monstrous brat! Enough! The Archmage's mind was
utterly consumed by the searing flames of jealousy—and his one
chance to redeem himself from evil was utterly lost.

Aurian saw Miathan turn to the abomination—and saw his face
contort into a hideous mask of hatred. "Take him!" he shrieked.
Forral huddled flat against the wall, staring wild-eyed at the
Thing that stalked him. Although he was utterly fearless in the
face of any human foe, this \w^s more than even Forral could face.
Aurian gasped, her body breaking out into an icy sweat. Never had
she seen anything like this! It took all her courage not to break
and run, to flee in mindless panic from this manifestation of evil
that was_advancing on her love with deadly intent.

It was like a wisp of dark cloud—a smoky wraith that writhed and
undulated with a sickening pulsation, twisting and recombining in
a series of leering, malevolent demon faces that flickered and
shimmered in a way that tortured and wrenched both the eye and the
gut. It was impossible to look at it; impossible to look away.
Aurian felt her head beginning to throb. The Thing was surrounded
by a swirling vortex of cold evil that sucked at her, leeching the
warmth and strength from her body, and she suddenly knew she had
little time in which to act.

With the strength of desperation, she wrenched herself to her feet


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and leapt across^the room, hurling herself in front of the
swordsman and snapping her magical shield into place to protect
them both. The Thing kept advancing, slow and inexorable. Aurian
bit back a scream as it hit her shield—and passed straight through
as though nothing were there! Forcing down her panic, she backed
toward Forral, snatching the sword from his nerveless fingers.

The blade thrummed, flaring into fiery light as Aurian infused it
with the force of her Fire-magic. She went for the abomination
with a great, two-handed swipe, cleaving it straight through the
middle. Her blade met no resistance, as though it had passed
through smoke. The specter gave a deep, chilling chuckle—and the
two halves rejoined, flowing effortlessly back together. Shock
exploded through her, as her blade went dark and dead. Aurian
staggered back weakly, dropping the sword, her hands and arms numb
with a pervasive chill that was quickly spreading. The abomination
advanced, seeming to grow in size, blotting out the room with its
massive, shadowy form. Passing over her as she lay helpless, it
swooped upon the swordsman, engulfing him in its reeking darkness.
Forral gave one last, strangled cry—her name—as the dark mass
flowed over him. Then there was silence. Slowly, the abomination

lifted.

Forral lay, white and still, as Aurian had seen him so long ago,
in a dread vision. "Forral!" she shrieked, a cry wrenched with
anguish from the depths of her soul, as, heedless of her own
danger, she flung hesself upon him. But it was too late. Forral's
body beneath her was lifeless, an icy husk, his breathing stilled,
his great, generous, loving heart stopped forever,

Anvar reached the doorway in time to see Forral fall. He saw
Aurian, oblivious in her grief to her own danger, hurl herself
across his body, weeping as she tried to revive him, seeking
desperately with her Healer's senses for one last spark of life to
which she could cling. With a jarring whine, the dark, roiling
monstrosity swooped down toward her, its black maw gaping. "No!"
Miathan screamed. "Not her, you fool!" The Thing ignored him.
Strengthened by the life-force of its victim, it was now beyond
his control. With an inarticulate cry, Anvar leapt forward, only


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to be shouldered aside by the tall, lanky

AURIAN -221

form of Finbarr, bearing his staff. He lifted it, feeing the
monster, and cried out some words in a strong, ringing voice.

The abomination gave a startled flicker, suddenly finding itself
enclosed by a misty blue aura. Then it stopped, frozen, hanging
helplessly in midair scant inches away from Aurian's face, taken
completely out of time by Finbarr's preserving spell. Miathan
recoiled with a vile curse, and lifting his hands, uttered a spell
of his own. More dark shapes, more and more, began to pour over
the rim of the chalice. Finbarr countered them with his own spell,
freezing each Wraith as it emerged, his damp face contorted with
strain. "Nihilim!" he shouted. "The Death Wraiths of the Caldron!
Anvar—get Aurian out of here!" Meiriel, in her corner, was
shrieking.

Anvar needed no second telling. He dashed across to Aurian,
ducking around the frozen form of the hideous monstrosity that
loomed over her. She clutched frantically at Forral, as Anvar
tugged at her arm. "Aurian, come on," he yelled, "Please—there's
nothing you can do for him!" His own face was flooded with tears,

Aurian looked up at him, and her eyes suddenly cleared, as though
she recognized him for the first time. She dragged a sleeve across
her tearstained face and nodded, then turned back to Forral,
touching his face with a gentle hand, in farewell, "Safe journey,
love," she whispered, "until we meet again." Then, with a sob, she
tore herself away, leaning heavily on Anvar's arm as they
staggered toward the door.

Finbarr was still fighting the Arcjimage's endless succession of
Wraiths. He was staggering with weakness now, Vannor stood at the
door, paralyzed with horror, his face deathly white. Anvar thrust
Aurian into his arms.

"Help her," he yelled. "Hurry!" He ran ahead of them down the
stairs and ducked into Aurian's room, snatching up her bundle of


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discarded warrior's clothing and her sword. There was no time for
more. He caught up with Vannor and Aurian at the bottom of the
stairs and helped the distraught Mage mount one of the horses,
Vannor mounted the other, and Anvar passed his bundle to the
merchant before leaping up behind Aurian and snatching up the
reins.

"To my house!" Vannor shouted, and spurred toward the gates,
trampling the fallen bodies of the guards in his haste.
swordsman and snapping her magical shield into place to protect
them both. The Thing kept advancing, slow and inexorable. Aurian
bit back a scream as it hit her shield—and passed straight through
as though nothing were there! Forcing down her panic, she backed
toward Forral, snatching the sword from his nerveless fingers.

The blade thrummed, flaring into fiery light as Aurian infused it
with the force of her Fire-magic. She went for the abomination
with a great, two-handed swipe, cleaving it straight through the
middle. Her blade met no resistance, as though it had passed
through smoke. The specter gave a deep, chilling chuckle—and the
two halves rejoined, flowing effortlessly back together. Shock
exploded through her, as her blade went dark and dead. Aurian
staggered back weakly, dropping the sword, her hands and arms numb
with a pervasive chill that was quickly spreading. The abomination
advanced, seeming to grow in size, blotting out the room with its
massive, shadowy form. Passing over her as she lay helpless, it
swooped upon the swordsman, engulfing him in its reeking darkness.
Forral gave one last, strangled cry—her name—as the dark mass
flowed over him. Then there was silence. Slowly, the abomination

lifted.

Forral lay, white and still, as Aurian had seen him so long ago,
in a dread vision, "Forral!" she shrieked, a cry wrenched with
anguish from the depths of her soul, as, heedless of her own
danger, she flung herself upon him. But it was too late. Forral's
body beneath her was lifeless, an icy husk, his breathing stilled,
his great, generous, loving heart stopped forever.

Anvar reached the doorway in time to see Forral fall. He saw


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Aurian, oblivious in her grief to her own danger, hurl herself
across his body, weeping as she tried to revive him, seeking
desperately with her Healer's senses for one last spark of life to
which she could cling. With a jarring whine, the dark, roiling
monstrosity swooped down toward her, its black maw gaping. "No!"
Miathan screamed. "Not her, you fool!" The Thing ignored him.
Strengthened by the life-force of its victim, it was now beyond
his control. With an inarticulate cry, Anvar leapt forward, only
to be shouldered aside by the tall, lanky

form of Finbarr, bearing his staff. He lifted it, facing the
monster, and cried out some words in a strong, ringing voice.

The abomination gave a startled flicker, suddenly finding itself
enclosed by a misty blue aura. Then it stopped, frozen, hanging
helplessly in midair scant inches away from Aurian'$ face, taken
completely out of time by Finbarr's preserving spell. Miathan
recoiled with a vile curse, and lifting his hands, uttered a spell
of his own. More dark shapes, more and more, began to pour over
the rim of the chalice. Finbarr countered them with his own spell,
freezing each Wraith as it emerged, his damp face contorted with
strain, "Nihilim!" he shouted. "The Death Wraiths of the Caldron!
Anvar—get Aurian out of here!" Meiriel, in her corner, was
shrieking,

Anvar needed no second telling. He dashed across to Aurian,
ducking around the frozen form of the hideous monstrosity that
loomed over her. She clutched frantically at Forral, as Anvar
tugged at her arm. "Aurian, come on," he yelled. "Please—there's
nothing you can do for him!" His own fact-was flooded with tears.

Aurian looked up at him, and her eyes suddenly cleared, as though
she recognized him for the first time. She dragged t sleeve across
her tearstained face and nodded, then turned back to Forral,
touching his race with a gentle hand, in farewell. "Safe journey,
love," she whispered, "until we meet again." Then, with a sob, she
tore herself away, leaning heavily on Anvar's arm as they
staggered toward the door.

Finbarr was still fighting the -Arcjimage's endless succession of


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Wraiths, He was staggering with weakness now. Vannor stood at the
door, paralyzed with horror, his face deathly white, Anvar thrust
Aurian into his arms.

"Help her," he yelled. "Hurry!" He ran ahead of them down the
stairs and ducked into Aurian's room, snatching up her bundle of
discarded warrior's clothing and her sword. There was no time for
more. He caught up with Vannor and Aurian at the bottom of the
stairs and helped the distraught Mage mount one of the horses.
Vannor mounted the other, and Anvar passed his bundle to the
merchant before leaping up behind Aurian and snatching up the
reins.

"To my house!" Vannor shouted, and spurred toward the gates,
trampling the fallen bodies of the guards in his haste.

As they passed the gates, they heard a terrible shriek from the
tower—Meiriel's voice. Aurian stiffened in Anvar's arms and
gasped, flinching as though she had been struck. "Finbarr. He's
dead," she said in a small, bleak voice, as though this last grief
were the utter end and nothing could ever touch her again. As
Anvar looked back at the tower, he saw the sinister black shapes
of the Wraiths already beginning to pour out of the upper windows,
heading for the city.

They thundered across the causeway, away from the horror behind
them, and turning right, took the lamplit road that climbed away
amidst the trees, never once pausing in their wild flight until
they reached the sturdy carved doors of Vannor's mansion. Pushing
past the bewildered servant who opened the door, the merchant led
them across the tiled hallway and into his study. Dropping
Aurian's bundle on the floor, he gestured for Anvar to help the
Mage to the couch, and poured strong spirits for each before
dropping shakily into his own chair. "Gods," he said. "What are we
going to do?" Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped
his brow. "It's obvious," he went on, with the calm of deep shock,
"that Miathan is insane. He's broken the Mages' Code and unleashed
a horror such as this city has never seen. He always wanted
power—he'll take it now, make no mistake. And he'll be after
us—and Aurian in particular. You'll have to get her away from


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here, lad. The only question is, where? Could you go north, Lady,
to your

mother?"              <__

Aurian sat stiffly beside Anvar on the couch, staring at nothing,
her eyes wide and blank, her face gray. Her knuckles • were
clenched white about her untouched cup.

"Lady?" Anvar prompted gently. Putting an arm around her
shoulders, he guided her hands that held the cup to her lips,
encouraging her to drink.

As she swallowed the fiery liquor a tremor passed through her, and
the terrible tension of her body eased a little. "Forral," she
whispered longingly. Her eyes began to focus, and Anvar could
hardly bear to meet that lost, pain-filled gaze. Then she looked
away, and with a shaking hand held her cup out to Vannor to be
refilled, and downed the liquor in one swift gulp.

"Anvar, what happened?" she asked. "What did the Archmage do to
me? Why were you and—and Forral there?"


Briefly, his voice trembling with emotion, Anvar told her, and saw
her eyes grow wide with shock. "Child?" she gasped. "What child?
I'm not—I can't be!" For a moment her expression clouded, and
Anvar guessed that she was probing within, with her Healer's extra
sense. "Dear Gods," she murmured. "Solstice! It must have been at
Solstice. We were drunk that night ... So happy . . . But I
couldn't have been so careless—it's impossible ..." Suddenly her
eyes flared with a terrible anger. "Meiriel!" she snarled.
"Meiriel betrayed me! It's the only possibility! By all the Gods,
she'll pay for this, before I'm done!"

Leaping to her feet, she whirled toward Vannor, suddenly grimly
decisive. "You go north, Vannor, if you will," she said. "My
mother must be warned that the Archmage has turned traitor and
renegade. We'll need her powers before this is done. Gather
together any who'll support us as you go. I'm going south, to the


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hill forts, to raise an army. I swear to you that I'll never rest
until Miathan has paid in full for his deeds tonight!"

"What!" Vannor sprang upright in turn, white an4 shaken. "Aurian,
don't be so rash! Will you break the Mages' Code for revenge?
Don't you remember the bitter lessons of the Cataclysm? You can't
unleash that horror again!"

The Mage met his gaze without flinching. "I have no choice," she
said. "Miathan has already broken the Code. Finbarr said
those—things—were Nihilim, the Death Wraiths, and that can only
mean that he possesses the Caldron of ancient legend, and has
turned its power to^evil. If we don't stop him, he'll eventually
hold the very world in his hand."

Vannor sat down abruptly. "How could you hope to defeat him, when
he holds such a powerful weapon?"

"I don't know," Aurian admitted. "But I have to try, or die in the
attempt."

There was no swaying her, and time was too short, danger too near,
for argument. Anvar, afraid to his very soul, knew that he would
have to accompany her. Who knew what the Mage might do, in her
grief? And she hardly seemed to be considering her unborn child.
Someone had to take care of her, and it was the very least he
could do, in atonement.

Having had some little time to reflect on what had passed, Anvar
was consume$L.w,ith guilt over his part in Forral's death.
Had he paused to consider toe consequences before rusing to seek
the swordsman, Forral would still be alive and so would Finbarr.
And Miathan would not have unleashed the terror of the Wraiths.
True, the babe wou\d have perished, but hard though the choice
was, Anvar knew that Aurian would always have chosen her love.
Just now, she had submerged her grief in the need to act, but
eventually it would occur to her, as it had to him, who was truly
responsible. He shuddered at what she might do to him then. But it
would only be what he deserved. Anvar closed his eyes in grief.
Was he doomed always to be the bane of those dearest to him? First


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his mother, then Sara—and now Forral and Aurian. He truly wished
that he had died instead of the swordsman—and he was certain that
Aurian would feel the same way.

Aurian and Vannor made their plans swiftly. Vannor would take his
personal guards and try to locate Parric in the city, and gather
support there to resist the Archmage. Anvar shuddered, marveling
at the merchant's courage. He was shamefully glad that he would
not have to venture into those Wraith-infested streets. He and
Aurian were to take Vannor's little boat, a light pleasure craft,
and escape downriver to the port. The Mage had decided that the
quickest way to reach the southern forts would be by sea, and
Vannor provided her with gold to pay for their passage on a ship.
Then the merchant made a request of Aurian that snapped Anvar out
of his introspection with a jolt. "When you go, will you take Sara
with you? She'd be safer in one of the southern forts than with
m?."

Aurian frowned. "Vannor, I can't," she said bluntly. "Though
Forral"—her voice trembled at the mention eft "his name_"though he
taught me a lot about adventuring, this will be the first such
journey that I've made, and having Sara with me would endanger
both us and herself. Truly, she'd be safer with you."

"Aurian, please," Vannor begged. "I know she's not made for
hardship, but she'll be in worse danger if she stays here."

.Aurian sighed. "Very well, Vannor. I owe you that much, and more
besides—but bear in mind that we won't be able to cosset her."

Vannor's face brightened. "Thank you, Lady," he said. "I'll have
her brought here at once."

rounded on Vannor like a fury, accusing him of all kinds of
stupidity for becoming involved in the first place, for incurring
the Archmage's wrath and ruining their lives. The merchant looked
thoroughly ashamed of her behavior, and Aurian's lip curled in
disgust. Anvar stayed silent in the background, his heart pounding
as he drank in her beauty once more. Though she was ignoring his
presence, he had seen her face turn white at the sight of him, and


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was tortured anew by the memory of her repudiation the last time
they had met. Yet had it stemmed from hatred of him—or fear of
Vannor discovering the shameful secret of her past?

It was plain from the scene before him that all the love in the
marriage was on Vannor's side. When Sara addressed her husband,
Anvar saw nothing but coldness and scorn. Her mother had said that
Sara's father had sold her in marriage to Vannor. Had she been
forced against her will? Was she a prisoner in these rich
surroundings? It would explain her behavior toward the merchant,
whom Anvar knew to be a kind and decent man at heart. And if she
hated Vannor, how would the girl react when she discovered that
she would be traveling with her former lover, who had fathered a
child on her and left her to face the consequences?

Vannor's explanation never got as far as including Anvar. When the
merchant managed to get a word in edgewise to tell Sara their
plans, she refused point-blank to go. "Why should I?" she snapped,
stamping her foot*, "I'm not wandering the world like a vagabond,
with her" She glared at Aurian, "None of this U my fault—the
Archmage can't blame me. I didn't choose to marry a fool—or an
outlaw!"

Anvar saw the hurt on Vannor's face, saw Aurian curse and step
forward, her hand upraised. He leapt forward, certain that the
Mage was about to strike her, but Aurian simply laid her hand on
Sara's head and said: ''Sleep!" Sara crumpled to the ground.
"Don't worry," Aurian said, catching Vannor's worried glance as he
knelt by his wife. "It'll keep her out of mischief for a while.
Send for someone to carry her down to the boat, Vannor. We've
delayed too long already."

"Is she all right?" the merchant asked.

"Of course she-w. Far more than she deserves to be,"


Aurian replied irritably. "She's only asleep. But I warn you,
Vannor—the next time she starts carrying on like that, I really
will slap her—with the greatest pleasure!"


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The wind was rising, driving ragged tatters of cloud across the
face of a sickly half-moon whose fitful, flickering light afforded
glimpses of dark, bare branches tossing against the sky. Patches
of unmelted snow still lingered on the wooded river-banks by
Vannor's little boathouse and the river ran swiftly, sending
choppy waves lapping hungrily against the edge of the low wooden
jetty. One of Vannor's guards held a shielded lantern aloft, and
another pulled the small boat out of its shelter and held it
steady while the merchant gently laid the sleeping, warmly wrapped
form of his wife inside, pillowing her head on the pathetic
bundles that contained their belongings.

Anvar shivered. He was wearing a cloak borrowed from Vannor, but
between the chill of the night and the shock that had finally
caught up with him, he was seized with an uncontrollable
trembling. Aurian stood beside him, huddled miserably in Forral's
old cloak, her face pale and set like stone. Only her indomitable
will, he knew, was keeping her from collapse, and he feared for
her.

Vannor looked long at Sara and kissed her in farewell, then turned
to Aurian, catching her up in a rough hug. "The Gods go with you,
Lady," he said in a choked voice, tears running freely down his
cheeks. ^

"And with you, dear Vannor." Aurian's voice caught on a sob. She
swallowed hard. "Take care of yourself," she said softly and,
wiping her eyes, she drew her hood over her head and climbed down
into the boat, careful of the sword that she now bore at her side.
She thrust her staff, which she had reclaimed from Anvar, into her
belt, and took hold of the pole, ready to push off. Vannor came to
Anvar and seized his hand in a warm grasp. "Take care of them,
lad," he said. "Take care of them

both."

Anvar nodded, speechless. He climbed aboard the frail little craft
and took up the oars. Aurian pushed with the pole and the boat
swung out into the current of the dark river. As they gathered


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speed, Vannor's form quickly dwindled, and passed

Cxkapter                15

FLIGHT          AND       PURSUIT

eeping close into the shadows of the bank, Aurian poled the boat
swiftly downstream as Anvar labored at the oars. Running with the
current, they fled the horror behind them, skimming first past
trees, then the finely tended gardens of merchants' mansions, then
past more trees. Aurian gripped the pole tightly and put her back
into the work, steeling herself against the heavy, burning pain of
her grief, blind to the dark, choppy waters that swirled around
them. Forral's face was all that she could see. Forral—left
behind, but gone much further than that—gone forever. She'd never
see his beloved face again, alight with life and love. Never feel
his arms around her, never . . .

"Stop that, you fool," she muttered to herself through clenched
teeth. "Not now. Not yet."

Anvar looked up, concern on his face. "Lady, are you all right?"

"Shut up," Aurian said tightly, "Shut up and row."

It was some twelve miles to the port of Norbetth at the river's
mouth, and they concentrated on covering the distance as quickly
as possible. They passed mills and villages, meadows and woods,
aided by the swift current that was swollen by winter's melting
snow. Aurian's muscles ached, her hands were blistered, and sweat
stung her eyes. Once, Sara moaned and began to stir as Aurian's
spell weakened. The Mage cursed. That should never have happened!
What was wrong with her magic? Laying her pole down in the bottom
of the boat, she squatted beside the girl. "Sleep," she commanded
in a ringing voice, laying her hand on Sara's forehead. Sara
relaxed once more, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and even,
and Aurian sighed with relief. When she took her hand away, the
girl's forehead was dark with blood. Anvar gasped,

"Don't worry, it's only mine," Aurian said, looking ruefully at


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her raw and bleeding palms. She picked up the pole again, and went
grimly back to work.

Time passed. Aurian could feel nothing now, through the haze of
pain and exhatfsrion that enveloped her. Surely they
must be near ing their destination? This black, bitter night
seemed to have gone on forever. Suddenly, her long pole found no
bottom, and she flailed wildly, overbalanced by the force of her
thrust. As she fell, one hand hit hard wood and she clutched at it
with all her strength, losing her pole as she struck the icy
water. It was deep here—too deep—and the force of the current
plucked and buffeted at her numbing body as she clung, one-handed,
to the stern of the boat. Already she could feel her grasp
beginning to weaken, her fingers starting to slip on the

wet wood ...

In that moment, a curious peace came over Aurian—a strange,
relaxed clarity of thought. All she had to do was let go, and she
would be safe, out of reach of Miathan, who had betrayed her so
bitterly, away from all this grief and strife. And Forral, dearest
Forral, would be waiting . , .

"Hold on, Lady, I'm coming!" Anvar's voice was like a                                                    slap in the
face. Strong fingers grasped her wrist, then her arm.                                                    Strong hands
were hauling her back aboard the rocking boat. Aurian                                                    tried to
protest, but she was too weak to fight. She slithered                                                    down in a
shivering, sodden heap on the bottom

boards.

"Lady, the weir!" Anvar's voice was shrill with panic above the
river's roar. Aurian wiped water from her eyes. White foam
streaked past on the dark water as the frail craft began to rock
wildly, picking up speed, Anvar was struggling with the oars,
blinded by flying spray, and even as she looked the left one
slipped from his grasp, "whirled greedily away by the rushing
waters. Immediately the boat swung round, spinning violently and
listing dangerously to one side, out of control. Aurian smiled.
Forral, she thought, yearning. Only a moment more . . . Then, out


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of nowhere, she seemed to hear the swordsman's voice. "You'll want
to follow me. Don't." She looked at Anvar. He had just saved her
life. No matter how deep her own despair, what right had she to
take him with her?

Cursing bitterly, Aurian grabbed her staff. "Get out of the way,"
she yelled. She barged past Anvar into the bows, over the top of
Sara, struggling to keep a grip on both her staff and the lurching
boat. A glimmer of white stretched across the river ahead of her,
desperately close. The roar grew to a booming thunder. Aurian
placed her staff crosswise in her lap, across the

bows of the boat, gripping it tightly in both hands, her knuckles
clenched white around the polished wood as she concentrated with
all her might. The calm sound of her chanting cut across the
thunder of the weir. The staff began to glow, shimmering with a
blue-white light that spread, like tiny fingers of lightning, to
encompass the entire boat as it reached the edge of the weir and
began to tip . . .

Aurian heard Anvar's gasp of fear—and then, as she made one last,
wrenching effort, the boat straightened itself, floating serenely
above the churning maelstrom, supported upon a surface of pure
light. Gently they were borne forward, over the danger, then just
as gently the little craft came to rest in a stretch of quiet
water in the shallows beyond the force of the weir.

Aurian blinked, and collapsed panting across her staff, letting
the darkness swallow her as the light of her magic was
extinguished. She had bitten her lip, and her mouth was filled
with the metallic taste of her own blood. Dimly, she felt Anvar
pull her into his arms. Gently he pulled her soaked, tangled hair
back from her face, and wiped the trickle of blood from her chin.
"Aurian? Lady?" His voice was anxious. With an effort she opened
her eyes.

"Are you all right?" Anvar said.

"Tired." That one word cost her an enormous effort. "Get us there,
Anvar." Her voice seemed to be coming from far away. Had he heard


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her? But Anvar nodded. He settled her as best he could in the
cramped space of the 6ow^} pillowing her head on his wet cloak,
and turned to pick up the single remaining oar. Gratefully, Aurian
closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, buildings lined the river-banks. They
passed dwellings, warehouses, and mills and then, founding a
curve, they swept beneath the great bridge that marked the
boundary of the port of Norberth, A mighty arch of white stone, it
sprang across the river that by now had grown broad and sluggish.
Rippled reflections from the lights of the town covered the
underside of the arch with an ever-changing network of dappled
silver, and the river chuckled hollowly beneath the echoing
stonework. Once past the bridge, they passed quickly through the
town itself and swept out into the pool of the port. The masts a«f
figging of sailing vessels webbed the
sky, and Aurian wondered which of these ships would be the one to
take her south. Anvar paddled a zigzag course toward a rotting and
abandoned wharf on the south side of the harbor, grabbing at the
slimy pilings to pull the boat underneath the little pier, where
its shadows would hide them.

Aurian dragged herself wearily upright and rummaged in one of the
bundles that lay in the bottom of the boat, finding a little
silver flask and a hastily wrapped package of meat, bread, and
cheese that was beginning to disintegrate from the soaking it had
taken at the weir. She took a deep swig of Vannor's fierce liquor,
feeling its heat course through her stiff, chilled body. She
handed the flask to Anvar, who took it gratefully. In her Mage's
night vision he looked gray and haggard, his eyes dark-circled
with weariness, his blond hair dark and straggling from the
river's spray. Aurian divided the sodden food between them and
they ate in silence, both of them too tired to speak. The Mage
felt better for eating, feeling the food restoring, temporarily
she knew, a measure of the energy she had lost in using her power
to save them from the weir.

The weir. Ah, she'd come so close then—so close to escaping all
this. Suddenly Aurian was overwhelmed by her grief, by all her
burdens, by the peril and the near impossibility of the task she


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had set herself. She turned to Anvar, consumed with rage at his
interference—and hit him, as hard as she could, across the face.
"That's for saving my life!" she snapped. She saw surprise and
hurt orchis face, then his mouth tightened grimly as his hand
lashed out to hit her back. "And that's for saving mine!" he
retorted. The sound of the slap echoed sharply across the water,
and Aurian rocked backward, one hand pressed to her stinging
cheek, her eyes wide with shock.

Anvar looked away, shamefaced. "Lady, I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Slowly, Aurian shook her head. How could she fault his response,
which mirrored her own despair so exactly? For the first time she
realized that she was not alone—that he shared her predicament,
and her suffering. She held out her hand to him—a gesture between
equals—between friends. "I'm sorry too, Anvar," she said softly.
"I had no right—it's just that I don't know how I'll ever find the
strength to go on with this."


Her voice faltered, as the rigid control she had maintained all
through the night began to crumble.

Anvar took her proffered hand. "Then we'll do it together," he
said, and gathered her into his arms as she began to sob, giving
in at last to all her grief as she accepted the burden of
continuing to live.

After a time Aurian pulled away from Anvar, wiping her face on her
sleeve.

"That's a terrible habit," he said, with a crooked grin, and she
managed a shaky smile in return.

"Someone forgot to pack the handkerchiefs," she said.

"Disgraceful," Anvar said. "I'd beat your servant, if I were you."

"Oh, he has his good points. At least he remembered to bring my
proper clothes." Aurian rummaged in the bottom of the boat,


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hauling her bundle out from beneath Sara's head. "I'd better get
moving and find us a ship. It'll be getting light all too soon,
and I want us safely out of sight before too many people are up
and moving about. Thank goodness the nights are so long just now."

As she spoke, she pulled her fighting clothes out of the pack, and
began to strip off the soaked, tattered remnants of her green
gown. Anvar averted his eyes politely, but Aurian was forced to
enlist his aid in donning her warrior's gear, since the leather
was damp from their encounter with the weir and her fingers were
stiff with cold.

"Right," she said briskly, when she was ready, "I'll try to be as
quick as I can."

"Lady, surely you don't mean to go alone?"

"Can't be helped." Aurian looked down at Sara's unconscious form
with a frown. "You'll have to stay here and keep an eye on her."
She grimaced. "Gods, but she's going to be a nuisance."

"Lady, I ..." Anvar found himself flushing guiltily. How could he
even begin to explain to her about Sara—about the love that they
had once shared?

Aurian looked at him quizzically. "You do know her, don't you?"
she said. "Thsrday, when they brought you to the Garri-
son—when we first met—she was lying, wasn't she, when she said
she'd never seen you before?"

Miserably, Anvar nodded, wondering how she would react when he
told her that he and Vannor's wife had once been

lovers.

Luckily, Aurian spared him. "More complications, eh?" she said
ruefully. "Well, you can tell me about it later, Anvar. I really
must get going." Fastening her damp cloak around her shoulders,
she climbed carefully up the tangle of half-collapsed timbers that
supported the old pier and vanished among the shadows of the


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wharf.

Anvar settled back into the bottom of the boat and lapsed into his
own worried thoughts. Aurian's sudden briskness had not fooled him
in the least. He knew how deeply she was grieving for Forral, and
was concerned about the effect that it would have on her judgment.
This whole plan of hers, to raise an army to defeat the Archmage,
was pure insanity. But he had no better p/nn co offer—only eo
flee, as &r and as fast as possible. We)], they -were doing that
now, and perhaps in time she would come to her senses.

Anvar wondered where Vannor was now. Had the merchant managed to
escape? Suddenly, it occurred to him that if Vannor was killed,
then Sara would be free . . . Guiltily, he stifled the thought.
Vannor was a good man, he knew that now. He wondered how the
merchant would react to the knowledge that he had given his
beloved wife into the hands of her one-time lover. Sara, he was
surer^didn't care two pins for her doting husband, and Anvar
wondered what she would do now that she was free from him. He
looked down at her as she slept, her golden hair tumbled around
her shoulders. She looked so fragile —so beautiful. With a pang,
Anvar remembered the old days, when they were young and in love,
happy with each other and confident in their future. Was there no
hope that they could be that way again? Had he not a right to some
happiness?

The light of a damp, gray day was growing by the time Aurian made
her way back along the wharf, keeping close to the cover of the
derelict warehouses. It had taken forever to find a vessel whose
captain would convey them, and his price had been extortionate—far
more than the gold that Vannor had

given her. She'd given him all she had, and done some fast talking
to convince him that the remainder would be waiting at the
journey's end. As she returned to Anvar, the Mage worried about
the company they would be keeping on board the rat-infested, leaky
old ship. She had never in her life seen such a villainous-looking
crew, but she knew she had no choice but to risk it. If Miathan
was not already searching for them, he soon would be.



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By the time she reached the boat, Aurian felt faint with
weariness, her mind fuzzy and slow. Anvar scrambled up, offering
his hand to help her descend the slick, rotting timbers, and she
was grateful for his steadying grasp. "Come on," she said, when
they had reached the safety of the boat. "I've bought us passage
to Easthaven. We can travel overland from there."

"What about Sara?"

"We don't have time to argue the issue. I'll take care of it."
Aurian snapped her fingers near the sleeping girl's face. "Come,"
she commanded. Sara's eyes flicked open, her expression utterly
blank. She rose stiffly to her feet, and Anvar grabbed quickly at
a piling to steady the rocking boat.

"We can't take her aboard like that!" he protested.

"We have to. Pull her hood down over her face and take her arm.
You'll have to guide her." Aurian's expression brooked no
argument.

They had a dreadful struggle to get the girl up onto the pier, but
after that Sara walked along quite naturally, steered by Anvar's
guiding hand while Aurian carried the packs. The one or two early
passersby that they met paid them little heed, and Aurian began to
breathe more easily.

But when Anvar saw the ship that was to take them, he stopped
dead, his face a picture of dismay. "Oh, Lady, no," he said. "You
can't possibly be serious."

"Anvar, what do you want from me?" Aurian snapped, close to tears.
"Look at the state of us! We hardly look respectable, do we? Did
you think any decent captain was going to take us? I did my
best—and it's better than waiting here for Miathan to find us!" To
that, she knew, Anvar could have no answer.

Shaking his head, he led Sara up the narrow, slippery gangplank
that led to the dcqk of the dilapidated little sailing ship.



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Captain Jurdag had side-whiskers and greasy ginger hair tied in a
pigtail. Gold rings glinted in his ears, and his narrow face and
feral expression reminded Aurian of a weasel. He bowed to her with
leering mock courtesy, and the rest of the lounging crew—a shabby,
scarred, pockmarked bunch—snickered.

Aurian gave them a level, steely glare, and there was a sudden,
tense silence. "Show us to our cabin, Captain, and prepare to make
sail," she said coolly.

"Very well, Lady." The captain turned the word into an epithet,
and Aurian, seeing Anvar's face flush with anger, gripped his arm
tightly and shook her head.

They were shown into a tiny, filthy cabin in the stern of the ship
that the captain had obviously vacated for their use. Aurian
picked up a pile of stinking unwashed clothes from the floor and
handed them to him. "Yours, I imagine," she said. "That will be
all for now."

He left, scowling, and Aurian barred the door behind him with a
sigh of relief. "Dear Gods!" she said. "I'm sorry about this,
Anvar."

Anvar was struggling with the catch of a tiny salt-encrusted pane
set in the stern wall. It was the only means of ventilation in the
room. "How long does it take to get to Easthaven?" he asked
faintly.

"With good winds, about four days," Aurian said gloomily. "If we
don't get our throats cut in the meantime."

The Mage led Sara tq^he only bunk, and laid her down. "Rut," she
said softly, and Sara's eyes closed again. "There," Aurian said
wearily. "She'll sleep naturally now, and wake when she's ready.
Pray Gods it won't be too soon." Drawing Coronach, she sat down on
the floor, resting her back against the bunk, and fell asleep
instantly, her sword in her hand.

Aurian was rudely awakened by the sound of Sara's wails. "I won't


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stay here, I won't! It's filthy and it stinks and it's infested
with bugs! I want to go home! This is your fault, Anvar. If you
hadn't—"

The Mage leapt to her feet, confronting the raging girl who was
sitting on the bunk, her skirts drawn tightly around her ankles.
"Shut up!" she ordered sharply. Sara stopped short in the midst of
her tirade, glaring up at her. Aurian registered

the rocking motion of the ship beneath her feet, and ignoring
Sara, leaned past her to look out of the tiny stern port. "There's
the land, back there," she said calmly, pointing out of the
window. "I suggest you start swimming now, before it gets any
farther away. I don't think you'll fit through the window, but I'm
sure we can arrange to have you thrown over the side."

Sara's face twisted with rage. "I hate you!" she snapped.

"Hate away," said Aurian evenly. "It doesn't bother me. But just
bear in mind that you don't have a home anymore. This stinking,
louse-ridden hole is all you have, and this is where you'll stay
until we reach Easthaven."

Sara's mouth fell open. "You mean I'm a prisoner?" she shrieked.
"You can't do this! How dare you! When Vannor hears of this—"

"Vannor sent you with me for your own protection. Your safety is
my responsibility, and I'm telling you that you won't leave this
cabin for any reason. If anyone comes to the door, get into the
bunk and cover yourself with the blanket—especially your face.
Whatever happens you must not show yourself to any of the ship's
crew. I've told the captain you're sick with the pox —that should
keep them—"

"What?" Sara yelled, completely outraged.

"Lady .         . ." Anvar protested. "It isn't fair to—"

"Have you two ever seen a young woman raped by a gang of pirates?"
Aurian*s matter-of-fact tone brought the others up short. There


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was sudden fear in Sara's eyes. "I haven't," Aurian went on, "and
I don't want to see it rrow. This ship is crewed by the most
villainous, vicious-looking gang of cutthroats I've ever set eyes
on, and if they get one look at you, I won't be able to stop them,
and neither will Anvar. I know that this is hard on you, Sara.
Anvar is right, it isn't fair, and I'm sorry. But do it my way,
please—for all our sakes."

Sara stared at her for a moment, then fell facedown on the bunk
and burst into tears. Anvar rushed to comfort her. Aurian glanced
at him in surprise, then turned with a shrug and left the cabin.

Aurian sat, one leg tucked beneath her on the narrow bench that
curved around the bows of the ship. So far, the crew seemed to be
giving her a wide berth, although she felt their
eyes on her as she watched the hazy sun making its slow descent
toward the dim horizon to her right. She was thinking back to the
previous night, trying her best to sort the hard facts from the
haze of anger, grief, and fear that overlaid her memory of all
that had happened. The child—that was one matter. Wonder-ingly,
Aurian turned her thoughts inward, to touch that dim spark of
life—so tiny, yet, that she hadn't known it even existed. Try as
she might, she was unable to stifle the resentment that flared
within her. If it had not been for this child, Forral would still
be alive . . . Yet now, it was all that was left of him. It should
be precious to her. And it had hardly asked to be brought into
being. That was her fault, her own carelessness in letting Meiriel
betray her. All the poor thing had was enemies —the Archmage would
take its life as he had taken its father's . . .

How could she ever hope to defeat Miathan? Aurian shuddered. It
had been all very well, in the heat of the moment, to swear that
oath, and she meant to bring it home to him in any way she
could—but how? The Archmage was mad, and renegade, and he
possessed a weapon far beyond her capabilities. How powerful was
the Caldron? What was the point of raising an army against such
power? Thousands of people would be killed to no purpose. But what
had happened to the other lost artifacts of the High Magic? Ah. If
she could only trace even one of them . . . But where could she
even start to look? They had been lost for centuries, .Aurian*s


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thoughts circled in hopeless frustration. This is too much for me,
she thought. If only Forral were here , , ,

As she thought of her love, his image suddenly came into her
mind—not dead, as she had last seen him, but alive, and sitting,
of all the incongruous places, in the taproom of the Invisible
Unicorn. He was leaning across the beer-stained table toward her,
explaining something, and Aurian realized that she was remembering
a conversation that they had had some time ago. "If a problem
seems too big," he was saying, "you'll never get anywhere by
battering yourself against it. Break it up into steps, and deal
with the first thing first. Then, more often than not, you'll find
that the other steps will fall into place,"

It was good advice, and timely, Aurian smiled, remember-

AURIAN          •       237

ing. "Thank you, love," she whispered, and the image seemed to
smile in return as it faded from her mind. Aurian blinked at the
ocean before her, and shook her head. Had it been a memory? A
vision? Imagination? She had no idea, but it had left her feeling
more at peace, and obscurely comforted. And her path was suddenly
clear before her. Do the first thing first. Well, the first thing
was to get this journey safely over—to escape from the pirates and
the Archmage and get to the hill forts, where she could find some
help and some measure of safety. And after that? Well, she would
see.

Aurian whirled at the sound of soft footsteps behind her. Her
sword was halfway out of its scabbard before she realized that it
was Anvar, who stepped back, startled. She shrugged
apologetically, and moved to make room for him on the bench, "How
is Sara?" she asked him.

Anvar made a wry face. "Still upset," he said. "Cursing Vannor,
and you, and me, and just about everybody she can think of."

Aurian sighed. "As long as she curses inside the cabin, I'm not
going to waste time worrying about it. We'll never get the


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wretched girl to realize that she's not the only person in the
world with troubles."

Anvar looked concerned « the reminder. "How are you, Lady? I
didn't like to leave you alone for so long, only she—"

"I'll survive. I suppose I'll have to, really." Aurian tempered
her grim words with a smile for him. "And I didn't mind being
alone, Anvar, The crew aren't bothering me—they seem to have some
respect for this"—she patted the hilt of her sword —"and I needed
to do some thinking,"

"Lady, what are we going to do?"

"I don't know," Aurian could see no point in lying to him. "I
wouldn't worry about it too much at the moment, Anvar. We have to
get off this ship alive first. Let's just concentrate on that for
now. I wonder what passes for food around here?"

What passed for food turned out to be a greasy, nauseating gray
slop that went by the name of "stew," Sara, in particular, was far
from impressed, and said so in no uncertain terms. "I can't eat
this!" she protested. "It's disgusting! I'll be sick!"

"If you're going Jp^be sick, be sure and do it out the
window," Aurian said brutally, forcing another spoonful of the
vile stuff down and trying not to think of dead rats. Sara retired
to her bunk in offended silence, and soon the sound of sobbing
could be heard coming from beneath the blanket.

"Lady," Anvar whispered awkwardly, "couldn't you be— well, more
gentle with her? It's hard for her—she's not used to

this."

Aurian swore. "Anvar, may I remind you that we aren't on a picnic
here? We're fleeing for our lives, and we have no time to cosset
Sara. It's the same for all of us, you know! She'll just have to
get used to it—and bloody quick!" Hurling her empty plate across
the floor, she stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind


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her.

Anvar winced, wondering whether to follow her or not. After a
moment's hesitation he went to comfort Sara, "Sara, don't cry. She
doesn't mean it. She's suffering, what with For-

ral—"

"Shut up about her!" Sara sat up abruptly, hurling the blanket
aside, her eyes wild in her flushed face. "In fact, don't talk to
me at all! You kidnapped me, you and her—and just when I thought I
was safe from you, and that I'd never have to set eyes on you
again—"

"Let's not start that again," Anvar said wearily. "Vannor begged
us to take you. I don't think you understand the danger we were
in. We had no other choice,"

"Vannor!" Sara spatT^That beast! That imbecile! I despise him!"

"Sara, Vannor loves you."

"What would you know about it? You told me that you loved me,
once. And how did you prove your love? You got me pregnant then
abandoned me to be sold to that uncouth brute! So don't sit there
and talk to me about love, Anvar!"

"That wasn't my fault!" Anvar thrust his left hand, which bore the
hateful mark of the bondservant, in front of her face, "Do you
think I—"

"Anvar!" The cabin door banged open, Aurian stood there, her hair
wild and tangled from the wind, her face white and strained.
"Anvar—the Arehmage! He's searching for us! I think he knows where
we've gone!"


"What?" Anvar leapt to his feet. "How?"

The Mage closed the cabin door, and leaned back against it. "He's


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scrying—probably with a crystal—that's the most powerful way. I
had no idea that he could even do it. It was always Finbarr's
special talent . . ." Her mouth twisted with pain at the memory of
her dead friend, slain by the Archmage. "He must have picked up
our trail on the river, from the residue of the magic that I had
to use to get us over the weir, and guessed the way we would take.
He's searching the ocean now —I was up on deck and I felt his mind
sweeping across."

"Gods! Did he find us?"

Aurian shook her head, "I managed to shield us in time. His power
felt tentative, not too strong. I think this is new to him. But it
won't take him long to learn, not with the power of the Caldron to
draw on. And he won't give up until he finds us."

"What will he do?" Anvar felt sick with dread. "Will he send
those—things after us?" Seeing the stricken expression on Aurian's
face, he cursed himself for reminding her of the monster that had
killed Forral.

But when Aurian spoke, her voice was steady. "No. I doubt it. He
seemed to have very little control over the Nihilim, once he had
unleashed them." She shuddered, "When I think of those
abominations loose in Nexis . . . But I don't think they'll bother
us. The Gods only know what he will send after us, Anvar. He could
strike.at us in any number of ways. The only thing we can do is to
stay hidden, I'll have to shield US all—the whole ship—constantly
from now on."

"But Lady, you can't!" Anvar was appalled, remembering how the
effort of her magic had exhausted her on the river, "We have at
least three more days to go, and you're worn out already!"

"I know. But it can't be helped. We have to try, for our very
lives, and I'll need your help,"

"Me?"

Aurian nodded. "I'll have to stay awake. If I sleep, my shields


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will crumble, and leave us open to discovery. You've got to keep
me awake, Anvar, and I'm afraid that means staying awake yourself.
Ta!kjta»rne, sing to me—if all else fails, hit me

24o •

—but don't let me fall asleep, whatever you do, or we're lost.
Promise me, Anvar."

"I promise, Lady," Anvar assured her. But I don't know how, he
thought, dreading the long, grueling vigil that lay before them.

chapter                 16

A   RENDEZVOUS              WITH WOLVES

he day was darkening into evening as Eliseth swept into the
Archmage's tower room without knocking. Miathan was bent with slit-
eyed concentration over a crystal that lay on a black cloth on the
table. He looked up, dark eyes flashing, as the Magewoman entered.
"For pity's sake, Eliseth, can you not leave me in peace? Don't
you know how difficult this is? If it were not for Finbarr's
notes^"

"Were it not for Finbarr, your blasted abominations would have
slaughtered us all by now!" Eliseth snapped. "By the Gods,
Miathan, why did you not tell us about this?" She gestured at the
Caldron, which stood on the table. It was no longer a thing of
beauty; its finely wrought gold was black and tarnished. "You of
all people should know the dangers of tampering with High Magic,"
Eliseth went on. "Bragar and I could have helped you to research
its powers and their mastery; but no—you had to do it by yourself.
And see what has happened! One Mage is dead, one's missing, and
one is a raving wreck. The Gods only know how many Mortals your
creatures killed in the city last night—the whole place is in an
uproar—"

"Enough!" Miathan roared. He paced the room, breathing deeply,
striving not to lose control 4s he had done last night, with such
disastrous results, "What is the situation in the city now?" he


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asked in a calmer voice,

"That's why I came—to report on your dirty work," Eliseth sat
down, rubbing her eyes wearily. "Bragar and I have been combing
the city, trying to seek out and neutralize your creatures. The
Gods know whether we got them all—I doubt it, myself. We've been
spreading the tale that although no one knows where they came
from, the heroic Magefolk are risking life and limb to defend the
citizens of Nexis," Her voice dripped scorn, "They seem to be
swallowing it—at least for the moment—so this would be a good time
to consolidate your hold on the city, while people are still
terrified."

"What of the G««ison?" Miathan asked sharply,

Eliseth shrugged. "The troops are reeling from the tragic death of
their beloved leader—I had his body dumped where you told me, and
it didn't take them long to find it. They have their hands full
keeping order just now, what with panic and looting and such, and
there seems to be a distinct shortage of leaders. Maya, Forral's
Second-in-Command, is away on some mysterious errand or other, no
one knows where, and the Cavalrymaster, Parric, seems to have
disappeared. Deserted, probably, if he had any sense. There has
been no sign of his body so far, at any rate."

"Excellent." Miathan rubbed his hands together. "We may salvage
this yet. Well done, Eliseth."

"If we do, just remember who helped get you out of this mess,"
Eliseth replied shortly. "What shall we do with all your frozen
Wraiths, Miathan? You have no idea how to get the wretched things
back into the Caldron, and we can hardly leave them all over the
city!"

"Use an apport spell—it worked on the ones that were here."
Miathan gestured round the room, now empty of Wraiths. "I have
them stored down in Finbarr's Archives for the present—what place
more fitting?"

Eliseth frowned. "Frankly, I dislike the idea of sitting on top of


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those things. We all know how to undo the preserving spell and
bring them back into time again—you had better be careful,
Miathan."

"I'm always careful." Miathan's voice held a thinly veiled threat.
"I intend to have that section of the catacombs sealed, and only
you, Bragar, and I will know the whereabouts of the creatures. And
I'm sure 1 can trust you—can't I?"

"Of course you can." Eliseth swallowed uneasily. "How is Meiriel,
by the way?"

"Still out of her mind." Miathan sighed, "Finbarr's death affected
her badly. I've wasted half the day persuading her that Aurian was
responsible, and not myself. She's in such a vulnerable state just
now that I succeeded in the end. Which, if Aurian can be located,
may prove useful to us."

"Is there any sign of Aurian?"

"No—but I shall find her, never fear. She escaped by river, that I
do know. I found traces of her magic by the weir. I could not
locate her in Norberth, so I've extended the search to the

ocean. It would seem that Vannor has gone with her, unless you
found any trace of him in the city."

Eliseth shook her head. "Miathan," she ventured, "should you not
be concentrating on Nexis just now? This is a critical time for
us, with Vannor gone and Forral dead."

"No!" Miathan's eyes blazed with a mad light. "I must find her,
Eliseth! You know that she will not let Forral's death go
unavenged. Besides, there is still the matter of that accursed
child. It must not be allowed to survive!"

"Don't fret, Archmage, I'm sure you'll find her," Eliseth soothed.
"In the meantime, I can take care of things for you here. I must
have help, though. Elewin says that most of the servants and
guards are either dead or fleeing."


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"See to it, then." Miathan, already turning back to his crystal,
waved an absent gesture of dismissal.

"One more thing." Eliseth hesitated, "Must you send Davorshan away
just now? The Magefolk are spread very thin and I could really use
his help."

The Archmage glanced up at her. "Yes, as a matter of fact I must.
He must go to the Valley, Eliseth, for Eilin is the only remaining
threat to us here. I intend to be rid of the Lady of the Lake—for
good,"

Maya was limping as she climbed the wooded slope that bordered the
rim of the moonlit Valley. She tugged at the reins of D'arvan's
horse, which she was leading. It had been unbelievably bad luck,
her own horse going lame that morning, after they had made such
good time on their journey north! It was one more thing to cope
with on top of the trouble she'd been having with D'arvan for the
past three days. Stopping for breath, she glanced worriedly back
at the Mage, who sat limply on the horse, his delicately molded
face expressionless, his eyes blank.

Maya muttered a barrack-room curse. She wished he would snap out
of it! He had almost scared her to death that night when he'd been
seized by a strange, sudden fit. One minute they had been sitting
quietly by their small campfire—the next, he had gone absolutely
rigid, his face contorted, his eyes rolling back in his head until
only the whites were showing. He had screamed out som*ttfirtg
about Finbarr being dead, and
monsters, and Miathan, before collapsing. Since then, he had been
as impassive as stone. He could ride if she put him on the horse,
eat if she put food into his mouth, and sleep, or so it seemed, if
she closed his eyes and laid him down. But for all the response
she'd been able to get from him, Maya might as well be lugging a
corpse around. The thought sent a shiver through the warrior. She
was truly fond of the young Mage, and had been trying hard not to
dwell on the possibility that his condition might be permanent.
Maya bit her lip. I hope I find Aurian's mother soon, she thought.
Surely she will be able to help D'arvan?


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Catching her breath, Maya trudged doggedly on toward the head of
the slope. Whatever the trouble was, she hoped that the Lady Eilin
would be able to sort it out, and let her get back to the city.
She had a feeling that something was badly wrong, and her
instincts, developed over a dozen years of soldiering, rarely let
her down. She knew from Aurian that if a Mage died, all other
Magefolk felt the death. Had D'arvan been reacting to •• Finbarr's
passing? And what about the Archmage, and the monsters? If there
was trouble in Nexis, then Maya knew that her place was with her
troops, and she was seething with frustration. Close as she and
D'arvan had grown over the last months, she was ashamed to find
herself wishing that she had never volunteered for this task of
playing nursemaid.

Suddenly the Valley stretched below her, vast in the moonlight.
Maya gasped. It was immense! What sort of destructive force could
have caused"*his huge crater to be formed? She led the horse along
the edge, seeking a safe way to descend the steep black walls.
Then, to her horror, a blood-chilling sound shrilled through the
forest behind her. The eerie song of many wolves—hunting! The
horse threw up its head and reared, spilling D'arvan to the
ground. Maya swore and hung on grimly to the reins, fighting the
terrified beast, "No you don't," she muttered. "I'm not losing
you, too!"

Somehow she got the reins wrapped round a sturdy tree limb, and
tied them firmly. The horse plunged and screamed at the end of its
tether as she ran back to where D'arvan lay. There was no sign of
any injury*—he seemed as unaffected as ever by the fall. She
hauled his limp form over to the tree, propped him against the
trunk, and straightened, panting. The howls grew

nearer, turning shrill with excitement. They were on her trail!
Great Chathak, they were all around her!

Maya considered letting the horse go, hoping it would lure them
away from her, but decided to save that as a last resort. She
still had to get D'Arvan across the Valley, and while he was like
this, she would never manage it on her own. Stooping, she


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scrabbled together a small pile of twigs and dead leaves for
tinder, and struck a spark, feeding her fire with the larger dead
boughs that lay beneath the tree. Wolves feared fire. Drawing her
sword, she thrust it point down in the earth in front of her,
ready to her hand. Unslinging her bow from her shoulder, Maya
nocked an arrow and stood at bay beside D'arvan, her back against
the tree.

Like a shadowy tide, the wolves                              surged through the trees, yelping
triumphantly. Then they saw the                              fire, The gray wave broke,
hesitated. One wolf stepped out                              into the firelight—the leader—a
huge, shaggy silver beast whose                              eyes flared green-gold in the glow
of the flames. Maya pulled back                              the bowstring to its full tension,
aimed, and—

"Wait!"

"What the—" Maya jumped—the arrow went wide. Bloody D'arvan! Why
had he chosen that split second to wake up? Feverishly she groped
in her quiver for another shaft.

"Maya, wait!" D'arvan's voice was urgent now. "It's all right. I
can talk to him. He won't hurt us."

Maya set the arrow to her string—then hesitated, staring at the
wolf in utter disbelief. It sat*on ^fts haunches, its mouth gaping
in a wide grin, its tongue lolling from the side of its mouth—for
all the world like the friendly hound that cadged scraps at the
door of the Garrison kitchen, The rest of the pack sat in similar
postures, or lay, relaxed, on the ground. Maya did not move.
"D'arvan," she said quietly, through gritted teeth, "would you
mind telling me what the blazes is going on?"

The young Mage struggled to sit up, "They guard the Valley," he
said. "Eilin sent them to watch after—after what happened the
other night."

"What did happen the other night, D'arvan?"

D'arvan grimaced with pain, "Finbarr , , ," He shook his head, his


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eyes veiled and haunted. He was   having to answer by the sound
oNwoves that first sounded ringingly on

246 • MAGGIE FURLY

rock, then softer on the loam of the forest floor. Maya tightened
her bowstring, and the wolves leapt to their feet.

A white horse sprang forth between the trees, bearing the cloaked
figure of a wild-haired woman. The staff in her hand blazed with
unearthly green light. The tip of Maya's arrow burst into
incandescent flame, and the warrior dropped it hastily, cursing.

"Who are you?" The voice was tense.

Maya took a deep breath, and forced herself to stay very still.
"Maya, Lieutenant from the Nexis Garrison, and friend to the Lady
Aurian. I bear a message from her to her mother, the Lady Eilin."
Slowly, she reached inside her tunic for the tightly rolled scroll
and bowed as she held it out to the Lady.

One of the wolves padded forward and took the scroll in its mouth.
It walked softly across to Eilin, and delivered its burden into
her hand. By the light of her staff, Eilin examined it, and
nodded. "That is her seal," she said softly. Breaking the seal,
she unrolled the sheet, quickly scanning its contents.

"Are you D'arvan?" The Lady turned to the young Mage, who
scrambled to his feet and bowed.

"Yes, Lady Eilin."

"Stay there!" Eilin's voice cracked across the clearing, and the
big wolf gave a low, warning growl. "How do I know that I can
trust you?" the Lady said. "After what happened the other night .
. ." She shook her head.

"Will somebody please tell me what happened the other night?" Maya
interrupted.



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Eilin glanced at her sharply, "You mean you don't know?"

"My fault, Lady," D'arvan said. "Finbarr's death shocked me so
badly . . ." He shrugged. "I knew nothing after that, until I
awakened and saw the wolves."

"As well for you that you woke up then," Eilin said dryly. "Aurian
says in her message that your powers never surfaced. How is it,
then, that you can speak with my wolves?"

"I don't know," D'arvan confessed. "I never tried to communicate
with animals before. ! didn't know I could,"

"Well, there may be hope for you yet," Eilin said, "That is, if
you are telling me the truth. Will you be Tested?"

D'arvan nodded, and stepped forward, his expression strained. The
Lady held out her glowing staff, and he reached
out his hand to grasp the iron-shod heel. The green glow flared
into a dazzling aureole that consumed the body of the young Mage,
and D'arvan gasped, falling to his knees. Through the
scintillating glare, Maya saw sweat break out on his forehead, and
stepped forward, an involuntary cry escaping her lips. But the big
wolf barred her way, and others advanced to circle her. Then it
was over. The Magelight died away, leaving only the flickering
flames of Maya's little fire, as D'arvan relinquished his hold on
the staff with a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping.

Eilin smiled. "Bravely done, young Mage," she said. "The Test of
Truth is not a pleasant experience, or an easy one." She turned to
Maya. "My apologies, Lieutenant Maya, for my suspicion. But grave
times are upon us—the gravest the world has faced since the
Cataclysm."

"Lady, what has happened?" Maya begged, "If there's trouble in
Nexis, I should go back at once."

Eilin shook her head. "No, child. It would be a grave mistake to
rush back to Nexis, unrested and uninformed as you are. In fact,
it would probably be pointless for you to return at all. Be


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patient a little longer. Come home with me, and I will tell you
what I know, ill news though it is, then we can decide what to do
for the best,"

"Very well, Lady." Maya curbed her impatience; she felt forced to
accept the sense of this.

The Lady Eilin took D'arvan up on her own horse, and Maya
carefully buried the remains of her fire and, mounting the other
skittish beast, followed in their wake. The wolves remained
behind, on guard.

The warm red glow of the stove in Eilin's kitchen dispelled the
chill of the wintry night outside. The Lady soon had them seated
in comfort, eating bread and cheese and cradling cups of fragrant,
steaming tea. As the Mage sat down with her own cup, Maya leaned
forward, desperate for news.

Eilin opened her mouth as if to begin, then paused, with a little
shrug of helplessness. "I'm sorry," she said. "I haven't spoken to
anyone for so long; one gets out of the habit," She sighed.
"Still, it musfbe done," She closed her eyes, remember-
ing. Maya wanted to shriek with frustration, but held her tongue,
schooling herself to patience.

"I generally go to bed with the sun," Eilin said at last. "Three
nights ago, I awakened suddenly—f thought I neard* Aurian calling
me. Calling for help. She sounded so desperate— I knew it was not
a dream. I could hear nothing more, but I was afraid, afraid to my
very soul. Shaking, I got out of bed and sought my crystal. It's
been years since I last attempted scrying —what need had I to look
at the world outside? As long as I had the occasional visit from
Aurian I knew she was all right. But that night I looked—and I
saw—" Her voice cracked, her hands whitening in their tight grasp
round the cup.

"What did you see?" Maya pressed. "Lady, please—"

Eilin drew a long, shuddering breath. "Abominations," she said.
"Creatures of horror beyond all imagining. The Archmage has


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tampered with an ancient artifact from the past. Out of legend,
out of history, he has unleashed the Death Wraiths of the
Caldron."

Maya knew little of such matters, but she saw the shock on
D'arvan's face, saw the look of dread that he and Eilin exchanged.

"There was more," the Lady went on, her eyes                                           shadowed with grief.
"Maya, I'm sorry—more sorry and more grieved                                           than you'll ever
know, to have to tell you this. The Archmage                                           set one of those
hideous creatures on Forral. I saw him fall,                                           and saw him die."

"No," Maya whispered,. The world stood still around her. "Oh,
Lady, no." As a warrior, she had thought herself inured to the
loss of comrades in battle, but now she felt her throat tighten
with unshed tears. Not Forral! Please, not Forral! She had never
known a better man! Not only was he her commander, but he had also
been her close friend over the last few years, as had Aurian. Poor
Aurian! Maya caught her breath. "What of Aurian?" she gasped.

"Alive. Finbarr came in time to save her. Somehow he found a way
to disable those monstrosities, and two men— Mortal men—got her
away." Eilin's voice was strained. "I have no idea what happened
to her afterward. They fled, I suppose. She lives, I'm certain,
but I cannot find her. I lost my link when poor Finbarr died. The
Wraiths were too many for him. He fell

in the end, and D'arvan must have felt his death as all we
Magefolk did."

"Yes," D'arvan whispered. "I felt his passing. Dear Gods, Lady,
what are we to do? How could Miathan be capable of such an act?"

"Miathan was always capable of far more than most people gave him
credit for." Eilin's eyes hardened. "I had no proof that he had a
hand in Geraint's death, but I had my suspicions. That was one of
the reasons why I fled to this place when Aurian was a baby. But
as the years passed, I persuaded myself that it was a foolish
fancy, born of grief, and that was why I permitted my daughter to
go to the Academy when she was older. Folly! I should have trusted


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my instincts! But I wish I knew why the Archmage has so suddenly
turned to this new evil. D'arvan, you were at the Academy until
lately. Can you shed any light on this matter?"

"Not really, Lady, though Miathan has been acting oddly of late.
What he did to me—he and my brother . . ." D'arvan told her his
story.

Eilin frowned. "Ridiculous!" she said. "Of course you have power,
he should know that!" Then she paused. "Ah, but does he?" she
murmured. "D'arvan, did your mother ever tell you about your
father?"

The young Mage blinked, puzzled. "Tell me what, Lady? They both
passed when I was very young—strangely enough, about the same time
that Miathan became Archmage—but I can remember my father quite
weil. Uavordran was a Water-Mage; clever, yes, but not special in
any way. What should she have to tell me about him?"

Eilin seemed lost in thought for a moment, then she straightened,
her expression suddenly decisive. "Perhaps I am the only one who
does know," she muttered to herself. "Perhaps Adrina chose to
confide only in me." She looked straight at D'arvan. "Prepare
yourself for a shock, young Mage," she said. "Davorshan is not
your twin, and only half your brother. Bavor-dran was his father,
but yours . . . well, that is quite a different matter."

The cup fell from D'arvan's hands and splintered on the floor
without his even noticing. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "It
can't be trjyjs^How can it?"

"Oh, we Magewomen can manage these things if we must," Eilin said.
"Having conceived you, Adrina was quick to see that Bavordran had
a son of his own, to allay his suspicions. You were brought into
being within mere days of one another, and it was fairly simple
for her to arrange for you to be born at the same time—as well as
her Earth-magic, she had a singular Healing gift." She shrugged.
"It was a bold move on her part— from the very start, people
wondered why the two of you looked



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so different."

"But ..." D'arvan floundered, as though the words were

choking him. "Then—who is my father?"

Eilin smiled. "Hellorin, the Forest Lord."

"Lady,          that          is        not       amusing!"              Maya        had         never         heard

YfatNatv so\vc\& %o M\g,t^. "\\orw Aaxt ^ou mock w\e. "N\t.h such
a.

jest! The Lord of the Phaerie, indeed. What nonsense! They have no
existence outside legends and children's stories."

Eilin gave him a stern look. "Lad, do you think I'd jest over such
a thing? You are completely mistaken, as are most folk. The
Phaerie do indeed exist—and have existed far longer than either
Mortals or Magefolk. They have their own powers, different from
ours, and if they use them to remain apart from us, I cannot blame
them. Your mother never told me how she met and fell in love with
Hellorin, though it was no secret in the Academy that she and
Bavordran bore little love for one another. She only agreed to
become his soulmate at the insis-tance of Zandar, her father, the
Archmage before Miathan. He was concerned that the .Magefolk were
dying out, and Bavordran was the only available mate." Eilin
sighed. "Well, she joined with him in the end, out of love and
respect for her father, but she gained no happiness from it.
Bavordran was the dullest, most self-centered Mage I've ever met,
and he made her life a misery in a thousand ways. As Adrina's
friend, I'm glad she found love, however briefly, with her Phaerie
Lord. And you were the result, D'arvan. Your brother was her child
of duty, but you were the child of her heart."

D'arvan shuddered. "But Lady," he cried despairingly, "what does
that make me?"

"Unique!" Eilin replied briskly. "In my opinion, D'arvan, you are
by no means inferior to the rest of the Magefolk. Aurian believes


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you may have a talent for Earth-magic, and your ability

to speak with my wolves would seem to confirm that. We'll soon see
how far you can develop in that direction. As for any abilities
you may have inherited from your father's side—well, I scarcely
know where to begin. The powers of the Phaerie are far beyond the
experience of any Mage. Let us concentrate first on what I can
teach you, then I suggest you go and ask Hellorin."

"What?" D'arvan gasped.

"I don't see why not," Eilin replied. "I know that the Phaerie are
close to us in this valley. They approve of my work here—bringing
back the trees, and such. If his own son were to call him, then
surely their Lord would answer. But . . ." She held up a warning
hand. "I beg you not to rush into such a meeting, D'arvan. The
Phaerie have a reputation for being tricky folk, and I don't want
to risk losing you to them just now. Miathan must be opposed, and
with Aurian missing and Finbarr dead, that leaves only you and me.
I wouldn't trust the rest of them as far as I could spit!"

"But Lady, what can we possibly do against the Archmage?" D'arvan
said.

"Just now, I have no idea. I think we may have to wait and see
what happens. Anyway, I'm tired, you're tired—and you have had far
too many shocks in one night to be able to think straight. And
poor Maya looks as though she could fall asleep at any second."
Eilin gave the warrior a kindly smile. "I suggest we all go to bed
for what's left of the night, and make our plans in the morning."

No one argued. Too many shocks ipdeed, Maya thought, as Eilin
showed her to the little room off the kitchen that had once been
occupied by Forral. D'arvan had been given Aurian's old room. The
painful reminders of her two lost friends made Maya realize that
there was one piece of news that she had not imparted to the Lady.
"Lady Eilin," she said abruptly, unable to think of a gentle way
to break the news. "Did you know that Aurian and Forral were
lovers?"



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"Lovers.-'" For a terrifying moment Eilin's eyes blazed into her
own, then the Magewoman dropped her face into her hands. "Dear
Gods," she whispered. "Why did I never foresee it? There was
always such a depth of love between them—but how could they have
been so foolish?" She turned to Maya, her eyes dim with pain.
"Well,jtjjey cannot be blamed for the Archmage
turning to evil—but now we know what made him act when he did.
Miathan, with his obsession with the purity of our race, would
take such a joining ill, indeed." She shook her head. "My poor
child," she murmured. "My poor, poor children." As Eilin mounted
the tower stairs, Maya heard the soft sound of her weeping.

In the dead of night—the dark, oppressive time when it seemed that
dawn would never come—Maya left her room to sit by the embers of
the kitchen stove. Weary though she was, she had finally given up
trying to sleep. Her thoughts were filled with sorrow for Forral,
who seemed so close to her in the room that had once been his, and
with fear for Aurian, now a fugitive. Gods, how she must be
grieving! Maya also worried about her city, in the grip of an evil
madman, and her troops, who would be bearing the brunt of the
disaster. Between grief and worry, she was finding it impossible
to think clearly. The more she tried, the worse it became. What's
wrong with me? she thought despairingly. I'm a bloody soldier. I'm
trained to deal with emergencies. There must be something I can
do! But whatever it was, it eluded her. Never before had she felt
so alone—Or so utterly, wretchedly helpless.

The sound of a door opening made her reach for her sword _but the
intruder was only D'arvan, coming out of his room. He looked
haggard and haunted. "You, too?" Maya said ruefully, suddenly glad
of the company.

D'arvan glared at her. "How could I possibly sleep, after what
I've been told toiwght?" he snapped.

"How, indeed? I can't sleep after what I've been told, and you've
had it far worse than me." The self-pity in the Mage's voice had
served as a salutary reminder to Maya of just how close she had
come to sinking into that same trap herself. "Want some tea?" she
offered.


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"No! I want this not to be! I want to wake up and find myself in
my bed in the Academy, with everything safe and normal—and none of
this ever to have happened." He sank to the floor beside Maya's
chair and leaned his head against the arm. Though he was trying to
conceal it from her, she could feel him shaking with sobs.

Maya stroked his fine, pale hair. "Me, too, pet," she murmured
sadly, "me, too."

AURIAN          •       253

D'arvan looked up at her quickly, dragging a hand across his eyes.
"Gods, how you must despise me!" he choked.

Maya was taken aback. "Whatever for?" she said.

"Because I'm good for nothing! I'm a useless coward—I can only
weep like a maid and make a nuisance of myself! But you're a
warrior—you're brave—I know how brave you are! You would never
shame yourself by giving way like this!"

Maya chuckled. "Little do you know. Less than an hour ago I was
lying next door bawling my heart out!"

D'arvan's eyes went wide. "Truly?"

"Of course, dafty. We've had terrible news—treachery heaped on
tragedy—and you've had some shocks to cope with on top of that!
This is the best time for us to give way to our feelings—here,
where we're safe for the moment. It's never wrong to need—or
take—comfort, D'arvan. That's something we both need right now."
As she spoke, Maya slipped to the floor beside the young Mage and
put her arms around him.

He turned his face away. "How can you bear to touch me?" he
muttered. "You don't know what I am."

"Balls! I know exactly what you are—I've known for months. You're
shy and good-hearted, you like music and flowers, and you have the


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most amazing aptitude for archery I've ever seen. I couldn't
believe it when you tried my bow that first day at the Garrison,
then told me you'd never handled one before! So that's one thing
you're good at, for a start. You can talk to wolves, and the Lady
Eilin thinks you'll be fine at Earth-magic—and who knows what
talents you might have inherited from your father! I know what you
are, D'arvan. You're very special, indeed."

It started with her simply comforting him. As she spoke, Maya felt
D'arvan relax, and gradually his arms crept around her. Rather to
her surprise, that comforted her, and she found her mind turning
to just how attractive she had been beginning to find him lately.
Stop! her common sense warned her. This is folly! You know what
happened to Aurian and Forral. But Maya didn't care. She had no
delusions about their plight, and suddenly it seemed to her that
this might be the last chance—for both of them. "Do you know," she
murmured to D'arvan, "you have the most beautiful face I've ever
seen?" And she kissed him.   -»••«•=*
turning to evil—but now we know what made him act when he did.
Miathan, with his obsession with the purity of our race, would
take such a joining ill, indeed." She shook her head. "My poor
child," she murmured. "My poor, poor children." As Eilin mounted
the tower stairs, Maya heard the soft sound of her weeping.

In the dead of night—the dark, oppressive time when it seemed that
dawn would never come—Maya left her room to sit by the embers of
the kitchen stove. Weary though she was, she had finally given up
trying to sleep. Her thoughts were filled with sorrow for Forral,
who seemed so close to her in the room that had once been his, and
with fear for Aurian, now a fugitive. Gods, how she must be
grieving! Maya also worried about her city, in the grip of an evil
madman, and her troops, who would be bearing the brunt of the
disaster. Between grief and worry, she was finding it impossible
to think clearly. The more she tried, the worse it became. What's
wrong with me? she thought despairingly. I'm a bloody soldier. I'm
trained to deal with emergencies. There must be something I can
do! But whatever it was, it eluded her. Never before had she felt
so alone—or so utterly, wretchedly helpless.

The sound of a door opening made her reach for her sword _but the


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intruder was only D'arvan, coming out of his room. He looked
haggard and haunted. "You, too?" Maya said ruefully, suddenly glad
of the company.

D'arvan glared at her. "How could I possibly sleep, after what
I've been told toaight?" he snapped.

"How, indeed? I can't sleep after what I've been told, and you've
had it far worse than me." The self-pity in the Mage's voice had
served as a salutary reminder to Maya of just how close she had
come to sinking into that same trap herself. "Want some tea?" she
offered.

"No! I want this not to be! I want to wake up and find myself in
my bed in the Academy, with everything safe and normal—and none of
this ever to have happened." He sank to the floor beside Maya's
chair and leaned his head against the arm. Though he was trying to
conceal it from her, she could feel him shaking with sobs.

Maya stroked his fine, pale hair. "Me, too, pet," she murmured
sadly, "me, too."


D'arvan looked up at her quickly, dragging a hand across his eyes.
"Gods, how you must despise me!" he choked.

Maya was taken aback. "Whatever for?" she said.

"Because I'm good for nothing! I'm a useless coward—I can only
weep like a maid and make a nuisance of myself! But you're a
warrior—you're brave—I know how brave you are! You would never
shame yourself by giving way like this!"

Maya chuckled. "Little do you know. Less than an hour ago I was
lying next door bawling my heart out!"

D'arvan's eyes went wide. "Truly?"

"Of course, dafty. We've had terrible news—treachery heaped on
tragedy—and you've had some shocks to cope with on top of that!


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This is the best time for us to give way to our feelings—here,
where we're safe for the moment. It's never wrong to need—or
take—comfort, D'arvan. That's something we both need right now."
As she spoke, Maya slipped to the floor beside the young Mage and
put her arms around him.

He turned his face away. "How can you bear to touch me?" he
muttered. "You don't know what I am,"

"Balls! I know exactly what you are—I've known for months. You're
shy and good-hearted, you like music and flowers, and you have the
most amazing aptitude for archery I've ever seen. I couldn't
believe it when you tried my bow that first day at the Garrison,
then told me you'd never handled one before! So that's one thing
you're good at, for a start. You can talk to wolves, and the Lady
Eilin thinks you'll be fine at Earth-magic—and who knows what
talenft y»u might have inherited from your father! I know what you
are, D'arvan. You're very special, indeed."

It started with her simply comforting him. As she spoke, Maya felt
D'arvan relax, and gradually his arms crept around her. Rather to
her surprise, that comforted her, and she found her mind turning
to just how attractive she had been beginning to find him lately.
Stop! her common sense warned her. This is folly! You know what
happened to Aurian and Forral. But Maya didn't care. She had no
delusions about their plight, and suddenly it seemed to her that
this might be the last chance—for both of them. "Do you know," she
murmured to D'arvan, "you have the most beautiful face I've ever
seen?" And she kissed him.   «*".-»


The Mage froze, his lips unresponsive against her own, then
suddenly he tore himself away. "No!" he gasped. "I can't!"

Feeling unutterably foolish, Maya tried to make light of the
situation, wondering how she could manage a dignified escape.
"That bad, eh?" she said with a shrug.

D'arvan's face went crimson. "Maya, no! I mean—don't think ... It
wasn't you . . ."


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"Well, that's a comfort, anyway." Her attempts to rescue him from
his floundering seemed to be making matters worse.

He turned his face away, refusing to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry,"
he muttered. "I can't. I mean I've never—Oh, curse it, I don't
even know where to start]"

Maya smiled. "If you want," she said softly, "I would consider it
both an honor and a pleasure to teach you."

He was clumsy at first—clumsy and awkward and painfully shy. But
Maya was patient. Gently, unhurriedly, she encouraged and
instructed him, and the look of wonder on D'arvan's face—first at
his own pleasure, and later, when she taught him to pleasure
her—was more than reward enough. Seeing his glowing expression as
the dawn light crept through the window of his room, Maya was
flooded with a feeling of tenderness so intense that it took her
breath away. Selective though she'd been about her lovers in the
past, never had any of them evoked such a feeling within her. She
reached out to touch his face, "There," she told him. "Now we've
found something else you're good at."

D'arvan blushed, bat his eyes gleamed with delight. "Oh, Maya. I
never dreamed . . . Maya—you won't go back to the city, will you?
I won't be parted from you now!"

Maya's brows knit in a frown as she realized how badly she had
complicated matters. "D'arvan," she said gently, "the time will
come when we'll have to fight. You know that, don't you?"

To Maya's surprise, the Mage met her eyes with a clear, steady
gaze. "I know—and I'm ready to fight," he said. "It's difficult to
explain, but, after my—After Davorshan betrayed me, it was as
though I had no reason for existing. I felt empty, like a shadow.
But now it's different." He smiled. "For the first time in my life
I feel like my own, whole self—and now I have something to fight
for. All I ask is that whatever form the battle takes, we face it
together. And if you really feel that you



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AURIAN          •       255

must return to Nexis, my magic can wait. I can still shoot a bow,
you know. I've had the best possible teacher—in all things."

Maya was stunned by his words. At last she found her voice. "I can
think of a hundred reasons why I should go back," she said. "But
somehow . . . Well, maybe it would be best if I stayed for a
while. The Lady Eilin seems to think that my returning to Nexis
would serve no purpose, though I do feel guilty about leaving my
post. But I don't want to leave you either, dear heart. Perhaps,
together, we could work out some way of combining our talents
against the Archmage—depending, of course, on whether Eilin will
approve this arrangement. She'll probably be horrified, and throw
me out of the Valley at once,"

"In that case," D'arvan said firmly, with a new, joyous ring to
his voice, "she can throw us both out—together."

They were asleep when Eilin found them in the morning, curled
together on the rumpled bed like two cats. D'arvan's skin was very
white where his arms encircled Maya's brown, wiry body, and he was
smiling as he slept. The warrior's long dark hair, loosed from its
braid, fell across them both like a cloak. The Lady stared at them
in silence for a long moment, her brows creased in a frown. "Not
again," she sighed, then shrugged helplessly and cast her eyes
heavenward. "Oh Gods," she murmured. "Why do you keep doing this?
Now I have three of them to worry about!" " ./

Chapter             17

SHIPWRECK

he lantern rocked on its ceiling hook with the motion »__ of the
ship, its dim circle of light swinging back and forth across the
wooden floor and walls with hypnotic regular-

,fy. Aurian sat bolt upright, crOSS-\eggek \t\ ftft «tt«!l ^ vVfc
tiny cabin, holding her shield in place to conceal ehe vessel from
the force of Miathan's seeking wiiJ. Occasiona/Jy she felt the


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pressure of his mind brush across her shield, and held her breath
until he had passed on, away over the dark waves. Yet time and
again, despite the peril, despite the fact that she had chosen her
position so that she could not fall asleep without falling over
and wakening herself, Aurian felt her leaden eyelids begin to
close.

This was the second night of her vigil. She had passed the first
night successfully by drawing deep on the hidden well-springs of
her magical power to keep herself awake and her shields firm. And
she and Anvar had spent most of the inter vening day on deck in
the bracing sea air, until the looks and mutterings of the
increasingly restive pirate crew had driven them back to the
cabin.

Sara was still scorning to speak to them, and had remained huddled
in sour misery on her bunk, so at least there had been peace from
that quarter. By unspoken consent, they had avoided speaking of
Anvar's connection with Vannor's wife, though Aurian still
wondered. Now she had insisted that Anvar sleep for a time, while
she could still be confident of staying awake, and he dozed beside
her, stirring restlessly as though he also felt the power of
Miathan's seeking mind that passed and repassed across them.
Aurian was reluctant to awaken him, but eventually, when her
leaden eyelids refused to stay open any longer, she knew that she
must. "Anvar," she whispered, prodding him awake, "Anvar, I need
your help."

"All right." He sounded bleary and dazed, and Aurian wondered if
she looked as bad as he did—disheveled and dirty, his face drawn
and gray with weariness, Anvar passed the water flask to her,
before drinking himself. "Is he still out there?" he whispered.


Aurian nodded. "It's best we don't speak of him when he's seeking
for us," she warned. "When I talk, it weakens my concentration on
shielding, so we should choose subjects as far as possible from
the things we're trying to escape."

Anvar groaned. "It's impossible not to think of him," he said.


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"What can we talk about, then, Lady?"

Aurian shrugged. "The weather?" she suggested ruefully. "That
should occupy us for all of two minutes."

"Let's pretend we're going far away—to another place entirely,"
Anvar suggested. "That might confuse him, if anything should leak
through your shields. You know, Lady, I can't help but feel that I
would like to go away—far, far away from all this trouble. Do you
know anything about the Southern lands beyond the sea?"

Aurian did, having picked up the information from Forral, who in
his younger days had been a secret gatherer of intelligence in the
South. It was just such a mission, in feet, that had kept him away
from home for so long at the time of Geraint's leath. The Garrison
tried to stay informed, because the bellig-nt Southern races were
always a potential threat. Glad of the distraction, the Mage was
only too willing to tell Anvar what she knew.

The bleak hills of the south coast ended at the ocean that divided
the northern landmass from the vast Southern Kingdoms beyond.
There was little congress or communication between the two
continents, though spies, if they returned at all, had testified
to the belligerence and4uperior numbers of the warlike inhabitants
of the larger continent. Luckily, the Southerners feared the
powers of the Magefolk, and so far, that had been enough to keep
them at bay.

It was known that there were at least three kingdoms in the South,
though beyond that, where the deserts gave way to impenetrable
jungle, all was mystery, A range of high mountains near the
northern coast were said to be inhabited by the legendary Winged
Folk, who guarded their peak-top aeries with savage determination.
Between the mountains and the sea, where the peaks dropped down to
green, pine-clad valleys, was the kingdom of the Xandim. Trapped
between mountains and ocean, their space was limited, and it was
said that they coveted the northern lands wkfa their rich pastures
for the fabulous
horses that they bred. South of the mountains was a desert, beyond
which lay the country of the Khazahlim, a fierce warrior race


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ruled by a savage tyrant king. With such neighbors across the sea,
it was not surprising that the Ruling Council of Nexis kept the
bleak hills of their southern coastline well defended.

"I wonder if the Southerners really are as dangerous as all that?"
Anvar mused.

"It's said that they bear no love for my sort," Aurian said, "so
it would be as well if I didn't try to find out. But I know what
you mean. I would like to visit new lands—to try to leave the past
behind. But for me that's impossible, though you might do it
someday."

"Me?" Anvar's eyes went involuntarily to the bondmark on his hand.
"But I'm only a servant. I couldn't expect—"

"Nonsense!" Aurian retorted. "Because you're a servant? Why should
you be inferior because of the work you do? Why, you're a far
better man than some of those arrogant, bullying Magefolk! If I
were Archmage, I would— Oh!" Aurian felt sick with dismay as she
realized what she had done. "Oh, Anvar, I had the chance, didn't
I? I could have changed things for the better . . ."

"You never thought of that?" Anvar asked in surprise.

"It never crossed my mind—I didn't care about that kind of power.
Like a fool, I never considered the good I could have done. I
threw it all away, when I took Forral as my lover. Gods, it was me
who brought this disaster down on us. Forral even warned me ..."
Aurian"t>uried her face in her shaking hands.

Anvar, alarmed by her bitter self-recrimination and afraid that in
her distracted mood she would drop her shields and bring discovery
on them, reached out and pulled her hands away from her face.
"Lady," he said firmly, "don't blame yourself. The Archmage is
evil—the Mortals in Nexis have always hated and feared him. He
would have grasped power in the end, whatever you had done, and
the results would likely have been the same. You would have fought
him—you and Commander Forral, and Vannor and Finbarr. People would
have died in any case. Thank the Gods that you're alive to fight


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him now. Don't give in like this, Lady—we need you. We all need
you."

For a moment hope dawned on Aurian's face, then she sighed. "Kind
words, Anvar, but if Forral and I hadn't—"


Anvar gripped her shoulders. "Don't say that, Lady. Don't ever say
that! What happened between you and the Commander was inevitable!
Any fool could see how much you loved each other, and if the
Archmage had cared about you, he would have rejoiced for you! Can
you tell me honestly that you, or Forral for that matter, would
have had it any other way?"

"No," Aurian confessed after a long moment. "You're right, Anvar.
At least we had what we had, but—"

"Then stop feeling sorry for yourself and get those bloody shields
back up!" Anvar snapped. The Mage recoiled as though he had struck
her, anger flaring in her eyes. Then suddenly she began to laugh—a
low chuckle that accompanied the relaxing of the tension in her
face and shoulders. "Ah, Anvar, you're good for me," she said. "If
anyone can get me through this, you can. I'm glad you're here."

Somehow they made it through the night, each keeping the other
awake when they began to falter. Using Aurian's dagger to scratch
on the floorboards, they played all the childhood games of words
and wits that they could remember. When it became too much of an
effort to concentrate, they told jokes instead, and sung their
way—softly, so as not to awaken Sara—through all the old songs and
ballads they knew. But they were always aware of Miathan's
restless will, ceaselessly combing the oceans in search of them.

By the time the dawn light was creeping through the tiny stern
port, Aurian's eyes felt gritty, and her voice was scratchy and
hoarse. She stopped singing, &nd Anvar did, too.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched, yawning hugely. "Thank the Gods
it's getting light," he said. "I know we still have a long time to
go, but it feels as though we've passed another hurdle, at least.


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You know—in spite of everything, I enjoyed last night." He seemed
shy and hesitant, unsure of his right to say such a thing.

Aurian smiled. "So did I. You make a good companion, Anvar."

"You, too. Lady," Anvar said, "I wish I had seen that sooner,
instead of being so preoccupied with resenting my position as a
servant—"

"You two are up early!"

Aurian spun roottd, startled, to see Sara scowling from the

bunk. "We've been up all night," she snapped, nettled by Sara's
tone. "Since you're awake, let Anvar have the bunk for a while,"
she added. "He needs to sleep. I'll walk around on deck for a
while—it might wake me up a bit."

"That's not fair!" Anvar protested. "I slept last night—" "Anvar,
we have at least two nights to go," Aurian said gently, warmed by
his concern. "I can't count on you to keep me awake if you're
dropping from exhaustion. If you get some rest now, we might
manage." She fished in the pack that Van-nor had given them, and
brought out a small packet. "Before you do, could you get that
dreadful cook to make me some taillin? It might help keep me
going." Then in the act of handing it over, she stopped. "Would
you look at me?" she said ruefully. "After all I said about being
companions, I've still got you running around for me! I'll go
myself, Anvar. You get some

sleep."

"No." Anvar took the packet from her hand. "I'll get it. If

you're staying awake, it's the least I can do."

Sara looked sourly after him as he went out. "Ever the devoted
servant," she said, sneering. "That's all he's good for!"

"What do you mean by that?" Aurian was furious.


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Sara shrugged. "Ask Anvar," was all that she would say.

Aurian rubbed a hand over her face. I can't tope with this just
now, she thought. "Sara, don't make trouble," she warned. "If you
can't treat Anvar decently, just leave him alone." With that, she
left the cabirv,unable to spend another minute in

Sara's company.

Aurian sat in the bow, drinking taillin and watching the rose-gold
glow of sunrise flood the ocean. It was some time since she had
felt Miathan's presence, and she wondered if he was asleep, or
perhaps occupied in ordering a city that must have gone mad with
panic when his creatures had attacked. She wondered what was
happening in Nexis, then thrust the thought firmly from her mind.
She couldn't be certain that the Archmage had given up, and she
dared not relax her vigilance. In order to keep awake, she got to
her feet and began to walk back and forth across the narrow,
pitching deck, ignoring the curious stares of the few crew members
who were up and about

at this early hour.

After a time, the wind freshened enough to make pacing

impossible on the lurching deck, and the Mage went below to the
cramped, greasy galley to coax another unpalatable meal from the
ship's cook. The smell that assailed her as she climbed down
through the narrow hatchway was disgustingly familiar. Not stew
again! Aurian felt her stomach heave. Gritting her teeth against
the surge of nausea, she shot back up the ladder and rushed to be
sick over the side. She felt too wretched to care about the
sniggers from the ill-assorted crew.

When it was over, she sat limply on her bench in the bow, drinking
cold taillin straight from the jug and blotting her damp brow on
her sleeve. Gods, she thought, that wasn't seasickness! For the
first time, the problems of being pregnant while on the run truly
came home to her. She touched her belly, where the tiny scrap of


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life lay, snug and uncaring, and sighed.

"Lady, wake up!"

Aurian jumped at the sound of Anvar's voice, catching up her
fallen shields in panic. Horrified, she cursed her own
carelessness and weakness. If Miathan had found them . . . She
shuddered. "What a fool I am!" she said. "I'm sorry, Anvar. How
long have I slept?"

Anvar squinted at the sun. "Most of the morning, it looks like.
Don't worry, Lady, it was for the best. The Archmage hasn't found
us, and you needed the rest. In your condition—" He stopped,
blushing.

"I know," Aurian said ruefully, "First the little pest made me
throw up, then it made me sleep! At this rate, it's going to be
more of a nuisance than Sara!" J

"Lady, you don't mean that," Anvar chided,

Aurian sighed. "I suppose not," she admitted, "Even though it is
true."

Aurian shared the last of the taillin with Anvar, and they
breakfasted on iron-hard slabs of biscuit that he'd coaxed from
the cook. The Mage felt better for the sleep. Her nausea had gone,
and she was cheered up by the sparkling day. The green waves
danced in the stiff following wind that bowed the canvas of the
old patched sails. The pale sun beamed, playing tag with fluffy
puffs of cloud that raced like driven sheep across the sky. The
brisk wind was refreshing, blowing away the last cobwebs of sleep.

When they hadAnashed the daunting task of chewing their

way through breakfast, Anvar pulled a little wooden flute from his
pocket. "Would you like me to play for you?" he asked. "That would
be lovely," Aurian said.

So Anvar played—funny, lively little tunes of his own devising, to


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go with the brisk, bright day. His music soon attracted the crew,
who began to find excuses to lurk within earshot of the merry
pipe. Aurian was amazed to see their faces break into smiles, as
they clapped their hands and stamped in time to the music. Soon
they were teaching Anvar chanteys and hornpipes, and dancing with
wild abandon to the tunes. When the captain came to berate his men
for leaving their posts, he too was caught up in the festive
spirit. Casting an eye over the perfect weather, he ordered that a
cask of rough spirits be broached.

It was due to the drink that things got out of hand. Since Aurian
and Anvar needed to stay alert, they did not join in the drinking.
Anvar had left his seat in the bow to be nearer the dancers, and
Aurian was watching them, keeping her concentration firmly on her
shields. Suddenly an arm went round her shoulders, and there was a
blast of foul breath in her face. A tin cup brimming with liquor
was thrust in front of her.

"Have a drink, darlin'," a slurred voice said.

Aurian turned to look into the leering, unshaven face of a filthy
pirate. "No thank you," she said, trying to keep matters

calm.

"I said, have a drink!" Grabbing her hair, he forced the cup into
her mouth with his^other hand, spilling the sticky stuff down her
chin and the front of her shirt.

Because of the concentration involved in keeping up her shields,
Aurian was slow to react. Before she could move, Anvar was there.
He jerked the man to his feet and punched him squarely in the
face, sending him crashing onto the deck. There was a chill glint
in his eye, a set to his jaw that Aurian had never seen before.
"Keep your hands off her," he growled.

The cutthroat scrambled up, a wicked-looking curved dagger in his
hand. Aurian's heart sank. She got quietly to her feet, her hand
on her sword hilt.



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"Why should you have two women, an' us have none?" the pirate
snarled. "Well, I'll have 'em both—once I've gutted you!"


Anvar stepped back, drawing his own weapon—a pathetically
inadequate belt knife that Vannor had given him. The pirates
crowded round like wolves closing in on their prey.

The tension was broken by a slithering hiss, as Aurian drew her
sword. She stepped up beside Anvar, her voice calm and level.
"You'd better stop them, Captain—if you want to continue this
voyage with a crew."

"Bollocks, lads—'tis only a maid," the brigand with the dagger
roared, and charged.

Aurian's blade flicked through the air so quickly that it hardly
seemed to move—and the curved dagger flew over the side and into
the ocean as its owner collapsed, howling, on the deck, clutching
his knife hand that was spraying blood.

The Mage pointed the tip of her sword at the hapless pirate. "The
next time you try that," she said into the dumbfounded silence,
"it won't be your hand. It'll be those bollocks you were
mentioning. Yours—or anyone else's who dares to interfere with
me!" She locked eyes with the captain, who hesitated, glaring. "Do
you want to live to spend the gold I gave you?" Aurian asked
grimly.

Cursing, he spat on the deck. "Get below, boys, and leave the
passengers alone! Their gold'll buy you plenty of whores in port."
Muttering darkly, the crew dispersed. Aurian's bleeding attacker
was dragged away by his comrades.

To Anvar's amazement, Aurian turned to the captain with a smile.
"Thank you, Captain ^Jurdag," she said. "I'm most grateful to you.
You've spared us a lot of unpleasantness."

Anvar gaped at her, staggered by her dissembling—and even more
astonished to see it working.


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"No trouble, Lady," the captain said, although he looked rather
tight-lipped. "If you and the gentleman have any problems with the
crew, I'll be glad to deal with them. I'm sure a lady like you
needn't carry such ironmongery about." His voice held an
unmistakable threat.

"I wouldn't be without it," Aurian assured him, a similar edge to
her own voice.'"It's much too useful."

The captain stared at her, then at Anvar. "Gods' blood," he said,
"you're a brave man to take her on!"

Anvar felt a sta«.*>f surprise. So the captain thought they

were a couple? Well, it wouldn't do any harm. Bluffing for all he
was worth, he put a nonchalant arm around Aurian's shoulders. "Oh,
I think I can handle her," he said coolly. Giving them a dark
\ook, the captain went below.

"Why, you—" Aurian turned on Anvar, all indignation, but there was
laughter dancing in her eyes. "So you can handle

me, eh?" she growled.

"Lady, I wouldn't dare try," Anvar confessed ruefully. "I
certainly gave a poor account of myself today. I never thought
about that animal having a knife. When I saw him maul you, I just
wanted to smash his teeth down his throat. And don't say you could
have done that yourself—I know you could. I wanted the pleasure of
doing it, that's all." He was surprised to find he was speaking
through clenched teeth.

Aurian smiled. "I don't mind, Anvar. It was a true act of
chivalry, and I'm grateful. But if you're going to make a habit of
it, beware of hidden weapons. I don't want to lose you, too." Her
smile gone, her eyes suddenly shadowed with sadness, she turned
abruptly and walked away from him, to the opposite rail of the
ship. Anvar cursed under his breath, wishing that everything
didn't remind her of Forral, wishing he could do something to ease


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her sorrow.

Aurian, her hands locked round the rail, stood gazing across the
endless ocean. Were there other lands across that vast expanse?
Why had no ooe. gone to look, and if they had, what had become of
them? Aurian found herself wishing that she could go—that she and
Forral could have gone together. She found herself remembering the
time they had talked about his death. "/'// always be with you,"
he had said. Aurian felt a prickling in the nape of her neck.
Could it be true? She had never managed to master his odd,
circling flick of the blade—and yet today, when she had needed to
disarm the pirate—it had come to her as naturally as breathing!
Could it be true, that he was still with her? But if it were,
surely she should be able to feel something—feel his
presence—something? She shook her head, confused, unwilling to let
her heart fool her into accepting a lie just because she needed it
so badly. And yet . . .

Anvar came to stand beside her, not speaking, the breeze mfflin&
the tawny curls at the nape of his neck. "Is Miathan

still up to his tricks?" he asked at last, and Aurian knew that he
was as anxious as she to break the mood that had fallen between
them.

"I haven't felt him for several hours now, luckily for us," she
said. "I suppose he has to rest sometime—it's hard work, scrying.
I daren't relax my guard again, though."

Anvar was about to reply, but Aurian grasped his arm, forestalling
him, turning toward a new, strange sound that caught her
attention. It came from out at sea—wild, high swirls of song that
sent thrills through her body, rooting her to the spot in rapt
attention. "Listen," she breathed, clutching at his arm. "Oh,
listen! Can't you hear it?"

Anvar peered out to sea, trying to find the source of the haunting
sounds. "What is it?" he asked her. "Why—they're singing!"

They waited, listening intently as the sounds gradually drew


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nearer. Then far out across the waves, a series of immense dark
shapes erupted from the water, leaping high, twisting in the air
and falling back into the sea amidst fountaining walls of white
foam. Feathery white plumes shot skyward, twice as high as a man,
filling the sunlit air with rainbows. "Whales!" Aurian exclaimed.
"Forral told me about them. Oh, Anvar, how beautiful!"

Aurian gripped the rail tightly in her excitement. As the
creatures drew nearer, she saw that they were indeed immense, the
largest of them longer than the ship. They numbered about half a
dozen, including, to her delight, two babies. The Mage gazed at
them, lost in wonder, admiring the huge, streamlined bodies that
moved with delicate grace through the water, the perfect arching
curves of their tail flukes that beat the surface with exuberant
power as they dived. She noticed the tender care that the giant
family showed for the two babies, warding and watching them
always.

The Mage was so enthralled that she forgot the shield. And as it
fell away, unnoticed, the first thoughts touched her mind.
Thoughts as great and deep as the ocean itself. Thoughts of
surprise, curiosity; thoughts full of deepest love, boundless joy,
and endless sorrow. She, Aurian, was the first of her people in
aeons to communicate with the People of the Sea. People who made
no wars, who d^Lno violence; who spent their days think-
ing and playing and singing songs, making love and caring for
their children—and thinking their deep, wise, gentle thoughts. And
their wisdom! The Mortals and Magefolk who squabbled and scurried
across the face of the earth gave themselves no time, no peace to
develop their minds—to become one with the oneness of all things.
But the race of Leviathan knew. They carried in their mighty
brains the wisdom of the Universe— these beings that mankind
called animals! And with that wisdom came love.

Aurian never saw the lookout awaken from his rum-fogged
sleep—never heard his cry: "Whales! Whales ho!" She only came back
to herself when the crew came tumbling out onto the deck, falling
over each other in their haste to lower the long, sharp-nosed
wooden boat that hung from the side of the ship. Her joy turned to
horror as she saw them reaching for the wicked harpoons with their


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steel barbs.

"No!" she cried, reaching for her sword, desperate to stop them.
Then Anvar was in her way, blocking her path, grabbing her by the
shoulders. "Lady, don't!" he said, "It means gold to them—lots of
gold. They wouldn't hesitate to kill you over

this!"

Aurian struggled with him, reluctant, despite her desperation, to
hurt him. "Get out of my way," she cried, "I've got to

stop them!"

"You'll have to kill me first." Anvar's voice was quiet, but his
eyes met hers without flinching. "I'm not letting you kill
yourself over this, Auria"rr."

It was too late. The boat had been lowered. The men were climbing
in. Eight strong rowers, four on each side—and a man in the bow,
clutching a harpoon. Aurian glared at Anvar. "Damn you!" she spat.
"Run!" she screamed at the whales, projecting the thought with all
the force of her mind. "Run, oh run!" The whales, discovering the
danger, turned and fled, diving for safety beneath the surface.
But the boat was swift, the oarsmen propelling it through the
water with mighty strokes And the whales had to surface to
breathe. Aurian was holding her own breath. The captain and the
three remaining crev. members worked frantically, trimming the
sails to follow the flight of the stricken creatures as closely as
they could.

For a moment Aurian thought the whales would escape.

ien she saw the smallest baby left behind, exhausted. It swam bly
on the surface, uttering plaintive cries for help as the boat
closed in, the distance narrowing rapidly. The man in the bow
raised his arm, clutching the harpoon, another ready in his left
hand. Why? Then Aurian saw what he had already seen. The whale-
child's mother, racing frantically back to her stricken baby—as he
had known she would. The harpoonist pulled his arm back for the


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cast . . .

Aurian cried out, raising her hand in a sharp gesture—and the boat
disintegrated, every plank flying apart from every other, pitching
the floundering men into the sea.

"Bring her round," Jurdag bellowed. "Get some ropes!"

In the confusion, the mother whale, joined now by her mate,
managed to round up their lost child. Helping the baby along, one
on either side, they followed the rest of their family to the
safety of the open sea, their cries of gratitude ringing in
Aurian's mind as she relaxed, weak with relief.

Then, suddenly, she felt the triumphant grasp of Miathan's mind as
he located her through the use of her magic. "Get out!" she
screamed silently, striking back with all the force she could
muster. She felt his pain and shock, felt his clutch slip away—
and slammed her shield back into place. But she knew, with a
sinking heart, that it was too late. She had betrayed them. He
knew where they were, and he would be back.

Then Anvar was upon her, his face rigid with fury, "You did that!"
he hissed, "Don't you know that sailors can't swim? You've
probably drowned them all! ^And what if they realize that they've
got a bloody Mage on board? How could you be so stupid^and so
callous?"

It was more than Aurian could take. "How dare you question my
deeds?" she snarled.

Anvar's Up curled. "Ah," he said bitterly. "Now it comes out. How
dare I, a mere servant, criticize one of the great and lordly
Magefolk! All that talk about being companions! Pah!" He spat
contemptuously onto the deck. "When it comes down to it, Lady,
you're no less arrogant and despicable than the rest of them!"
Shouldering her roughly aside, he stormed back into the cabin,
slamming the door behind him.

Sara was startled by the violence of Anvar's entrance. "That


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Mage," she heard him mutter. "That bloody bitch!" She stifled a
smile of triumph. So he had quarreled with Aurian! It was hardly
what she had expected, but ... In the long hours spent in this
dingy hole, she had done some hard thinking. She knew that she was
very much alone—cut off, possibly forever, from the luxuries of
her former life. It was unlikely that she'd see that ass Vannor
again, so she was going to need someone to take care of her—and at
the moment, Anvar was her only option. At least she had always
been able to twist him round her little finger—that was about the
only advantage, she thought scornfully. The problem had lain in
getting him away from that red-haired harpy. But now, here he
was—upset, and off balance. Easy. "Why, Anvar," she said,
"whatever has happened?"

He told her—at great length—pacing back and forth in the cramped
confines of the cabin. Sara could make little sense of it all, but
that didn't matter. "I can't believe it," he kept saying, shaking
his head in baffled dismay. "I just can't believe

it of her."

"Who knows what the Magefolk are capable of?" Sara said
insinuatingly. "They've never had our interests at heart. What
does it matter, anyway? You're free of them now, don't you see.'
Free of her. What can she do about it? When we dock at Easthaven,
we can do what we like, go where we want. We could be together . .
."

"Sara?" Anvar turfieYi to her, stunned. Did she mean it? Could it
possibly be true, that she still loved him after all?

The few feet of space between them was a gulf of years, of hurt,
of heartache, but Sara seemed to fly over the intervening gap, and
at long last her slight form was in his arms once more. As she
turned her face to him, the lamplight glowed on her fine-spun hair
and her eyes glistened with tears. "Thank goodness," she
whispered. "Thank goodness I've found you at last!"

Anvar could hardly believe it. Were all his dreams finally



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coming true?

"I was so afraid," Sara went on. "But you've been so brave. You've
been wonderful, wonderful." Breathlessly she hurried on without
giving him a chance to speak. "Oh, Anvar, I've missed you so
much!"




At last Anvar found his voice. "But I thought you hated , Sara.
After what you said—"

She sighed. "Anvar, I was so deeply hurt. I—I hardly knew what I
was doing. Forgive me, please. You're the only man I've ever loved
. . ." Her tears overflowed, spilling down her flawless face.

Anvar crushed her to his breast, never wanting to let her go, his
heart soaring. "Sara, my love, don't cry. That's all over now.
We'll do whatever you say, anything you want. We'll go away, and
be together."

Sara smiled. Then, putting her arms around his neck, she kissed
him, long and deep, with all the lost passion of their youth. For
a moment Anvar was completely taken aback, but her kiss awakened
all the frustrated longings he had kept buried in his heart. His
arms tightened around her as he returned her kisses with
increasing urgency and fervor. His heart began to pound, and he
found himself going rigid with excitement as he fumbled at the
fastenings of her bodice to touch her breasts, her—

"What is this?" Aurian stood in                              the doorway, her voice stern, her
expression thunderous. "Is this                              how you repay Vannor for his
love?" she stormed at Sara, who                              gave a little cry of fear, her
hands fumbling at the open neck                              of her dress.

Anvar put himself between the two women. "You mind your own
business," he told the Mage flatly. "Sara and I were lovers once,
and parted through no fault of our own—I was sold into slavery to
you, and she was sokKinto slavery of another kind. We've suffered


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enough, and now we're going to take what's due to us—and don't you
try to interfere!"

"Not interfere!" Aurian cried. "By the Gods, Anvar, how could you
sink so low? With another man's wife—a good man, who trusted you!"

"Don't you lecture me on bloody morals!" Anvar yelled at her,
beside himself with rage at the insidious guilt her words had
raised. "You—you murderess!"

Aurian stared at him, her mouth open, her face white and blank
with shock. Then she whirled, and was gone. Sara smiled a smug
little smile.

Everything was quiet on deck. Not a soul was about, except the
captain at the helm and the solitary lookout perched high above on
the mainmast. The rest of the crew were below, greatly subdued by
the loss of two of their comrades in the accident that afternoon.
One of the dead had been the harpoonist, and Aurian could not
bring herself to be sorry for his loss. She went quietly to her
accustomed place in the bow, her mind reeling from the shock of
what she had just witnessed, and the venom of Anvar's attack.

"Murderess!" The accusation rang in her ears. How could he
possibly understand? He thought of the Leviathan as animals. He'd
be quick enough to act to save a human child! Well, he might . . .
Anvar had not been trained as a warrior, as she had. People needed
warriors to do their killing, so that they could keep their own
consciences clear, and lay the blame at someone else's door . . .

Forral understood. He had told her once: "It's a dirty job, when
you come down to it. They use you to wade through the blood and
muck and corpses, while your friends get slaughtered around you.
They use you to deal with the people who stand in their way so
they don't risk their flabby bodies and snow-white consciences—and
then, if you have the gall to survive, to be there afterward as a
living reminder, they turn on you and cry 'atrocity'!"

"Then why do we do it?" she had asked him.



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He had smiled then. "Think of the people at the Garrison," he had
said. "There's nothing like the comradeship that warriors share.
And do you remember the fight we had, the day we first made love?
If you remember how that felt, then you know." And she had known.

Gods, how she missed Forral! How she wanted him. She had nothing
now; her heart was filled with a bleak, aching void. How could she
live with this pain for the rest of her life? Aurian saw the keg
of spirits that had been left behind, forgotten, on deck. An empty
tin cup was rolling round in the scuppers by her feet. A voice at
the back of her mind warned of danger, of the need to be alert,
but she ignored it. What does it matter? she thought dully. I've
made a total mess of everything anyway. Picking up the cup, she
went to fill it. It was poor comfort, but it might help to dull
the pain for a while.


They had made love. As soon as the Mage left, Sara had seized
Anvar with savage ferocity, pulling him down with her on the bunk
and tearing at his clothes. It had been so long . . . How could he
resist? Like animals, they had taken each other in the sordid
cabin, mindless in their lust. Now that it was over, Anvar felt
drained and guilty, and somehow used. The old, sweet innocence of
their love had vanished. He chided himself for his folly. He and
Sara loved each other—and now, at last, she was his again. What
did anything matter in comparison to that? He rolled over to take
her in his arms. Perhaps this time it would be better—

"Not now." Sara's words were like a slap in the face.

"Why not?" Anvar exclaimed in injured tones, and reached for her
again.

Sara slapped his hands away, then favored him with a smile.
"There'll be time for that later," she said, "when we're off this
rotten ship. But now you must go and make sure that the Mage is
staying awake."

"What? She won't want to see me now, after what I said to her."
Anvar felt a pang of guilt.


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"Who cares what she wants!" Sara's voice was hard. "The important
thing is that we survive this journey. Don't you see, the Archmage
isn't after us. Once we dock, we can be free of her, and him,
forever."    -s

Not to see Aurian again? Somehow, Anvar could not imagine it. But
Sara was right, he supposed. After tonight, the Mage would never
want to see him again anyway. Everything had changed so suddenly .
. . But Sara was right. The main consideration was that the
Archmage should not find them. Sighing, he rummaged on the floor
for his clothes, and dressed hastily. Sara gave him a farewell
peck on the cheek, sending him on his way.

Anvar crossed the deck, feeling a dreadful reluctance to face the
Mage. But all such thoughts fled from his mind when he saw her
asleep in the bow with her head on the ship's fail and a half-
empty cup of liquor by her side. Traces of tears glistened on her
face:*A-- hill ran down Anvar's spine, a sudden
feeling that danger lurked—very close. He leaned over to
awaken her, shaking her shoulder.

It happened with unbelievable speed. Aurian was on her feet, her
hands fastened in a crushing grip around his throat— and the eyes
that blazed into his were not her own! Anvar fought for breath,
clawing in panic at the choking hands.

Aurian's mouth opened, her face contorting into a horrible parody
of itself, and Anvar's blood froze as Miathan's voice issued from
her snarling lips. "Anvar! I should have known. I should have
ended your miserable life long ago. And how fitting it is, that I
use her hands to slay you!"

The grip around Anvar's throat tightened. At the last instant,
while he still could, he screamed, "Aurian, no!" He couldn't take
another breath. His lungs burned, his vision was darkening. Then
suddenly the hands released him, and he was pushed violently away
to fall on the deck, wheezing as he tried to suck air down his
bruised throat. From a distance he heard a voice. Oh, mercy, it
was Aurian, calling his name. As his vision cleared, he saw her


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face above him in the dim light. Her own face, frowning. She
looked very shaken. "Are you all right?" Aurian said.

Anvar nodded, and let her help him up onto the bench. His throat
felt crushed. He reached for the cup of rum, and took a painful
swallow. "Are you?" he whispered hoarsely. "I am now." She sounded
very grim. "Lady, what happened?" he asked her. "Can you
remember?"

Aurian looked away from him, speaking in terse, emotionless tones.
"I fell asleep. And suddenly, I wasn't in my body anymore. I was
somewhere else, all gray and misty—not in this world at all."

"Is that possible?" Anvar gasped.

"Of course it's bloody possible!" the Mage snapped. For all her
efforts at control, she was shaking. "Miathan—he had taken me
there. He was holding me somehow, and I couldn't move, couldn't
get back. I tried to fight, but I couldn't do anything. Then I
heard your voice, and it seemed to break his concentration. I
fought him then, all right!" She shook her head. "But I shouldn't
have won—not on ground of his choosing. It seemed as though he
weren't using all his power."


"Probably because he was occupying your body at the same time,"
Anvar suggested.

"So that's why I was trying to kill you!" Aurian cried. "Oh
Gods—the thought of him inside my mind, using my body—" She turned
away, retching violently.

Anvar offered her the cup of spirits, but she waved it away. "How
did you get back?" he asked her, in the hope that it might
distract her from the horror.

"I don't know—there was this kind of jolt, and I found myself with
my hands around your throat."

"Where is he now?" Anvar felt a sudden stab of alarm.


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Aurian frowned. "I don't know, and I don't like it. He—"

A huge wave crashed up over the bow, drenching them both in
shockingly cold water. Gasping, Aurian pulled her streaming hair
out of her eyes and looked up, aghast. Black, boiling clouds
streamed across the sky, blotting out the stars with unbelievable
speed. A mighty gust of wind tore at the sails and the masts
creaked dangerously as the ship heeled over at an alarming angle.
The lookout fell with a shriek from the tilted mast and vanished
among the churning waves. Another wave swept over the deck as the
bow dipped into a deep trough. Aurian and Anvar found themselves
in a tangled heap in the scuppers, knocked there by the wall of
water. The crew came racing up from below. "What the blazes is
going on?" Jurdag yelled. "No bloody storm comes up that fast!"

The strength of the gale was increasing—and with it the height of
the waves that tore at the little ship. Once again she heeled
dangerously, and Aurian clutched at Anvar as a torrent of water
crashed over the side. "Cut it loose!" Jurdag was screaming, and
the Mage looked up at the panic in his voice. The soaking mainsail
had jammed in place, and the wind was pushing it inexorably over,
threatening to capsize the ship. Two men scrambled up the rigging
to do his bidding, but the next mountainous wave washed them away.
The mast dipped alarmingly once more, the heavy sail almost going
under.

Aurian knew she must act swiftly. Rising to her feet, she made a
scrambling dash for the foremast, clinging to it for dear life as
the deck pitched and lurched beneath her. Biting her lip, she
tried to focus on rinf'Straining sail, but it was impossible to
concentrate on her magic and keep her hold on the mast. She looked
round for Anvar. "Anchor me," she yelled above the shrieking
storm. "Hold me!" In a moment he was at her side, putting one arm
around the mast and bracing himself against     ' the tilting deck
while holding her firmly round the waist with     j

the other arm.

"Now!" Aurian lifted her hands—and with a sound like a                                                           I


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thunderclap, the sail split up the middle, ripping apart from    •
top to bottom. Immediately the ship began to straighten as the
canvas wound itself round the mast in a tangle of ropes. Th<
captain stood gaping for a moment, then began to order th(     i
crew to cut away the wreckage and reef the foresail. Even with
a    | single slip of canvas on the foremast, the ship ran
hideously fast

before the storm.

Anvar put his mouth close to Aurian's ear. "It's bad," he shouted.
"We'd better get Sara." Holding firmly to each other and whatever
else happened to come to hand, they staggered and crawled across
the wave-swept deck, in constant danger ot being swept away by
solid sheets of water that threatened to swamp the ship. It seemed
a lifetime before they reached the

sanctuary of the cabin.

The door was blocked by a tangle of flotsam, washed across the
deck by the invading sea. Aurian cursed and raised her hand again.
"Protect your eyes!" she yelled at Anvar. Shards and splinters
flew as she blasted the mass away. Anvar wrenched the door open
and they cushed inside, a swirling flood of icy water

at their heels.

Sara screamed and scrambled onto the bunk as the waters rushed
across the cabin floor. Anvar, fighting the force of the water,
struggled to close the door without success, until Aurian also put
her shoulder to it. Between them they forced it shut, preventing
any more of the ocean from entering. Aurian, gasping for breath,
looked ruefully down at the dirty water that lapped around her
boots. "Well," she said, "at least the floor's had its first good
wash in ages." She ducked across the room for her staff, and
thrust it securely into her belt. "Let's go," she said tersely.
"We can't be caught in here if the ship goes down." "Lady, surely
this must blow itself out?" There was a tacit

plea in Anvar's voice.


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Anrian shook her head. "No, Anvar. This storm is Eliseth's

doing, and it won't end until she runs out of strength, which
won't be for some time—or until the ship is sunk. Miathan wants us
dead."

Sara gave a frightened little cry. "We'll be killed!" she wailed,
and burst into tears.

Anvar looked at the Mage, gray-faced. "Lady, I can't swim," he
said.

Aurian stared at him, bracing herself against the heaving floor.
"What do you mean, you can't swim?" she said.

"I can't. Sara can—she had to, living beside the river—but my
father always kept me too busy to learn."

Aurian smacked a palm against her forehead. "As if we hadn't
problems enough!" she said. "Stay by me—I'll try to help you. But
to be honest, Anvar, you'll only be out of this mess a few minutes
quicker than the rest of us. Nobody could survive a sea like
this." She felt bitter, and wretched, and utterly defeated.

A volley of thunder overhead made them jump, and a vivid flare of
lightning brightened the window. There was a rending crack
overhead, followed by a crash that shook the entire ship. The lamp
went out, plunging them into darkness. Aurian was thrown abruptly
forward, falling with Anvar and Sara in a tangle of bruised limbs.
She scrambled to her feet, clinging to the bunk to keep her
footing, and formed a ball of Magelight. The floor was canted at a
steep angle, toward the bow. Aurian swore. Anvar was still
hampered by Sara, and the Mage pulled her away to let him rise.
"Hurry," she yelled. "We've got to get out!"

When they reached the deck, utter chaos met their eyes. The
mainmast had been struck by lightning. Catching fire, it had
snapped halfway down, falling into the rigging of the foremast,
which had collapsed in turn, bringing with it a splintered area of


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the deck, and smashing the bow on the starboard side. It protruded
across the water, unbalancing the ship and causing her to swing
broadside to the battering waves that were already beginning to
break her up. The sea was flooding in across the shattered bow,
pulling the ship further under. The captain was still clinging
desperately to the wheel—a futile gesture, since the rudder was
out of the water.

The ship was going-'under. As they stood, paralyzed by the

sight before them, she began to turn over. The deck was slanting
too steeply—they were falling! Aurian felt Anvar grab her shoulder
then lose his grip as she plummeted into the icy sea, felt the
current trying to draw her down with the foundered ship. The water
closed over her head in a froth of bubbles, and she struck out
desperately, trying to get clear of the danger. But the current
was too strong. She held her breath as she was sucked beneath the
waves—then Miathan was back. She felt the grasp of his will, like
icy claws sinking deep into her mind.

It was too much. When she was so close to drowning, when she
needed all her resources to survive, he was there again! Aurian
felt rage building within her like a crimson tide. She remembered
Finbarr's brave stand, remembered Forral, brutally slain by the
Archmage's vile creatures. Miathan had even deprived him of a
decent warrior's death. Unthinking in her blind fury, she opened
her mouth to curse him aloud. Salt water seared her throat,
flooded burning into her lungs. Well, she'd do her best to take
him with her. With a wrench she broke from his grasp, ripping her
consciousness free of her body and arrowing her will back, back to
Nexis. He was there, hunched like a spider over his crystal.
Aurian entered the crystal, and gathering all the force of her
Fire-magic, she launched a bolt of energy—straight at his eyes.
Miathan shrieked—a horrible, tearing sound, and clasped his hands
over his face. Smoke leaked between his fingers as he reeled away,
blinded.

Not enough. Damn this weakness. As her dying body pulled her back,
Aurian tasted bitter failure. He still lived, she knew. There was
only one comfort to cling to with the last shreds of consciousness


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as she was sucked back into the agony of her body. She had blinded
him—destroyed his eyes irrevocably. That's for Forral, you
bastard, she thought. Then the darkness took her.

Chapter             18

LEVIATHAN

he was swimming. What the blazes was going on? This couldn't be
death—not another dark, freezing ocean! Some inner sense of time
told Aurian that only a few seconds had passed since she'd lost
consciousness—in fact, it was little longer than that since she
had fallen into the sea. Then, to her utter astonishment, she
realized that she was breathing easily. Breathing underwater!
Aurian laughed aloud, the sound muffled and distorted as her lungs
forced water through her mouth. So the legends were true, that you
couldn't drown a Mage! Her body must have made the change
instinctively, adapting her lungs to deal with the new medium.
I'll wager Miathan doesn't know about this, she thought
triumphantly. He'll think I'm dead, and I've given him too much to
worry about, for him to suspect otherwise. Gods, I hope he's in
agony!

Then the Mage remembered Anvar and Sara. Their lungs would not
adapt. They would be drowning! Heading back to the mass of
floating wreckage from the stricken ship, she dived, trying to
ignore the insidious thought that it would probably be useless.
But she had promised Vannor that she would take care of Sara, and
it was she herself who had brought Anvar to this fate. She had to
try. But Aurian^bund it impossible to see anything beneath the
dark waves. Even her Mage's night vision could not cope with that.
She wished she could be like the whales, with their extra sense
that enabled them to recognize shapes in the blackest depths . . .
Of course! Beneath the water, she sang—a song that she had only
learned today but seemed to have known all her life . . . Aurian
sang, calling the Leviathans in her mind, to beg for their aid.
And to her relief, they answered.

They were with her in an amazingly short time, combing the
wreckage-strewn waters to find what she sought. One of them was


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soon beside her, his immense bulk dwarfing her as she swam. She
recognized his thought patterns as those of the father of the
whale-cfeikl she had saved. His deep, kindly voice
echoed in her mind. "I have the man. My mate seeks the other. Can
you climb onto my back, Little One? The man needs help."

Aurian thanked him and headed for the surface, where the whale
rested with his broad back just out of the water. The Mage
scrambled up with some difficulty, hoping that she wouldn't hurt
him. She only had time for an instant's surprise at the warmth of
his sleek skin beneath her hands, before she found herself gasping
and choking, unable to breathe. She was drowning—drowning in air!

This time Aurian did not lose consciousness, though the panic-
filled moments while her lungs adjusted seemed to last a lifetime.
She tried to stay aware of what was happening, knowing that
someday the knowledge might stand her in good stead. "Have you
considered the implications of this thing?" The words she had once
said to Finbarr came back with startling clarity as she

choked and wheezed.

Aurian looked around dazedly. She felt cold and exhausted, but was
relieved to be breathing normally once more. She lay on the
whale's broad, barnacle-encrusted back, rocking gently with a sea
that was already growing calm. And there was Anvar, lying limp and
motionless a few feet away. Balancing carefully, she crawled over
to his side. He felt cold—very cold—and he was not breathing. A
chill passed through Aurian. Was she too

late?

The Mage tried to reach out with her HeaVer's senses—and found, to
her horror, that she could not. Cold and exhaustion had taken
their toll, arid she had thrown every shred of her power into her
attack on Miathan. The effort of contacting the Leviathan had
completed the drain. Aurian cursed, hammering a fist into her
thigh in frustration. Now, at the time of her greatest need, her
body had betrayed her! Until food and rest had restored her, she
would be unable to summon the intense energies used in Healing.


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Fighting panic, Aurian racked her brains. Surely there wa an
alternative? Remembering Meiriel's instructions for such an
emergency, she turned Anvar over and pressed hard and repeatedly
on his back. Water trickled from his mouth, but he did not
breathe. Aurian pushed harder, the exertion warming her despite
the icy wind. "Breathe, blast you!" She was tiring quickly; cold
sweat trickled down her face.


At last, as Aurian was on the verge of despair, Anvar's chest
heaved once, then again. He coughed and retched, spitting out
seawater and taking great, gasping breaths. His eyes stared wide
at the calming sea and the vast, curving back of the whale. He
struggled in the Mage's arms and tried to speak, but could only
splutter and choke.

"Steady, Anvar—you'll be better soon." With sympathy, Aurian
remembered her own terrifying struggle on the whale's back, before
her lungs had adapted back to breathing air. "Rest for a minute,
and get your breath back while I tell you what happened. The
whales, Anvar—they aren't just beasts, they're intelligent. I can
talk to them, in my mind, and this one saved your life . . ."As
she was explaining her part in his rescue, Anvar interrupted her.

"Sara?" he asked, in a faint, hoarse voice.

Aurian shook her head. "I don't know, Anvar. Wait, and I'll—"

"Why didn't they save her?" Harsh and accusing, his voice cut
across her own. "Did you ask them to try?"

Aurian recoiled in indignant rage. Why, the miserable, ungrateful—
He had no thought of how close she had come to losing her own
life, or thanks for saving his! For an instant her mind went back
to that dreadful night on the river, when she had lashed out at
him in her grief over Forral. Maybe Anvar was doing the same
thing—but no. He had called her a murderess, and the memory still
burned. Goaded beyond bearing by this new proof of his lack of
trust in her^he could only react with anger. That does it, she


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thought. When we get to land, I'm finished with him!

"Anger, Little One?" The whale's warm tones echoed chid-ingly
through her mind.

"The other member of our party has been lost, Mighty One," Aurian
explained. "The man blames me."

"He blames you?" Wry humor bubbled beneath the thoughts of the
giant. "He must think a great deal of you, to believe you capable
of shouldering such awesome responsibilities!"

Aurian, once she was over her surprise at the notion, was quick to
deny it. "I fear not, Mighty One. Where I am concerned, his mind
seems filled with doubt."

The Leviathan laughed. "Little One, when we doubt our own
selves greatly, we often find it more comfortable to transfer that
doubt to another. The man will learn, in time. As for his lost
friend, you may tell him to put aside his fears. My sister has her
safe, and she will reach land before we will. For this, he has you
to thank."

As Aurian had expected, Anvar's face lit up at the tidings. But
when he reached out in an excess of joy to hug her, she moved
angrily away from him. "Stay away from me!" she snapped. "You've
already made it clear what you really think of me. Once we reach
land, you and that selfish little featherhead are on your own—and
I wish you joy of her, Anvar, for one day she'll betray you as
she's already betrayed poor Vannor!"

Anvar's face darkened. "How dare you talk about Sara like that!"
he shouted. "You've been unfair to her from the start. You have no
idea what she's suffered—"

"No, and I couldn't care less! I can see what she's become, and
that's enough for me. She'll use you, you fool, and drop you as
soon as it's expedient—but at least I won't be around to see it
this time. I'm finished with both of you, and I hope I never



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see you again!"

Furious as she was, the expression on Anvar's face gave Aurian
pause. She had never seen him look so angry. "That suits me!" he
retorted hotly. "I noticed that you had no objections to using me
over the last year or so. Well, let me tell you this, Lady—I'm
done with slaving for the bloody Magefolk. After today, Sara and I
will make our own way in the world— without your interference"

At this point the whale intervened, saying that the anger
emanating from their minds was causing him great distress. Aurian,
instantly contrite, apologized to the massive creature. She moved
as far away from Anvar as the Leviathan's broad back would permit,
and for the first time in days, settled herself for a good sleep.
Surprisingly, it was long in coming. She had lost Forral's thick
cloak in the shipwreck, and her wet clothes clunj; to her like a
sheath of ice. The Mage gave in to a passing wish that she could
curl up with Anvar, so that at least they could share what paltry
heat remained to them. A surreptitious glance showed him huddled
tight in his own lonely place, visibh shivering, but refusing to
make a move toward her. Well, /'« not going to ask him! Aurian
thought. If he wants to get warm, have to come over here. So she
stayed where she was, with

nothing to sustain her but empty, stubborn Magefolk pride, until
finally her exhaustion claimed her.

Dawn found them approaching land. The sky had cleared to the
palest blue. The sea was flat calm, and the air surprisingly warm.
Aurian awakened, bleary-eyed and unrested, to see a beach of fine
silvery sand broken by clumps of jagged rock. A lush, dense strip
of unfamiliar forest lay behind it, and beyond that towered cliffs
of convoluted gray stone that soared to a staggering height. The
silky, perfumed air was alive with the shrill calls of unknown
creatures beneath the forest canopy. Shock ran through Aurian.
This was no northern shore! The violent storm had blown them right
to the fabled Southern Lands!

The whale halted an arrow's flight from the shore, where the water
was deep enough to float his massive bulk. Aurian turned to Anvar.


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"This is where you get off," she said tersely. "He says that his
sister left Sara here, so she should be about somewhere."

Anvar hx>ked astonished. "You really can talk to that thing, can't
you?" he said.

"Thing? He's as intelligent a creature as you, Anvar, and I find
his conversation infinitely preferable to yours, so go away."
Aurian set her jaw, averting her eyes from Anvar's injured
expression. It's a bit late now, to be looking hurt, she thought
grimly.

Anvar looked down into the water, which was crystal clear in this
sheltered bay. Following his ga^e, Aurian saw myriads of bright
fish darting through the lapis-blue depths. "Aurian, it's too deep
here! I can't—"

The Mage could see the panic in Anvar's eyes, and belatedly
remembered his inability to swim. She remembered her terror the
previous night, when the choking water had surged into her
tortured lungs, and shuddered. Anvar was shaking, and she fought
in vain against a surge of pity for him. "All right," she sighed.
"I'll help you."

Keeping her voice calm and reassuring, she said, "This is what
we'll do. I'll go first—" Suiting word to deed, she slid off the
whale's sloping back and into the water. After the bitingly cold
seas of the northern climes, its warmth came as a pleasant shock.
After a brief consjaltation with the whale, she turned to

t

Anvar.        "Now, I want you to slide down here. His fluke's

just—"

"His what?"

"His fin, then, if you like. It's just under the water, so you can
stand on it, and you won't go under."


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Anvar hesitated, biting his lip.

"Go on—he says it doesn't bother him," Aurian urged.

"Maybe—but it bothers me!" Anvar muttered through

clenched teeth.

"Look, it's perfectly safe. I won't let your head go under, I
promise. Trust me, Anvar—for once." She couldn't keep the

edge out of her voice.

Finally Aurian managed to coax Anvar onto the fluke that the
patient whale was holding steady. The water came up to his chin.
Thank goodness he's tall, Aurian thought as she swam to his side.
"Don't grab me!" she warned, realizing what he was about to do.
She righted herself and stood beside him on the fluke—and
discovered his problem. It was difficult to stand upright in the
buoyant, salty water. The body wanted to tilt

itself and float.

Aurian placed her hand on the back of Anvar's head.

"What are you doing?" he gasped.

"Don't panic. I'm holding your head out of the water. All you have
to do is take a deep breath and lean back—just relax and your feet
will come up naturally. You'll float, I promise, and you won't go
under. I'll have you safe."

After a time, An vaf plucked up enough courage to do as she said.
Aurian was swamped by a flurry of foam as he panicked, floundering
and thrashing and clutching at her. At the expense of a ducking,
she managed to keep him from swallowing too much water and got him
right side up, back on the fluke. Pushing the heavy, clinging
curtain of hair out of her face, she found an indignant Anvar
glaring at her with red, salt-stung eyes.


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"You said I'd float\"

"I said relax, you double-dyed dimwit, then you'd float!" "I can't
relax! I'm bloody terrified!

It took a while, but finally they managed to get the float ing
part of the operation sorted out. Anvar lay back, his fat breaking
into an astonished smile.


"Anvar, don't forget to breathe!"

More floundering. But eventually they managed it, and after that,
towing him to shore was a comparatively simple matter. Within
minutes they found themselves standing knee-deep in a gay lacework
of surf that tumbled and danced up the beach.

"Well," Aurian said. "If you ever get into deep water again, at
least you'll be able to float." On an impulse, she reached down
and pulled a long, lethal dagger from her boot top, handing it to
him without looking him in the eye. "Take this," she told him. "At
least you won't be unarmed."

It struck them both at the same time that this was the moment of
their parting. There was a sudden, tense silence as they stood, up
to their knees in water, and looked at one another. Suddenly,
Aurian was tempted to reconsider. This was insane! How could she
leave Anvar? She found herself unable to turn away from him, and
he too seemed unhappy and undecided, biting his lip while he
fidgeted with her dagger. Oh, drat this, Aurian thought. We're
behaving like children! An apology was out of the question—after
all, he was in the wrong —but she was about to open her mouth to
tell him that they ought to stay together when—

The spell was shattered as Sara erupted from the forest and dashed
down the beach toward them, calling Anvar's name. "Oh, Anvar—I was
so afraid! Those beastly sea monsters—I thought I'd be eaten for
sure!" She .gave a sudden shriek. "Oh! Look out—there's one right
behind you! Quick, get out of the water!"


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"Sara—thank the Gods you're safe!" Forgetting the Mage, Anvar left
the water in a flurry of foam, and ran to her. Aurian cursed, and
turned away in disgust. Breasting the warm waves, she swam out to
the Leviathan and climbed onto his back, her heart weighing her
down more than her wet clothes. When she looked back, Sara was in
Anvar's arms.

Sara's shrill voice carried clearly across the water. "Well, who
cares if she goes! We don't want her with us anyway!"

The Mage gritted her teeth and braced herself against the warm
body of the whale. "Let's go," she said. She never heard Anvar's
frantic voice, calling her back.

Anvar was furious. "Be quiet! She'll hear you!" He still could not
believe that Aurian was actually leaving. He felt somehow lost,
anchorless. He called to her, begging her to wait, but the whale
was sounding, exhaling deeply in a roaring geyser of water and
air. She could never have heard him. Sara's arms twined
persuasively round his neck as she kissed him, turning his face
from the ocean, effectively stopping him from calling again.
"Never mind her," she murmured. "Think of your freedom, Anvar.
Think of us."

The Leviathan could move very fast when he wanted to. Anvar broke
away from the kiss, but the Mage was already out of earshot. "What
in the name of the Gods do you think you're doing?" he snapped at
Sara. "It's not a question of freedom, you idiot! Not just now. We
should be sticking together!" In his heart he knew, with a
sickening sense of shame, that it was he himself who had driven
the Mage away.

"How dare you speak to me like that!" Sara flared. "How is it
supposed to be my fault? It wasn't I who called her a murderer! I
thought you wanted us to be together, just the two of us." Her
face crumpled, and tears spilled from her guileless violet eyes.
"I thought you loved me, but it was her you wanted all along . .
." Picking up her tattered skirts, she ran away from him, along
the beach.


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Gods, what else could go wrong? With a groan, Anvar hastened to
follow her.-The early sun blazed down from a vibrant, cloudless
sky. Its silky heat was already enough to dry the clothes on
Anvar's body, but the chill of last night's stormy waters seemed
to have settled immovably into his bones. The drying salt and sand
made his skin feel stiff and gritty, his eyes smarted, and he
ached all over. Panting in the heat, he caught up with Sara, and
put an arm around her. "I'm sorry," he told her. "Truly I am—and I
do want to be with you."

After a while, Sara allowed herself to be mollified, but there was
a certain hard look in her eye that made Anvar feel as though he
would be treading on thin ice for a while. Bloody women! he
thought sourly. He looked out to sea, but Aurian had vanished.
They were alone. "Come on," he said resignedly. "Let's go and find
some water."


Luckily, fresh water was plentiful in the forest. It drained down
from the cliffs behind, forming many streams that passed through
the lush fringe of forest on their way down to the sea. Anvar and
Sara only had to walk a little way along the beach before they
stumbled on the first of these streamlets where it entered the
ocean. They followed it up into the shadowed forest, where the air
was cool and moist, the broad-leaved trees and tangle of thick
vegetation overhead cutting off most of the sunlight.

The air was filled with a zithering chorus of insect noises,
interspersed with strident animal shrieks and birdcalls from the
canopy overhead. Sara shrank fearfully against Anvar, unnerved by
the strange sounds. "It's all right," he reassured her hopefully.
"They're only animals and birds." But he used Aurian's dagger to
cut them two stout staves from a nearby tree, thinking as he did
so how annoyed she would be at this abuse of her good blade.

The waters of the brook gathered in a hollow to create a small,
deepish pool. Around its sides the vegetation had been nibbled
back by animals, leaving a strip of earth and leaf litter. The mud
at the brink was cross-stitched with the tracks of animals who had


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come down to drink. Anvar stopped to examine them. Small rodent
prints, the slots of tiny deer, sinister S-tracks of snakes—and
what were these? They looked like prints of hands—tiny human
hands! Anvar felt a prickle in the back of his neck. Suddenly the
forest seemed full of unseen eyes. He hastily scuffed the tracks
away~wirii his boot before Sara could see them.

Parched by the heat and the seawater he had swallowed, Anvar flung
himself down to drink, splashing cool, fresh water on his salt-
tightened face. Once his first, urgent thirst had been quenched he
looked around, fearful of losing his way in the forest—until he
remembered, sheepishly, that he only had to follow the stream. He
felt relieved. If Aurian should change her mind . . . But she
would not—not after the way he had treated her. How he regretted
his harsh words of the previous night. If he had only kept his
temper, instead of flying to the attack because she had made him
feel guilty. Surely she would have understood . . .

Gods, but he wasjmpgry! Desperate to ease the gnawing

fr
emptiness inside him, Anvar pondered the possibilities of finding
food in this alien place.

Sara must have been thinking the same thing. "Anvar, I need
something to eat!"

It was little short of a command, and Anvar felt a stab of
irritation. Aurian had never spoken to him like that, and he had
been her servant! Striving to keep his voice calm, he said: "So do
I. Shush, let me think a minute."

"But I'm hungry. 1 want something to eat now!"

Luckily, Anvar's long-departed grandpa came to the rescue. He had
filled the young boy's childhood with tales of his own youth in
the country. By the time he was nine, Anvar had been fully
conversant with the skills of trout-tickling—in theory, at any
rate. And not far away was an ocean teeming with fish. "Come on,"
he said to Sara. "We'll catch some fish for


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dinner."

In practice, it proved to be a lot more difficult than it had
sounded. Out in the open sea, the fish seemed to have developed
some magic of their own. Again and again, as Anvar's careful hand
almost closed on their sleek, shining bodies, the fish suddenly
vanished, leaving the exasperated fisherman with a handful of
empty ocean. Anvar stood waist-deep in the sea, growing more
irritated by the second. Why wouldn't the bloody things stay
still? His eyes ached from peering into the dazzling waters, and
the sun beat fiercely on his unprotected head and back. He seemed
to have been doing this for hours. Try as he would, he could not
shake off the "fiction that the damned fish were mocking his
bumbling efforts. As he lifted his hands out of the water, he saw
that the skin on his fingers was white and wrinkled.

"Anvar? Anvar!" Sara's voice rang out from the shore. What did the
wretched girl want? He was vaguely aware that she'd been calling
for some time. He turned—and there she stood, laughing, holding up
a bag made from a white square of linen torn from one of her
petticoats. It was bulging and squirming in her grasp. "Look! I've
caught some!"

For a split second he could cheerfully have strangled her Then the
import of her words sunk in, and Anvar was both astonished and
relieved. Moving as quickly as he could against the clinging
pressure of the water, he waded back to her

through the shallows. "How in the world did you manage that?" he
said, trying not to sound as indignant as he felt.

Sara dumped her writhing bundle down on the white sands and put
her arms around his sunburned neck, making him wince. "Easy." She
smirked. "Aren't you proud of me?"

"Of course!" he snapped, glaring at her, and Sara relented.

"Did you not notice?" she said. "The tide's turned, Anvar." She
gestured to a reef, now exposed, that pointed out like a finger


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into the ocean. "There are lots of fish over there, trapped in the
rock pools,"

"The tide?" Anvar felt stupid. He knew about tides, but not having
been to the sea before, he had never understood their import.

The realization hit Sara at once. "Oh," she said. "You've never
been to the sea before, have you?"

"How could I?" Anvar snapped. "The Magefolk don't give their
servants outings to the coast, you know! How do you know so much
about it, anyway?"

Sara looked away for a moment. "Vannor used to take me in the
summer." Seeing the look on Anvar's face, she hastily changed the
subject. She couldn't afford to alienate him. "Anyway," she said
brightly, "I'm useless. I may have caught them —-I couldn't help
but do that—but I can't kill them. And as for dealing with the
horrid bits, well, it always makes me sick."

She had obviously said the fighf thing, because Anvar smiled.
"I'll do that. I learned how to do it in the kitchens at the
Academy."

Sara shuddered. She wished he wouldn't keep reminding her that he
was a servant. Living with Vannor, she had grown used to having
servants around, and had ceased to think of them as human beings.
They were just, well, there—polite, anonymous, and at her beck and
call. It made her feel unclean, somehow, to be making love to one
of them. Still, for expediency's sake, she could put up with it.
Turning to Anvar, she gave him her brightest smile, which had
always worked with Vannor. "It's a good thing there's somebody
practical around," she told Anvar, "I'm afraid I'm just hopeless.
Do you know how to get this fire starte4£l'%

Before his ill-fated fishing attempt, Anvar had left his tinder
and flint with his discarded shirt on a sunbaked rock to dry out.
There was plenty of wood between the forest's edge and the high-
tide mark, and Anvar soon had a fire going. He used Aurian's
dagger to gut the fish, feeling guilty again, for he knew she had


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given him the weapon for more important reasons than this. He
baked the fish on flat rocks at the fire's edge, and they feasted
in the shade of the forest's eaves, by the stream, where the lush
foliage protected them from the midday sun.

Anvar awakened in the cool, fragrant dusk. The last blush of
sunset glowed behind the tall cliffs, and bats swooped over the
beach, hunting insects lured by the glow of the fire. Now-the sun
had gone, hordes of tiny scuttling crabs were makin| off with the
remains of the fish. Anvar shuddered, and scrambled hastily to his
feet, wincing at the fiery stiffness of v sunburned back, and
trying to clear the fuzz of sleep from brain. All that staying
awake with Aurian had finally caught with him, he supposed. He
must have fallen asleep before had even finished eating.

Then he realized, with a start, that Sara was missing! Ar iously,
Anvar scanned the beach. Surely she wouldn't be stupid as to
wander off alone? Taking a branch from their fit wood pile, he
kindled one end at the fire, and examined tl spot where she had
been sitting. There was no sign of a stm( gle, so no beast from
thr=forest had seized her. Then he saw footprints, leading to the
stream, then away into the jungl With a curse, Anvar plunged into
the shadowed forest, folio* ing the course of the water.

The forest at night was far more eerie than the glowii emerald
jungle of the daytime. Roots writhed up to trip h«« vines
(snakes?) brushed his face, almost startling him into dr ping the
torch. Branches grasped at his clothing. Faces le out from trees,
seeming to grimace in the flickering torchligl The mold underfoot
was slick with the evening's dew, a1 sickly glowing growths sprung
from rotting logs, remindi him horribly of the chalice from which
Miathan had relea< his Wraiths. Anvar's heart hammered; his breath
came si and gasping. What was that light ahead? A strange,
flicker!

ghost-light. Anvar slowed his pace, creeping carefully up to the
clearing that cradled the little pool—and stopped, enchanted. A
nymph was bathing in the still, dark water. She was pale-skinned
and golden-haired: surrounded and waited upon by a court of fallen
stars that danced above the water, crowning her with silver. Anvar


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held his breath. An errant star danced close to him, and he saw
that it was a flying insect whose body glowed with cool, white
fire. Then the nymph turned to face him, standing naked in the
enchanted pool, her golden hair streaming across her shoulders.
Sara.

Anvar was enraptured, helpless in the face of such otherworldly
beauty. He had meant to chide her for venturing alone into the
forest at night, to rebuke her for her lack of common jnse.
Instead he found himself moving inexorably toward her, f
sleepwalker drawn by the lure of an elusive dream. Throwing m his
guttering torch and casting aside his clothes, he >ined Sara in
the pool.

She stiffened, a protest half articulated on her lips. Then ith a
shrug, she lifted her face to his kisses, her arms to return
embrace. They made love on the brink of the pool. Anvar afire,
carried away on the wings of love, of passion, by the auty of Sara
and the lambent night that combined to form a igle transcendent
whole. So carried away was he that it was in the instant of climax
that he felt an uneasy hint of ibt that Sara was not with him. Oh,
her body, yes. Su-emely responsive, making all the right moves,
the appropri-sounds. But in that explosive instant her eyes flew
open, and >king into them, he realized that Sara herself was
elsewhere, away.

Anvar let his body relax, his heart thudding rapidly against
breast. Sara smiled, and ran her fingers idly through his jr. You
imagined it, he thought. Trick of the light with those ined
fireflies. But his joy had fled, and his heart's ease was slaced
by a desperate awareness of how much he needed her. am his
childhood she had been his—and now, at last, he had to himself.
The idea of losing her was unthinkable. But for first time, he
felt an insidious touch of doubt, like an icy ;er. Had Aurian been
right? Had Sara been callously using inor for her own ends? And
now, was she using A/w? "I'm cold," Sara aersplained. "Cold and
muddy." She gri-
maced, and tried to wriggle out from beneath him. "Now I'll have
to bathe again!"



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With a sigh, Anvar let her go, joining her in the pool to bathe.
The unexpected coldness of the water, now that he was in a state
to notice such things, sent the last remnants of the night's magic
fleeing as quickly as it had come.

Without speaking, they walked back to the beach, where Anvar
rekindled a huge blaze.

"I'm hungry again," Sara whined. But the last of the fish had been
carried away by the crabs, and Anvar knew they had no chance of
finding food in the dark. "Try to sleep," he said. "We'll find
something in the morning."

"And then what?" she demanded. "We can't mess around in this
dreadful wilderness forever, you know."

To Anvar this place was a paradise, if he didn't count the
sunburn, but he supposed she was right. "I don't know," he said.
"If we climb the cliffs tomorrow—"

"What? Climb up               there? You must be joking!" Anvar sighed. "Well,
we can make our               way along the shore, then, camping as we go. The
cliffs can't go               on forever." "And which direction do we take?"
Sara countered.               "Why, you don't even know what lands we're in!"

"Neither do you," Anvar retorted, nettled, "and you've traveled
farther than I have, or so you say. Why don't you make a
suggestion?"

"You're absolutely useless, Anvar! You don't know anything! I wish
I'd never-^1" Sara bit the words off abruptly.

"You wish you'd never what?" Anvar felt an ominous chill at her
words. But Sara turned away from him, refusing to say more, and he
was reluctant to press her. Within a matter of minutes she was
asleep, or at least pretending to be.

Anvar stared miserably at the night sky. The stars seemed closer
here, mellow lamps set in a velvet canopy. It was a far cry from
the glittering star-crazed sky of his northern home, and suddenly


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he felt lost, and, despite Sara's sleeping form huddled next to
him, very much alone. He wondered where Aurian was, and was
bitterly sorry for his hurtful words. She'd have known what to do.
Forral had taught her well. Even when she found herself at a loss,
her courage made up for the lack. In truth, he admitted ruefully,
it was the near arrogance of her certainty

AURIAN          •       291

that sometimes annoyed him so. That and the fact that she was a
Mage, one of the race that had robbed him of his place in the
world. He toyed with the dagger she had given him, its clean,
sharp, businesslike lines reminding him of its owner. Where was
she now? he wondered. How would she manage—pregnant, alone, and
grieving, with Miathan in close pursuit. He began to worry about
her, feeling that he had failed in his responsibility. But despite
his troubles, the days of terror and flight had taken a greater
toll than Anvar realized. Long before he could awaken Sara to take
a watch, he fell asleep in the midst of his reverie.

Had they known to what lands they had come, and what race
inhabited them, Anvar and Sara would never have built a great
fire, like a beacon on the beach. Had they been aware of the
danger, they would have hidden in the forest and been more careful
about setting watches. As it was, they slept innocently on, their
fire visible for miles from the open sea. When the long black
galley glided up to the beach they were unaware of it, and even
the light crunch of boots on the sand and the hiss of drawn steel
failed to wake them.

Anvar was awakened by the clutch of hands on his body, and the
sound of Sara's scream ripping through the night. He struggled
violently, gaining his feet for a moment and groping for Aurian's
dagger. But the blade had fallen from his hand while he slept, and
was lost in the sand. He had time for a glimpse of flickering
torches, swartbjr faces, and white, grinning teeth before a heavy
blow on the back of his head knocked him unconscious.

Chapter               19



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THE         CATACLYSM

he Leviathan's name was Ithalasa. Sensing Aurian's •••——_ need for
rest, he told her that he would take her to a sheltered sea lagoon
farther south, where his people often found sanctuary. As they
went on their way, the Mage saw the cliffs behind the shoreline to
her right gradually coming closer to the sea until they formed the
coastline itself, and Aurian's view of the Southern Lands
consisted of a high wall of sharp-edged gray crags with the odd
touch of dark green where tough, scrubby bushes had found a
foothold within the many crevices. Sometimes the cliffs would
curve inward, forming deep, sheltered bays, but Ithalasa kept
going, passing them one after another. An indecipherable murmuring
on the very edge of the Mage's thoughts told her that he was
communicating with other whales as he traveled.

Aurian's head ached from the dazzle of the sun on the sparkling
blue waters. She was ravenously hungry, and very miserable. Try as
she would, she could not get Anvar out of her mind. Whenever she
closed her eyes to try to sleep, she saw his unhappy face, as they
stood together on the beach. Then, just as she was on the point of
asking Ithalasa to turn back, she'd remember what had happened
between the two of them and Sara, the previous night, a"ffd her
anger would come boiling up all over again. And if she was not
thinking of Anvar, she was thinking of Forral, which was even
worse. At last, because she had no idea what to do next, and she
was desperate to distract herself from her loneliness and the
guilt of having abandoned the others, she decided to confide in
Ithalasa, and ask his advice. Ithalasa's response to Aurian's talc
was startling. She was drenched all over again as his massive tail
lashed the water in agitation. "The Caldron is found? It has
passed into evil hands? Oh, rue this bitter day!" His distress
washed over the Mage, almost swamping her consciousness with its
intensity.

"You know of the Caldron?" Aurian asked, balancing with difficulty
on his slippery, pitching back.

"/ know," Ithalasa replied gravely. "My people carry in their
   \


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AURIAN          '       293

minds all the lost secrets of the Cataclysm. It is our burden and
our sorrow. That part of the past is best buried and lost."

He knew. Dear Gods, he knew! The Leviathan had the answers that
Aurian sought. But she could sense, without any need for further
words, his reluctance to speak of the matter. Still, she had to
try. "My sorrow to distress you, Great One, but will you tell me?
If I hope to fight this evil, my ignorance puts a deadly weapon
into the hands of my foes. And fight I must, or die in the
attempt. I have sworn to bring the Archmage's evil to an end."

"Child, how can I?" Ithalasa's thoughts were tinged with deep
regret. "7 understand your need to oppose this evil, but all the
races of the Magefolk swore never to revive this perilous
knowledge, lest the Cataclysm come again. I cannot tell you. Would
you have the world's destruction on your conscience, and mine?"

Aurian sighed. "Mighty One, Wise One, 1 may be young and untutored
by your terms, but I understand the fearsome responsibility that
rests with me. I know what devastation a war between the Magefolk
could unleash. But if I should gain the three lost Weapons, surely
Miathan could be subdued without too much damage being done? 1
tell you frankly that I am trained in the arts of war. But I was
taught by one who had no love for violence or destruction. He was
the best and gentlest of men, and the greatest of the many great
gifts he gave me was respect for my fellow beings, no matter what
their race, and a hatred of senseless death and bloodshed."

The Leviathan paused a long while in thought, but his mind was
veiled from the Mage. At last he sighed, a mighty sigh that threw
a sparkling, irideseeijf fountain from his blowhole. "Little
One—supposing you found the Weapons, Supposing you used them to
defeat the Archmage, and in doing so, gained the fourth also. What
would you do then?"

"I would give the Weapons to you," Aurian told him, without
hesitation, "Your people would be far better guardians of such


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perilous things. I would leave it to you to judge whether they
should be kept, concealed, or destroyed, I seek no power—only the
fulfilment of my task,"

"Are you certain of this?" Ithalasa's thoughts were tinged with
surprise.

"/ swear it. Great One, you may Read me if you wish, so that you
can be sure I speak the truth."

"You would subntj^fp that?" The Leviathan sounded aston-
ished. Reading was hardly ever done. Far deeper and more intense
than the Test of Truth, it was said to reveal the depths of a
person's very soul—and in the hands of a skilled practitioner, it
was open to dangerous meddling and abuse. In even suggesting such
a thing, Aurian had declared her absolute trust in Ithalasa. "I
would—and I will," the Mage said firmly. "Very well, Little One. I
accept—and 1 am honored." Steeling herself, Aurian opened her
mind to Ithalasa's probing thoughts. It was worse than her worst
imaginings—a wrenching intrusion far deeper, far more intimate
than any physical rape could ever be. The Leviathan sifted through
her mind, turning over the very silt and dregs of her soul—all
that was unworthy or petty, all the faults of pride and temper and
stubbornness that were so much a part of Aurian's makeup. All the
things that she had denied, or kept safely hidden from herself,
were churned up like clouding mud disturbed from the bottom of a
clear stream. When it was over, she found herself huddled in a
tight ball on the behemoth's knobbly back, sickened and shaking.

"Little One, be easy." The Leviathan's words spread like a
soothing balm through Aurian's ravaged and abraded consciousness.
"Even the Gods themselves, they say, never attained perfection. It
is not pleasant to confront one's faults, but therein lies the
path to true wisdom—and that is why so few ever attain it. There
is great good in you—great honesty and honor and courage, coupled
with a loving heart—that far outweighs the bad. Keep a balance
between both aspects of yourself, Daughter, and all will be well."

Daughter—he had called her Daughter! Aurian's wretchedness was
lightened by a fierce surge of love and pride. She tried to gain


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control of herself, at least enough to ask for his answer, but he
spared her the effort.

"For my part, you have my trust," he told her, "and I owe you a
great debt, for saving my child. But I may not make this decision
alone. See, we are near the lagoon—there, beyond that tall point
thai juts into the ocean. It is safe there—and you must eat and
rest. WhiL you sleep, I will consult with my people, and plead
your case, for thi\ decision must be made by all our race, not one
alone."

The Mage's heart sank. After all she'd gone through , . But she
knew that Ithalasa had done all he could, and it would be wrong to
press him further. With a tremendous effort


Aurian summoned the grace to thank him as she ought. There was a
smile behind the Leviathan's reply, and she knew that he approved
of her efforts. "SeeP" he told her. "Already your wisdom grows."

The lagoon was almost a complete circle, hemmed in by reefs on the
ocean side and tall cliffs on its landward edge. It was as safe as
it could possibly be—nothing could come to this place unless it
swam or flew. Aurian swam to the strip of stony beach that curved
round the farthest edge, and Ithalasa herded fish into the
shallows for her to catch. She was grateful for his help, knowing
that she would never have managed otherwise. As she was starting
her fire to cook them, the Leviathan took his leave, promising to
return as soon as possible.

The Mage was bone-weary. She ate her fish half asleep, and after
drinking from a spring that trickled down the cliff, she lay down
to rest, trusting the powerful sun to dry her clothes on her body.
This time, Aurian fell asleep at once, and while she slept, she
dreamed. A wondrous dream of the past, set in the dawning ages of
her own world.

The Magefolk were numerous and powerful and ruled the world. They
controlled the weather and the elements, the seas and the crops in
the fields, the birds and beasts and Mortal men without magic,


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who, little more than animals themselves, were their servants and
slaves. All across the lands and seas dwelt the four great races
of the Magefolk=—ojae race to control each of the four Elemental
Magics.

The Human Magefolk, or Wizards, as they then called themselves,
ruled the element of Earth. They had speech with all creatures of
the earth, and the trees and all things that grew. The most
skilled among them could even speak with the very rocks of the
mountains. Their task was to keep all things fruitful, all in
balance that lived or grew upon the earth, so that each might
prosper and thrive, and fill its rightful place in the
interlinking web of life.

Their brethren, the Winged Magefolk, or Skyfolk as they chose to
be known, controlled the element of Air. They dwelt in lofty aerie-
cities in the tallest mountains, and were responsible for the
birds, and^alj other creatures that flew. Their powers
harnessed the mighty winds, which bore the rain clouds to make the
world fruitful.

In the essential business of weather, they worked with the masters
of the element of Water—the Magefolk of the Race of Leviathan, in
whose charge were the waters of the world and the creatures that
dwelt therein. They controlled the seas, the rivers and lakes, and
using the Cold Magic in the days before it was turned to evil, the
great ice caps in the far north and south of the world. Theirs was
the gift of rain, which was borne where it was needed by the winds
of the Skyfolk. The Leviathans, because of their aquatic home,
were not human in shape. Since the water bore their weight, some
developed to immense sizes. They were streamlined and sleek, with
great curved flukes to steer and flat horizontal tails to propel
them at great speed. But they were warm-blooded and air-
breathing, and bore their young alive. It was said that they
were the oldest race of Magefolk, from which the others had
sprung. They certainly possessed the deepest wisdom of all, and
the most profound joy

in life.



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The element of Fire was the province of the Dragonfolk, who dwelt
in the broad desert lands. In appearance, they were most dramatic
of all. Long-necked, long-tailed, sinuous creatures, they were
winged, and their scales glowed with a metallic sheen. Their
bulbous, glowing, gemlike eyes allowed them to see all around
without turning their heads. They were born pure silver, and chose
thei,r,<preferred color in infancy, retaining that hue ever after.
Though some chose blues, greens, and blacks, most preferred the
colors of their element of Fire— shades of red or gold.

The Dragonfolk could produce two kinds of fire. They could turn
the energy stored within them into a long jet of flame which they
exhaled—but their other fire was more lethal. They could focus
energy through the crystalline structure of their eyes to form a
slender, concentrated beam with appalling destructive capacity.
Thus were born the legends that a dragon's stare was deadly. Their
teeth and claws were deadly too, but these were for defense only,
for the Dragonfolk ate no flesh. Instead they spread out their
massive translucent wings, ribbed like those of a bat, to absorb
pure energy directly from the sun itself, as a plant does with its
leaves. The wings were

AUR1AN          •       297

ill-adapted for flight, but an adult dragon could glide for short
distances. The young, being lighter and smaller, could fly
farther.

Within the province of the Dragonfolk's Fire-magic lay the art of
storing power within gems and crystals that had been formed by
heat and pressure within the earth, and the skill of working and
smelting metals. All forms of fiery energy lay within their art,
and they were capable of producing the most deadly and terrifying
weapons. But being a peaceful folk, they kept these a closely
guarded secret.

Because of the very nature of the Universe, the four Elemental
Magics had four Negative Magics to balance them, and it was the
responsibility of the Magefolk to keep these under control, and if
possible, turned upon themselves to positive ends. None of these


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powers were the specific domain of any one race of Magefolk, but
each was the responsibility of all, since all the Negative Magics
were wild, unpredictable, and potentially very destructive.

The first, and most primeval of the Negative powers, was the Old
Magic. This called upon ancient, elemental forces as old as time
that had stalked the chaos of the newborn Universe before the
Guardians brought the Magefolk into the balance to provide order.
The Old Magic was the power of these ancient spirits—the Rock
Spirits or Moldan, who once walked in giant, troll-like form; the
Tree Spirits or Veridai; and the Naiads, the Spirits of the
Waters. These ancient spirits had long been brought under control
by the Fathers of the Magefolk, and were now trapped and
powerless, unless deliberately called into the world.

More lately born were other races who called upon the Old Magic:
the Mer-folk and the Phaerie and Dwelven races, who lived in peace
with the ancient spirits in the deep waters, in the heart of
primeval forests, and beneath the hollow hills. These could, as
they wished, dwell either in the mundane world, or in the
Elsewhere inhabited by the elemental spirits. It was rumored that
they were the offspring of matings between early Magefolk and the
ancient spirits, but whether or no, the An-cient Magefolk had seen
fit to imprison them in the mysterious Isewhere of the Old Magic,
to protect the peoples who later

came to inhabit the world, for they were said to be tricky, false,

and dangerous.

To call on any of these elemental beings was a perilous business.
Released from their long imprisonment back into the world, they
wielded great power, but were likely to turn it upon summoner as
well as foe. But some of them, to the consternation of the
Magefolk, did still wander free, occasionally appearing to turn
the tide of history in some new direction— and rightly so, for
without Chance as well as Balance, the Universe would grind to a
halt.

The second of the Negative Magics was of a much more sinister


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nature, its origins shrouded in mystery. It was Necromancy—the
Death Magic, by which a sorcerer could sap the very life-force of
another. Like the Death Wraiths, who used this magic to feed
themselves, an evil Mage could use another's        j life energy
to fuel his power, making it temporarily stronger. This
vampirelike annihilation of life was so grossly against the
i very grain of the Universe that few of the Magefolk even
knew        | of its existence, and those who did guarded the
secret to their       f

utmost capacity.

Then there was the Cold Magic. This was the Magic of Entropy,
which drew its power from the chill, lifeless black depths of the
Universe. In the hands of a powerful Mage, the       j Cold Magic
could sap the very heat of the sun itself, plunging       | the
world into the darkness of eternal winter.      1

The Wild Magic was the fourth of the Negative Magics. This
governed the primeval forces of nature—tempests, hurri-       j
canes, and whirlwinds; floods and tidal waves; earthquakes,
volcanoes, and lightning. It was said that by employing the
Wild       • Magic, a Mage could make the very soul of the world
rise up as a living force. But to make it biddable—ah, that was
another

matter.

In her dream, Aurian saw these matters acted out in a panoply of
history that spanned generations. At last she saw how, in defense
against the Negative Magics, the four races of Magefolk had
created the Weapons of the Elements. She saw how the Race of
Leviathan crafted the Caldron of Life, which was to be a defense
against the very Necromancy for which Miathan had used it. She saw
the Skyfolk's Harp of Winds, which was made to master the Wild
Magic, but which, in evil

hands, could be used to summon it, for the Magefolk, in their
pride, had forgotten a fundamental fact—that a weapon has two
edges. She saw the Wizards, her ancestors, create the Staff of


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Earth to control the Old Magic, and saw with horror how it turned
on them to release an Elemental free upon the world—a Moldan,
which had cracked open the sea-filled rift between the Northern
and Southern lands. It was only then that the Magefolk realized
their error.

The powerful Dragonfolk, masters of weaponry, turned aside then
from their task to create a ward against the Cold Magic. Instead
they created a Master Weapon—the Sword of Flame, whose powers were
manifold, and transcended those of the other three Weapons. This
ultimate weapon was judged to be too dangerous to fall into the
wrong hands. A Dragonfolk Seer foretold a time when the Sword
would be needed to save the world from evil, but that was
unimaginably far into the future. Under his guidance, the Sword
was crafted for One alone to wield. The blade had a mysterious
intelligence of its own, and was made to know the hand for which
it had been created, but to reduce the risk, it was sealed in a
great, imperishable crystal. To gain the Sword, the One had to
discover a way to release the blade. When all was done, the
Dragonfolk hid the Sword beyond all seeking, and the few who knew
where it had been bestowed took their own lives. Thus did the
Sword of Flame pass out of all knowledge.

Aurian blinked, and saw dawn ]>ght gilding the silver of the
lagcxm. Every detail of the dream was etched clearly in her mind.
She shivered in the slight dawn chill and stretched limbs that
were stiff and bruised by the rocks on which she had lain. Turning
her powers within herself, she made a brief contact with the tiny
spark of life that was her child and Forral's. Forral. Ah, Forral.
Would she awaken every day for the rest of her life to be crushed
all over again by the bleak knowledge that he was gone? But the
child—their child—seemed well. It slept, safe and snug within her,
and Aurian prayed that it would remain so. Then she saw the dark
bulk of Ithalasa surface above the brightening waters of the
lagoon, and all other thoughts fled from her mind.

"Is it well,              Fatbg.^' she asked him, trying to keep the


urgency from her mental voice. "What did your people say?


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chuckled—she heard it quite clearly within her mind. "Foolish
child—think! You know their answer already!" "I do?" Aurian, never
at her best on first awakening, was

baffled.

Ithalasa chuckled again. "Of course you do. Half of what you

sought, you have already been told!"

"My dream! Of course!" Aurian, filled with excitement, ran down
the beach and dived into the now cool water to swim close to the
Leviathan's massive head.

His bright, deep little eye twinkled at her. "We thought it the
best and quickest way," he said.

"Oh, thank you, Great One!" Aurian gasped. Ithalasa sighed. "//
was not an easy decision, but we pray that it was the right one. I
beg you, Daughter—if you succeed in your task, do not forget the
vows you made me. We have no wish to create a tyrant from our
deeds this day."

Aurian was sobered. Now that she had seen for herself the scale of
the powers that she would be presuming to deal with, she
understood all too well what a great trust the Leviathans had
placed upon her. Treading water, she reached out to touch
Ithalasa's knobbly head. "/ understand, Father. 1 won t fail you,
1

swear it."

Once again, Ithalasa helped her catch fish for her breakfast.
Aurian had slept for half a day and a whole night and was
ravenous, her body responding to the needs of the child within
her. As she ate, she spotee further with the Leviathan. "Fatk< I'm
confused," she said. "/ nei>er knew there were four races
Magefolk. At the Academy, we were taught that we were the only
ones. We call ourselves the Magefolk, rather than Wizards, as you


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say vH used to. What happened to the other races? Why don't we
know ai you? What happened to the Weapons?"

"Ah. That, as they say, is another story, within which the swers
to all your questions are inextricably linked. It is the tra\
history of the Cataclysm, and it is that, to my sorrow, which I mi

tell you next."

But Aurian's conscience was troubling her. Since she seen her
faults through Ithalasa's Reading, the Mage's a with Anvar had
cooled and congealed into a choking mass guilt. She knew how her
arrogance had stung him, and she I

no idea of the truth behind the affair with Sara, over which they
had quarreled so bitterly. They had both been at fault—but how
often had Forral told her never to desert her comrades, no matter
what? Aurian was ashamed, and that apart, there was a prompting
voice within her, some instinct that insisted she return at once.
There was nothing for it. No matter how it galled her, she would
have to go back for them. The idiots would never manage on their
own, and she had promised Van-nor that she would look after his
wretched, faithless wife.

"Wise One, before you tell me this tale, I must find my companions
whom we left yesterday. I should never have left them, and I fear
they may be in trouble."

Ithalasa sighed. "Ah, Little One, did I not say that you were
learning wisdom? But now, I fear, you must learn something else—
him.' to choose between a lesser good and a greater one. I dare
not delay in telling you the remainder of the tale. Though my
voice was enough to sway my people, they had many doubts. They may
change their minds at any time, and if even one of them should do
so, I would be unable to tell you more. That is why we must act
with all speed. The tale of the Cataclysm is long, and there would
be little point in traveling by night. Besides, you are still
weary, and the child within you requires that you rest after such
intense mental communication. If you wish to hear the rest, we may
not seek your friends until tomorrow."


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Aurian bit her lip, trapped between conscience and necessity. She
had to know the rest. The future of the world might

nd on it. Anvar and Sara would be all right, surely? had landed
them in a safe~ plate. But that inner voice

Id not be silenced, and it told her that she was wrong, ian shook
her head, wrestling with it. I'm sorry, she told it last. I must
do this—it's too important to lose. When I've

id out what I need to know, I'll go back for Anvar and Sara.

Ithalasa waited, as near inshore as he could come, staying

t and detached until Aurian had resolved her dilemma.

The Mage turned to him. "Very well," she said, "I will stay

hear what you have to tell me."

"You are right, 1 think. This will give you the knowledge that

people lost long ago.                       Use it wisely, child." And with that,

asa's thoughts overwhelmed her mind, filling it with words

visions that unreeled before her, showing her the terrors

tragedies of a time^k>ng gone.

In the days of the golden past, all was peace and harmony. The
four races of the Magefolk labored together in their great task,
to keep the world peaceful and prosperous and fair. But Chance
ever lurks, wolflike, outside the gates of Balance, waiting to
swing Fate to a new course. Evil stars heralded the births of
Incondor and Chiannala.

Incondor was one of the Winged Folk, his face handsome,



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his body muscular and lithe. His great feathered wings had the

iridescent darkness of the raven's plumes. Though young, he

was mighty in sorcery and showed promise of becoming even

greater—until, overcome by his arrogance, he fell. For a wager

—a stupid, drunken wager with his wild friends, he stole the

Harp of Winds to summon the forbidden Wild Magic, creating

a whirlwind to bear him to the heavens, higher than any of his

folk had ever ventured before. But the whirlwind, fueled by the

errant power of the Wild Magic, proved too mighty for him to

control. Its forces tore and smashed his wings beyond repair,

before flinging him to earth in a tangle of crushed and broken

limbs. It went on to wreak great havoc, killing many, before it

could be brought                  under control by the Wise Ones of the

Winged Folk.

As for Incondor, it was deemed that he had been punished enough,
for the sky would now be denied him forever, and without the
freedom of the air, the lives of the Skyfolk became bleak and
without meithing. Earthbound, crippled and disgraced, he was
exiled from the lands of his people and sent to Nexis, the
greatest city of the Wizards. It was hoped that there, along with
the Healing for which the Wizards were famed, he-might also find
wisdom at last. The former was accomplished, as far as it could
be, although his body would be forever twisted and his wings were
beyond saving. Before the latter could take place, however, he met
Chiannala, and Chance brought Balance



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down.

Chiannala was the offspring of a Wizard and his Mortal servant.
Such pairings were possible, given the physical similarities
between the races, but they rarely occurred because tht brevity of
Mortal lifespans could cause the Mage partner much grief. It must
also be said that pride being an integral part ot

AURIAN          •       3o3

the Magefolk nature, the Wizards looked down on the Mortals as
lowly, primitive creatures that were powerless in a world where
Magic was all. However, not all Wizards thought in this way, and
unions did occasionally take place. The offspring of these could
favor either parent, turning out to be Mortal or Mage, as chance
allowed.

Chiannala favored her father, and at an early age rejected her
Mortal mother completely, throwing herself obsessively into the
study of magic and the development of her powers in an attempt to
eradicate the lowly Mortal stain on her ancestry. But it was not
to be. Though she excelled in her studies to such an extent that
she became the obvious candidate to be the next Chief Wizard, she
was rejected by the Council because she was a half-breed. Bitter
and thwarted, she came to meet Incondor in Nexis, and found him of
a like mind—and the seeds of disaster were sown. For revenge on
the Magefolk who had rejected them both, they plotted to seize
power, and rule the world.

Turning the powers of Healing to destructive ends, Chiannala
engineered a plague—a deadly illness that swept through the
Wizards like a scythe, killing many and throwing their society
into turmoil while they desperately sought a cure. In the
confusion, the Staff of Earth was discovered to be missing, and
none knew where it had been bestowed. Incondor, meanwhile,
unleashed Wild Magic upon the mountain aeries of the Winged Folk,
battering them with hurricanes and blizzards that left them
besieged and helpless, unable to free themselves from his spells. -
-/



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While the Mages of the two races were occupied in dealing with
these menaces, the evil pair smote the Dragonfolk with the Cold
Magic, almost annihilating their race, for they needed the sun's
energy to survive. At last, the few survivors, worn beyond
endurance by weakness, grief, and suffering, gave up the deadly
secrets of the Fire-magic, including the making of explosive
weapons and the knowledge of storing power in crystals.

The world was in turmoil, all Balance irrevocably upset. In the
oceans, the gentle Leviathans turned, too late, from their
meditations to find themselves beset by Fire-magic. Explosions
ripped through the depths, slaying without mercy. The survivors
were beset by as«ies of Mer-folk, called up with the Old

Magic by Chiannala. Peaceful to the core of their beings, the Race
of Leviathan could not retaliate. Instead they retreated,
dwindling in number all the time. And somehow, during the retreat,
the Caldron of Life, which had been their creation and chiefest
charge, was stolen by the Mer-folk, and found its way into the
hands of Incondor and Chiannala.

Turning the Caldron to Negative ends, they summoned the Death
Wraiths—spirit-vampires that sucked the very life-force from
living souls. This power of Necromancy they turned upon the
besieged Winged Folk. The desperate Skyfolk gathered all their
remaining numbers down to the smallest child and joined minds in
one last, desperate throw—a single, coordinated blast of power
aimed at the evil pair. But Incondor and Chiannala had prepared
for this. Using the Dragonfolk's Fire-magic, they had constructed
a great crystal to absorb the magic of the Winged Folk and trap
it, rendering their race mortal and powerless forever.    I

The Magefolk were in desperate straits; their numbers had
diminished to a handful, there were Weapons lost, or powerless, or
in the hands of the enemy. But the last hope of the Universe-is
that Evil will always turn upon itself. With their goal in reach,
inevitably Incondor and Chiannala came to vie between themselves
for leadership. Using the Caldron, Chiannala sapped the life-
energy of vast armies of Mortal slaves to fuel her power. Using
the great crystal that stored the stolen magic of the Winged Folk,


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Incondor increased his own power—and by now all the powers were
their province. The world was blasted with fire and ice, flood and
tempest, earthquake and lightning, as the two strove. Mighty
armies of Elementals were unleashed to turn upon each other to
their mutual destruction—and that of any living thing that chanced
to be near. And finally, inevitably, Chiannala and Incondor
destroyed one another, and the Uni- j verse breathed once more.
The few survivors crept out into the ruins of a changed and
blasted world.

The Leviathans, in desperation, had saved themselves ' breeding a
small, fierce race of warriors—the Orca—to end t threat of the Mer-
folk and restore peace to the seas. But fV some though they were,
the gentle Leviathan hearts of the O; abhorred the killing, and
the blood upon their consciences v an intolerable burden. So, when
their task was complete, their

AURIAN          •       3o5

race was granted the mercy of eternal sleep and hidden away in a
deep undersea cavern, ready to be called to life again should the
need ever arise. This accomplished, the Race of Leviathan resolved
never again to have dealings with the aggressive, destructive Land
Peoples. They shut themselves away from all contact with the
outside world and returned to their meditations and play. And the
peoples of the ruined world soon came to forget that they were
anything other than simple beasts.

In atonement for giving away the secrets of the Fire-magic that
had wrought such havoc, the few remaining Dragonfolk retreated to
the deserts and also cut themselves off, vowing to abandon magic
forever. They wished to avoid contact with other peoples, but were
frequently disturbed by warriors with more courage than sense. At
this time, many of the Dragons broke their vows and used the power
of the Fire-magic to take themselves to other worlds. Sometimes a
curious Dragon, hungry for outside contact, would kidnap a Mortal
pure in spirit and gentle in nature for a companion. Thus the
legend grew that Dragons stole maidens, since the suitable
candidates were almost always young girls.



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The remaining Winged Folk, mortal now and bereft of their powers,
turned the Harp of Winds over to a Guardian who dwelt beyond the
world—the Cailleach, or Lady of the Mists, who lived outside of
time on the shores of the Timeless Lake. Diminished and without
their magic, their martial skills grew perforce. They kept to
their own territory but defended it ceaselessly and ferociously
against outsiders/for they were shamed by their fall. The world
soon learned to leave them well alone.

And the Wizards? Well, theirs was a different story. When the
plague struck, the Chief Wizard prepared for the worst. He called
upon his son, Avithan, who was renowned for his wisdom, to choose
six of his folk with special skills—three men and three women, to
carry on the race if all should be lost. Avithan chose Iriana,
whose specialty was the beasts of the earth; Thara, who cared for
growing things; and Melisanda, whose Healing skills made her so
reluctant to leave her people in this time of crisis. With them
went three men—Chathak, who loved the Dragons and had knowledge of
their magic; Yinze, a friend to the Skyfolk; and lonor the Wise,
ambassador to the Leviathan race^i^vithan went to the Cailleach
and be-

seeched her to take the Six out of time for a hundred years, and
she agreed—on condition that he himself would leave time forever
to be her soul mate, for the Timeless Lake was a lonely place, and
Avithan was fair to look upon, and a good and wise soul besides.
He agreed, and passed out of the world for all time, to reemerge
in legend as Avithan, Father of the Gods.

For, when a century had passed and the Six returned, they found
that the world had changed beyond recognition. The other races of
Magefolk had gone into their self-imposed exiles, and the race of
Wizards had been wiped out by the plague and the Cataclysm that
followed it. The lesser race of Mortals, breeding like rats in the
ruins of the scarred planet, were kings of the world—such as it
was.

The Six put aside their horror and grief, and bravely set about
their task of healing. Iriana and Thara worked to reston the
beasts, and make the world green and fertile once mon Melisanda


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Healed the disease-ridden Mortals and animals. Tb men traveled
widely, garnering the surviving knowledge of the disciplines of
Fire, Air, and Water, for all powers must now rest in the hands
of the Wizards, who took the sole title ot Magefolk. Between
them, the Six set about restoring their race —a pleasant task, but
one to be undertaken with care and planning. As a ward against
future misuse of their powers, thev made the Mages' Code, and
passed it on to their descendants ,> an incontrovertible law that
each of the Magefolk must swta~ on their very souls, to uphold.
And, accepting the inevitable that the Age of Free3om had finally
arrived for the despisi Mortals—they set about teaching them all
they could, tl their race might grow in wisdom and responsibility.

For a thousand years they labored; then, too weary to

more, they chose to pass from their lives together, and fell n

legend as Gods and Goddesses—Iriana of the Beasts, Thara of

the Fields, and Melisanda of the Healing Hands; Chathak, God

of Fire, Yinze of the Sky, and lonor the Wise, who became to

the Southern races the Reaper of Souls, because he possessed a

part of the Leviathans' lore, and they had created the Caldron,

which was said to control the rebirth of souls. Avithan became

known as the Father of the Gods, and the Cailleach as the

Mother.

But what had become of the four great Artifacts of Po\v,-r'

AUR1AN          •       3o7

The Sword was hidden, awaiting the One for whom it had been
forged, and the Harp had been sent beyond time. The Staff of Earth
was lost, and it was believed that the Caldron had perished in the


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Cataclysm. People little thought that a fragment had somehow
survived, once again to cast Chance into the teeth of Balance in
ages to come.

Aurian surfaced from Ithalasa's tale, dazed by what she had seen
and heard. The history of her people had been spread out before
her like an open book. But for all that, her goals seemed less
attainable than ever. Miathan held one Weapon, and two of the
others were seemingly unreachable. Even the Staff of Earth had
been lost for ages uncounted. Only the presence of the Leviathan
stopped the Mage from a furious outburst of swearing. Instead, she
contented herself with a disconsolate sigh. "Well, you needn't
have worried about what I'd do with the Weapons! / can't see any
hope at all of gaining them. I'll just have to go against the
Archmage without them—but goodness knows how."

"Do not despair, Little One," Ithalasa comforted her. "You nou'
know more than your enemy about the nature of our world, and the
pou'ers and peoples within it. Maybe you will find unexpected
allies. And now that you know the fate of the Weapons, it may be
that they will come to you in the end."

Some chance, Aurian thought sourly, but was careful to hide it
from Ithalasa. He had done his best, and she was grateful. His
next words made her more grateful still. "/ can do one thing more
to aid you, Daughter, though neither I nor my people can fight for
you. Such a thing is beyond our natures. But I will give you a
spell—the ancient spell to summon the Orca from their rest. Though
1 beg you, out of pity for their suffering, do not use it unless
you are in the direst need. But I know you would not." His
thoughts washed over her, full of love and approval, and mingled
with them, the spell came into her mind—the long-unused call to
wake the warriors of the race of Leviathan from sleep.

"Ithalasa, how can I ever thank you?" Aurian said. Truly, she was
overwhelmed with gratitude for all he had done.

"Prevent another Cataclysm, Daughter. Restore peace to the world,
if you can," Ithalasa replied.



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Night was falling, and Aurian was hungry once more, and very
tired. The Leviathan insisted that she eat and sleep before
returning to her companions. The following morning they set out
northward once more, the Mage riding on her friend's broad back
and trying to curb her anxiety and impatience. But when they
reached the forest-fringed beach where they had left Anvar and
Sara, there was no one there.

2O

THE     SLAVE/MASTER

rom the familiar way in which the floor rocked and heaved beneath
him, Anvar realized that he was on board a ship once more. He was
tightly bound with coarse rope, and his aching head was throbbing
in time to a hollow, muffled booming that assailed his hearing
with ceaseless monotony. He lay still for a moment, not daring to
open his eyes, his cheek resting on damp, splintery boards. It was
suffocatingly hot. He could smell tar and reeking bodies, vomit
and excrement. As well as the booming thuds that echoed painfully
through his skull, he could hear the clink of chains and the
occasional crack of a whip, punctuated by screams of pain.

Anvar opened his eyes. He lay in a long, narrow, torchlit space
that took up, he guessed, most of the belowdecks area of the ship.
Chained slaves, in rows of four, sat at benches on either side of
a narrow aisle; each row of men wielded a heavy oar between them.
The hulking figure of an overseer prowled up and down, flourishing
a vicious whip, while at the far end a bald giant with skin like
dark-tanned leather pounded on a heavy drum, setting the pace for
the rowers. Anvar had been thrown into the cramped space in the
narrow bow, where there was no room for oarsmen. A quick glance
round showed no sign of Sara, and his stomach tightened with fear.

Someone was coming down the ladder that was attached to the wooden
bulkhead behind the behemoth with the drum. From the sudden
smartening of the overseer's attitude, the quickening of the
drumbeat, and the richness of the man's loose robes, Anvar decided
that this must be the captain. He was a tall, emaciated-looking
man with a hook nose and a thin, straggling beard. His head was


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shaved completely bald, except for a braided pigtail at the back,
and his skin glowed like polished wood in the dim red torchlight.
His voice was deep and guttural as he addressed the overseers.
"Pick up the beat, you! Get these sluggards moving, or you'll find
yourself joining them!"

Anvar was stunned. The man was speaking a language that was
completely strange to him—he could hear that quite plainly—yet he
could understand every word! The ability to

understand and speak any language was a talent common to all the
Mageborn . . . Anvar felt a warning pain lance through his skull,
and had to clench his teeth to keep from groaning aloud. To turn
his mind from such dangerous thoughts, he concentrated on the
captain's words.

"... and swill this pigsty out! How can you endure the stench? I
will not have us coming into port smelling like a cattle boat! We
are Royal Corsairs, and we have a reputation to

uphold!"

A groan of protest came from the overseer.                                           "It's bad

enough having to live with these animals. Why should we have to
clean up after them?"

The crack of the captain's fist hitting his face echoed in the
confined space. He staggered and fell, dropping his whip and
hitting his head on the edge of one of the benches. A murmur of
appreciation ran through the shackled slaves.

"Because, you stupid son of a donkey, if you leave them to wallow
in their own filth, they will sicken and die," the captain said
testily. "They wear out too quickly as it is—and if I have to
squander our profits replacing any more galley slaves, I intend to
take it out of your bonus."

"But that isn't fair," the overseer whined.



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"Think of it as a favor. If the crew lose out through your

carelessness,               they'll           slit        your       throat          for you."             The
captain

grinned evilly. "Get busy, Harag. And you, Abuz, pick up that

cursed beat. I want to be in time to catch the Khisu's procurer

tonight. He should be very interested in buying the pale-haired

wench for His Majesty's collection, and the man will fetch a

good price in the market. With the Khisu building his summer

palace, the price of slaves is as high as the stars just now. The

Slavemaster will find a place even for an illegal Northerner, and

his gold will line our pockets. So think of that while you work.

It might help to speed things along." He left, whistling.

Having been doused with several pailfuls of seawater during
Harag's rough swilling-out of the slave area, Anvar could no
longer pretend to be unconscious. As he choked and spluttered,
Harag seized a handful of his hair and pulled his head backward,
giving a low whistle of astonishment. "Souls, Abu*, you want to
see this one! It's true—Northerners do have eyes the color of the
sky!" With a shudder he dropped Anvar's hea 1

AUR1AN          •       311

"Ugh! Unnatural, I call it. I'm glad the captain is selling him
—with eyes like that, he's bound to be unlucky."

Abuz nodded, never losing the rapid beat of his drum. "I know what
you mean. I saw one when I was young—a captive spy about to be
executed. When his head was struck off, those pale eyes stared
right through me. Gave me nightmares for ages. Northerners are bad


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luck, I think. Good thing we're nearly home."

"Should we feed him?" Harag wondered. "The captain will have our
hides if he arrives in poor condition."

"Nah. He'll only be sick, and you've just cleaned up. They can
feed him in the slave pens—at their expense!"

Anvar closed his eyes in utter wretchedness. A slave! Oh Gods, no!
And what of poor Sara? Cursing inwardly, he struggled against his
bonds until a vicious kick in the stomach from Harag stopped him.
Anvar doubled up, vomiting bile onto the boards.

Harag howled in fury. "Filthy swine! I've just cleaned that!" He
raised his whip and Anvar cringed, awaiting the blow.

"Stop that, Harag!" Abuz bellowed. "I don't intend to lose my
bonus through your temper!"

Harag turned, his whip still raised, his face livid with rage.
"You mind your own business, you lumbering ox!"

Abuz laid the massive drumsticks down on top of the drum and rose
to his feet. He was so huge that he had to bend beneath the low
ceiling. The slaves ^topped rowing immediately, relief on their
pain-wracked, sweat-drenched faces. "Do I have to come down there
and deal with this, Harag?" Abuz said. "Because you're beginning
to make me angry—and you know what happens when I get angry!"

Harag's swarthy face paled. Slowly, he lowered the whip.

"What in the name of the Reaper is going on down there?" The
captain's angry voice bellowed through the open hatchway above.
"Why have we stopped?"

Abuz flinched. "Sorry, Captain. Just having a little problem with
the new slave." Without waiting for a reply, he sat down hastily
and picked up his drumsticks, resuming a rapid beat. Harag, taking
his temper out on the gasping, glassy-eyed slaves, strode up and
down, lashing them into greater efforts.


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Anvar curled around his bruised stomach and abandoned himself to
utter misery.

A cascade of cold water awakened him abruptly, washing away the
pool of vomit in which he had been lying. He heard the captain's
voice rising in anger. "I thought I told you to clean this place
up!" There was the sick thud of a fist striking

flesh.

"But I did," Harag whined. "The mangy dog threw up

again!"

"Never mind," the captain sighed. "Just get on with it." A
stinking sack was thrust over Anvar's head, and he was lifted by
rough hands. As they bundled him through the hatch, he heard the
hubbub of what must presumably be the docks. The sun's heat hit
him like a hammer blow as he was carried down   a   sloping,
bouncing   gangplank   and   thrown   down roughly, with all the
breath knocked out of him. Suddenly he was in motion—from the
jolting, it seemed that he was in a cart, and the multitude of
sounds around him seemed to indicate a town or city of some sort.
He thought he understood why they had put the sack over his
head—if he should escape, he would have no idea where he was, or
where to run. Unfamiliar with the customs of this land, he failed
to realize that it was also to hide the fact that the captain was
bringing an illegal foreigner into the slave markets instead of
turning him over to the city's authorities, as the law demanded.

The cart bounced along, jarring Anvar's aching head. The motion
made him feel £ts though he would be sick again at any minute. His
body was baking in the heat of the sun, and he w,i nearly
suffocating inside the smelly sack. But at last the sui heat
vanished abruptly, and the faint light that filtered throu; the
weave of the sack dimmed. The cartwheels echoed hollow on smooth
stone, then stopped.

"Greetings, Captain." The light voice dripped false honey "You had


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a profitable voyage, I trust? Are we buying today, or

selling?"

"Selling, Zahn. Just the one this time."

"Only one? Tut tut, Captain. You are usually one of my more
dependable suppliers."

"Be reasonable, Zahn," the captain said irritably. "What could we
possibly gain from two months' duty patrol up the

AUR1AN          •       313

coast? We are the Khisu's Corsairs, you know. Sometimes we must do
our duty, and forget profit for a while."

"Your loyalty does you credit, Captain," Zahn replied smoothly.
"Shall we inspect the merchandise, then?"

The bonds were cut from Anvar's feet, and he gasped with pain as
blood ran back into the numbed tissues. He was pulled from the
cart and hauled upright by strong hands, and the sack was wrenched
from his head. A short, wizened man with a face like a steel trap
stared at him openmouthed.

"Reaper of Souls!" he gasped. "A Northerner. How dare you bring an
illegal slave into my premises!"

"Spare me your righteous protests, Zahn," the captain said
impatiently. "I know how desperate you are for slaves—any
slaves—just now."

His words seemed to deflate the Slavemaster. "Where did you find
him?" Zahn asked with a frown.

"Washed up along the coast. Shipwrecked, by the look of it, in
that freak storm. We saw some corpses and floating wreckage. They
must have been blown far off course. Normally, they have more
sense than to venture into our waters." He grinned wolfishly.


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"Anyway, enough of this. Do you want him, or shall I turn him over
to the Arbiters like a good little Corsair?"

The Slavemaster pursed his lips and began to walk around Anvar,
looking him carefully up and down with an occasional pinch and
prod. "Strip him," he ordered, and one of his handlers drew a
knife and began to slit away the ragged remains of Anvar's
clothes. Anvar struggled wildly—then, feeling the bite of cold
steel against his naked flesh, he froze, swallowing hard .is he
realized where his guard had positioned the knife.

"What are you doing?" the captain protested.

Zahn grinned evilly. "Don't worry—I can sell him just as well as a
eunuch—but there will probably be no need. He may not speak our
tongue, but I think he understands!"

Sweat broke out on Anvar's brow. He froze in position, hardly
daring to breathe. Though he was sickened by the touch of Zahn's
overfamiliar hands on his body, there was nothing he could do. His
hands were still bound, and there was a burly handler on each side
of him, one holding the knife in its perilous position. Anvar
clenched his fists and shuddered. To take

his mind off the examination, he concentrated instead on his

surroundings.

He was in a large, circular chamber built of stone, with a domed
ceiling. In the center was a raised, roped-off platform, to one
side of which stood a row of large iron cages, empty at present.
The walls of the chamber were pierced at regular intervals by a
series of shadowed archways. Only one of them was filled with the
glare of bright sunlight, leading to the outside

world.

"Well . . ." Anvar heard Zahn say, and snapped his attention back
to the slave merchant, who was eyeing him thoughtfully. "He's in
fair condition, considering," he told the captain, "and he seems


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strong enough, with that height, and those lovely broad
shoulders." Zahn was eyeing him in a frankly speculative fashion
that made Anvar shudder. "Unfortunately," the slaver continued, "1
cannot sell him to a private client—those eyes would put people
off. Besides, there would be too many questions. But as you know,
the Khisu is desperate for more laborers. The Reaper only knows
how they go through so many slaves out there! Sheer mismanagement,
if you ask me. Still, this summer palace is the best thing for
trade in years, and His Majesty pays well. I think we can come to
an arrangement. Of course, he will not last long in our climate,
but that is not our problem. Come, my friend. Let us discuss the
price over a glass of wine." He snapped his fingers at the two
husky men holding Anvar. "Take him," he said.

To Anvar's utter relief, the knife was taken away. He was dragged
through one of the shadowy archways, and forced down a long,
echoing corridor lit by lamps that hung from chains set in the
ceiling. Bars of sunlight filtered through a latticed wooden
door at the far end. His captors unlocked it and Anvar was thrust
out into a dusty yard edged with open-fronted workshops. A potter
sat in one, turning a rough clay bowl on his wheel. In the next, a
draggled woman stirred a caldron of vile-smelling swill over an
open fire, pausing only to flick away a myriad of great black
flies that swarmed around her greasy face. Outside another booth,
a man was plaiting long, thin strips of hide into a whip. Anvar
turned his eyes away, not liking what

it portended.

On one side of the courtyard was a smithy. A skinny,

AURIAN          •       315

sweating little boy worked the bellows, keeping the forge at white
heat while two dark-skinned men in leather aprons hammered out
chains and manacles. There was no mistaking the smith himself. A
squat black man, his skin tanned like wrinkled leather from the
heat of the forge, he was twice as broad across the shoulders as
Anvar, his muscles standing out like rough-hewn rocks. The two
guards approached him with respect. The smith's eyes widened at


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the sight of Anvar. "Reaper take us!" he growled disgustedly.
"Zahn is getting desperate!" He advanced on Anvar, holding a
hinged metal collar that looked like a child's bracelet in his
great hands. One of his assistants followed, bearing a glowing,
white-hot iron.

Anvar struggled desperately, flinching away as the broad collar
was placed around his neck and the ends were closed together, but
the guards held him firmly. The smith was well accustomed to this
delicate task, and caused him little pain, though Anvar whimpered
in fear as he felt the collar grow hot when the edges were welded
together with the searing iron. But the little boy, who had left
his bellows, was standing ready to douse him with cold water from
a jar, and the heat vanished at once. The child gave him a cheeky
grin as he returned to his former task, and Anvar felt like a
craven fool. The coarse rope binding his hands was cut away, and
his hands were drawn round to the front and fitted with manacles
joined by a short length of chain. One of the guards produced
another chain which he attached to a ring on the collar. Nodding
brusque thanks to the taciturn smith, he gave a^sharp tug,
preparing to lead Anvar away.

Like a dog! Anvar, furious, humiliated, and still shaking from the
jolt of fear that had gone through him when the collar was sealed,
gripped the chain in his manacled hands and pulled back as hard as
he could. Instantly the other guard took a short, thick whip from
his belt, and the heavy lash fell once, twice, three times across
Anvar's back and shoulders. He staggered, crying out with pain,
and the guard pulled sharply on the chain. The hard edge of the
iron collar cut into his neck and the lash fell once more,
branding a line of fire across Anvar's back as he staggered after
the guard. The other handler followed, his whip flashing down
whenever Anvar stumbled or slackened his

They took Anvar back inside the building, down a steep flight of
steps into the cellars beneath. He was thrust into a bare and
gloomy cell that housed several other slaves, all men. Their
collars were attached at half height to rings on the wall by a   1
handspan of chain, so that they were forced to remain sitting
up    1 at all times. Ventilated only by an iron grille set high


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on the wall, the place stank of human excrement. Gutters led down
to a dip in the center of the floor, in which was set a noisome
open drain. Anvar was later to learn that the cell was swilled
out, slaves and all, twice a day, and that was the limit of the
sanitation.

The guards chained him by his collar to a vacant ring in

the wall and left him, bolting the door behind them. None of the
other slaves reacted in any way to his presence. They werf sorry
specimens mostly: filthy, half starved, and covered in sores and
scars. Some wept, some dozed, while others stared blankly at
nothing with hollow, vacant eyes.

Anvar tried to reach behind him with manacled hands to grasp the
chain that fastened him to the wall. He managed to get a grip at
last, though the iron collar almost throttled him. He tore at the
chain until his fingers bled, but it was firmly attached to the
collar at one end, and at the other, to the ring that was bolted
into the wall. At last he gave up, and hiding his face in his
bleeding hands, he gave himself over to despair, There was no
escape, not now at least. What would become of him? What was being
done to Sara? And most of all, what had happened to that faithless
Mage? In his self-pity, he imagined Aurian continuing her journey,
free and uncaring about the t\ she had so callously abandoned to
their fate.

Despite his anger at her, the thought of Aurian steadied

him. At least she faced things with courage and determination,

What would she say if she could see him giving way like this?

Nothing, Anvar suddenly realized. She would simply get these

bloody chains off, and get him out of here—and it wouldn't be

the first time she had saved him. Anvar thought of Aurian's

past kindnesses, remembered the closeness they had briefly


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shared on board the ship. He recalled that in bringing him on

this journey, she had saved him from the Death Wraiths—and

remembered why she had left him in the first place. It was his

own fault. He had driven her away, and wherever she was, she

would be facing difficulties of her own. At least he could take an
example from her courage. Anvar vowed then that whatever happened,
he would endure—as he knew that she would endure. "I will survive
this," he promised himself fiercely. "And one day I'll see Sara
and the Mage again."

Sara cringed back as far as her bound limbs would let her,
shrinking into the corner of the narrow bunk as the cabin door
opened. The captain entered with a bundle in his arms, followed by
two brawny sailors carrying a large tub ,of water between them.
Another followed with a plate of bread and fruit and a tarnished
cup, which he set down on the table. The captain waited until his
men had left, then with a sweeping gesture, he drew a jeweled
dagger from the sleeve of his loose-fitting robe, Sara uttered a
little shriek, but he merely leaned forward and cut the ropes that
bound her feet and hands. Then standing over her, he made motions
for her to undress, Sara clutched the neck of her tattered gown,
and shook her head wildly in denial, "No!" she gasped. "Please,
no." The captain laughed, and pointed at the tub of water, the
bundle that he had dumped on the bed, and the food on the table.
Then with an ironic bow, he turned and left the cabin, locking the
door behind him.

After a moment Sara slipped out of the bunk and ran to try the
door, knowing the futility of the act even as she did it. It was
locked, of course. She was not sure whether to be glad or sorry.
In a way it was a comfort to-hayt^ this solid piece of wood
between herself and the men who had laid hands on her on the
hrach. She shuddered at the memory. After Aurian's warning about
the sailors on the first ship, she'd been half crazed with
terror—but when the captain set eyes on her, he had shouted some


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orders in his harsh foreign tongue, and they had brought her down
here. Apart from sleeping for a while—she had no idea how long—she
had kin here, trembling, ever since, the sound of every footstep
filling her with dread.

Now it seemed that the captain wanted her for himself, Well, Sara
decided, it was better than being raped by his unsavory-looking
crew. He'd been courteous, at least , , . Fear was such a familiar
companion by now that practicality asserted itself. The fruit on
the table, though strange to her, looked ripe

sis     -     MAGGIE

and luscious, and it smelled so good ... Oh well, she thought.
Might as well be.ravished on a full stomach! The cup held a light,
spicy wine that Sara found delicious, although in her dehydrated
state she would have preferred water. The contents of the tub
looked clean enough, but she had no intention

of risking it.

After her meal, Sara felt much better, and turned to examine
thAurSle on ^e^.^^^^^^^^^^ia^ ana' <jcytaff A&wJ/; ^ har of coarse
soap, a comb carved from some white bonelike substance—and a
richly embroidered' hooded robe that tied at the waist with a
silken sash. As she shook out the folds of the robe, something
fell out and rolled across the cabin floor. It turned out to be a
little glass vial of perfume. Sara sniffed the fragrance
appreciatively. Despite the dangers that lurked all too close,
things were looking up.

Although the water in the tub was shallow and only lukewarm, the
bath was a glorious luxury. She washed her hair too, drying it
afterward as best she could with the damp cloths and combing out
the tangles and snarls until it fell in its usual, glimmering
cascade of rich gold. The robe felt wonderfully soft and cool
against her bare skin, and the perfume was rich and sweet. It felt
so good to be clean again. She only wished she had

a mirror.


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The sound of the door opening made her jump. Sara backed hastily
away, wondering belatedly if it had been a mistake to make herself
presentable once more. The captain stood in the doorway, smiling
approvingly. Then he gestured toward the door. "Where are you
taking me?" Sara asked suspiciously, forgetting that he could not
understand her.

The captain shrugged. Abandoning all pretense of patience, he
swept down on her in three rapid strides and grabbed her wrists,
tying them in front of her with the trailing ends of her sash.
Ignoring her shrieks and struggles, he called on a brawny sailor
to hold her still while he fitted a veil of some unfamiliar
diaphanous material over her head and pulled the deep hood of the
robe down to cover her face. The sailor threw her over his
shoulder with careless strength, and she was carried

away.

Like Anvar, Sara was placed in an uncomfortable, jouncing cart,
traveling blind. After a while, she knew from the tilt of

AURIAN          '       319

the vehicle that they were climbing a steep hill. Then the road
flattened, and the cart drew to a halt. Sara heard voices,
followed by the grinding creak of huge gates opening. Then they
were in motion once more.

They stopped, and Sara heard the cheerful patter of a fountain.
The captain helped her down, and she found herself standing on
glassy stone that felt delightfully cool to her bare feet. He
pulled the hood from her head. She saw his outline through the
translucent veil, and that of another man to whom he was speaking
with rapid eloquence. Then he lifted the veil and the other man
gasped. Sara, blinking, echoed his gasp at the sight of him. He
was short and chubby, his face elaborately painted with cosmetics,
his eyes outlined with kohl. He wore many glittering necklaces
over brightly colored robes, and gold earrings pierced his ears.
His shaven head was painted with intricate swirling designs in


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gold. The overall effect was painfully dazzling.

At least, Sara thought smugly, her appearance seemed to dazzle
him, too. He was almost jumping up and down with excitement. There
was a rapid volley of talk between the two men, then the fat man
gave the captain several bags that clinked, and seemed to be
heavy. Sara felt a sudden stab of panic. He was selling her? As he
turned to leave she tried to grab his sleeve, forgetting that her
hands were bound. She didn't think much of him, but he was the
only familiar thing in this strange place. He shrugged her off,
and leaping aboard his cart, maneuvered the donkey carefully,,
round in the narrow space of the white-walled courtyard. The high,
sturdy gates were closed and locked behind him by two slender
young men with shaven heads and curiously effeminate, painted
faces. Sara felt a wild urge to run, but there was nowhere to run
to. The walls that surrounded her were very high. Her eyes filled
with tears that spilled unchecked down her cheeks, since her hands
were still bound to her waist by her sash.

The fat man clucked in concern, and patted her arm, "Weep not," he
said, in a high, reedy voice.

Sara stared at him in astonished relief. "You speak my language?"

He nodded vigorously. "Little," he beamed, "Khisu speak good. He
teach. You like Khisu. Weep not, lady. Spoil." With a

I
gentle hand, he stroked the tears from her cheeks. "Be proud.

You for Khisu—your word, King."

"King?" Sara gasped.

The fat man nodded again. "Khisu many beautiful lady.

Want always beautiful lady. Want you, for sure." He gave her a

dazzling smile, showing a gold tooth at the front. "Come," he



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said. "Bathe. Dress. See other lady. Many lady. See Khisu this

night. Weep not. He like."

The ladies' quarters were a labyrinth of many interconnecting
rooms, their walls and floors richly decorated with pastel tiles
and intricate mosaics. There were rooms with silk-covered couches,
and tables, chairs, and chests that were inlaid with gold; rooms
with wide, low beds curtained in drifting white muslin; rooms with
fountains, pools, and huge, circular marble baths. There were
shady courtyards and gardens full of exotic flowers and vivid
butterflies. The air was laden with mingled perfumes and the sweet
piercing song of bright-hued birds in

cages of gold.

The women drifted in and out, some like silent ghosts in their
diaphanous robes. Others gathered in chattering flocks around the
edges of pools, or splashed and soaked together in the communal
baths with a complete disregard for their nudity. A few gossiped
together on the soft cushions of couches. There were more of them
than Sara could count, and each was more

beautiful than the last.

Sara's companion detached half a dozen dusky beauties from one
group, jabbering to them in their own language, with an occasional
gesture toward her. Their amazement at her golden hair seemed no
less than his own had been, and they crowded round her, exclaiming
loudly and fingering her heavy tresses. The little man silenced
them sharply and issued what seemed to be a stream of
instructions. Then he turned to Sara with a smile. "Zalid, I," he
said, pointing at himself. "You

want, you send. You?"

"Sara," she told him, realizing that he wanted her name.

"Sara. Good. Like desert wind. Go with lady now. Bathe, dress,
eat. Later, see Khisu." Unbinding her hands, he delivered her into


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the care of the girls.

Sara was ushered into a luxurious suite of rooms. She ate first,
the chattering girls serving her with spiced meats, fruit,

.           AURIAN            •       321

and strange, flat, leathery bread. She drank wine from a jeweled
goblet, and looked around her sumptuous chambers, wondering if she
had strayed into a dream. Then she bathed again, in a deep pool of
steaming water scented with flowers and herbs. After her bath, two
of the girls massaged her body with fragrant oils.

Sara relaxed beneath their hands, enjoying the pampering. As
Vannor's wife she had been used to such attentions, and over the
last few days she had missed them dreadfully. After the terrors
and hardships of her flight from Nexis, the harem was a haven, not
a prison. She was not concerned about meeting the

—what did they call him?—the Khisu. She knew she was beautiful.
She had used her looks to twist Anvar and that lout Vannor around
her little finger, and had no doubt that she could do the same
with this King. She felt a flutter of excitement. A real, live
King! It was the chance of a lifetime! Sara stretched like a cat,
thinking how far she had come in the last few years. This was a
far cry from marrying the baker's son!

Anvar, indeed! Sara scowled, irritated by the slight pang of guilt
that marred her self-congratulation. She had not seen him since
their capture. She shrugged. He'd been alive then, so they must
have plans for him, and he was already a servant, so things
couldn't get much worse. Besides, it served him right for dragging
her off on this insane journey! She meant to survive, to take care
of herself. With that, she put Anvar out of her mind.

They brought great heaps of clothes for her to choose from

—embroidered robes of translucent silk in a myriad of colors,
veils with less substance than a summer^morning's mist. They
brought gilded sandals, and perfumes, cosmetics, and more jewels


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than Sara had seen in her life. She took her time choosing,
combining the materials for maximum effect. She was in her element
now. This was what she was best at.

Ar last she was ready. Sara stood gazing at herself in a full-
length mirror of polished silver, and the vision that stared back
at her took her breath away. Gods, she thought, I'm stunning! I've
never looked so beautiful! Although her heart was bearing rather
fast, Sara waited with calm confidence to be summoned into the
presence of the King. The dazzling creature in the mirror smiled
at her enigmatically. This was going to be child's play.

V^hapter                £1

THE     BRACELETS             OF ZATHBAR

__        nch by inch, Aurian searched the deserted beach, and
•••I found the remains of a fire and signs of a violent scuffle.
Her heart turned over. What had happened here? A few clear
tracks—the prints of strange, pointed boots—still remained. A dull
gleam in the sand caught her eye. Digging down, the Mage unearthed
her own dagger. With a sinking heart, she tried to reconstruct
what had happened, toying absently with the knife as she thought.
No strange prints leading to or from the forest. The invaders had
come by sea, then. Sure enough, there was a deep rut at the
water's edge, where the prow of a boat had been pulled up onto the
sand. No bodies. No blood. Had Anvar and Sara been captured alive?
If so, where were they now? Aurian, full of self-recrimination,
cursed her tardiness. Why had she not returned sooner? Why had she
ever

left them?

"Such thoughts are foolish, Daughter, and ultimately destructive,"
Ithalasa chided her gently. "You did what you must. If you wish to
find your companions, perhaps I can set you on the proper track."
He told her that the ships in these waters came and went down a
great river that emerged farther down the coast. His cousins, the
river dolphins, had reported a city, many days' journey upriver.
If her companions were anywhere, they would be there. "Though you


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were right to describe them as foolhardy," he added dryly. "Only
an imbecile would light such a beacon in an alien land, to summon
who-knows-what! But now, you must decide your own course. If you
wish to travel north in search of the Weapons, I can take you a
goodly distance, though we do not venture into Northern waters as
a rule. But if you seek your companions, your way lies south, and
I will bear you to the mouth of the river Khazala—the Lifeblood."
Aurian was in a dilemma. She ought to head north with all speed,
for time was against her. As her pregnancy progressed, her
powers would gradually wane, vanishing       at about six months
to leave her bereft of magic until the child was born. Aurian had
no wish to linger in the Southern Kingdoms, with

their hostility toward Magefolk, nor to have her babe born here.
Ithalasa could take her to her own lands in easy stages, with
little risk of trouble on the way. But the Mage blamed herself for
the plight of Anvar and Sara. She never should have left them.
Though it meant a greater risk and a grave setback to her plans,
her conscience would never let her rest if she abandoned them now.
Eventually, heavy of heart and filled with doubts, she asked her
friend to take her to the river's mouth.

"Take comfort, Little One," he told her, as they resumed their
journey. "Who can fathom the workings of FateP It may be that you
have tasks to perform in these lands, and you may even find part
of what you seek. Such an act of friendship and honor will surely
turn to good."

Aurian thought of her love for Forral, which had begun in
friendship and honor and ended in tragedy, and forbore to reply.
But parting with Ithalasa was hard. When she left him, with many
tears, at the broad delta that formed the river's mouth, Aurian
felt as though she were leaving part of her soul behind. She
thought of Forral and Finbarr, of Vannor, Maya, D'arvan, and even
her mother—and of Meiriel and the Archmage, who had betrayed her
so bitterly. Was her life always destined to be filled with
grievous partings?

"Stop that, idiot!" Aurian chided herself as she sloshed through
the sticky red mud of the delta. "Self-pity won't help!" She wiped


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her tears on her ragged sleeve, smiling a little as she recalled
how Anvar had once scolded her for that habit. In this case,
perhaps she was heading fpr a reunion, not a parting. Aurian
prayed it would be so.

The Mage had not reckoned on the journey upriver taking so long.
The valley was broad and flat-bottomed, hemmed in on either side
by towering cliffs of reddish stone. She wondered what lay beyond
them, but a mortal dread of heights meant that climbing was to be
avoided wherever possible, and besides, she had neither time nor
the energy for side trips. The journey was tough enough as it was.

Aurian could see why the river was named Lifeblood. Its broad,
sluggish waters were tinted with the same rusty red as the cliffs
that towered on either side. The thin strip of land between the
cliff and the river was a flat expanse of stinking red mud and
stagnant, reed-choked pools, and because of the

treacherous, swampy ground, Aurian was forced to travel by day.
She felt horribly exposed on the naked mudflats. The sun hammered
down on her like a great weight, burning her pale skin, and the
air seemed too thick to breathe. She was unable to shed her
clothes because of the whining, biting insects that swarmed around
her, settling to feed on any exposed flesh. Her hands and face
were soon swollen with itchy red blotches, and the effort of will
it took not to scratch them was tremendous. Aurian knew that she
could use her power to create a shield between herself and the
little horrors, but she was reluctant to expend her waning energy
in the use of magic, and was wary of using it in a land where it
was forbidden.

By the second day, Aurian was already exhausted, and suf-fering
badly from the heat. Though she had braided her long, thick hair
out of the way, its sweat-soaked weight pulled painfully at her
scalp and made her dizzy head ache. By noon, she could stand it no
longer. She stopped to rest, but found no ease beneath the
broiling sun. There was no shade anywhere, and she was unable to
immerse herself in the river to cool down. While hunting the
small, eellike fish that were the only food supply to hand, she
had encountered great lizards, bigger than herself and armed with


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long toothy jaws. Apart from that, the river was full of leeches.
Of the two, Aurian thought she would almost prefer to deal with
the lizards, but was anxious to avoid both, The Mage's head
throbbed. The back of her neck, where the braid hung down, was
unbearably hot. It was no good. Her hair would have to *gb, She
was well past the point of heart-searching over such an obvious
decision, having lately beeo, involved in much graver choices.
Using a stagnant, reed-fringej pool as a mirror, she took out the
dagger she had given Anvar and hacked off the braid. Oh, the
blessed relief! Aurian felt literally light-headed. The discarded
braid lay pathetically Q| the ground like a dead snake, caked with
dried mud and sweat, and snarled with bits of weed and other
nameless things. Aurian stared at it in dismay, Gods, she thought,
what am I coming to? She had always taken such care of her hair,
as Forral had taught her when she was a little girl. It seemed as
though she had cut away part of her life with him. "I don't want a
stupid Prince. I'm going to marry you." The memory of those
childish words twisted in her guts like a jagged knife.


On an impulse, Aurian picked up the braid and washed it in the
little pool. It immediately unraveled from the cut end, and the
mass of hair floated in the water like a cloud at sunset. Leaving
the other end tied, she fished it out and whirled it around her
head to dry it as best she could. Then coiling it tightly round
her hand, she stowed it in one of the deep pockets of her leather
tunic, where its clammy dampness soon seeped through to her skin.

"Idiot!" Aurian told herself, "Sentimental fool! You cut the
bloody thing off so that you wouldn't have to carry it around!"
But all the same, she felt better about the whole business— until
the pool settled and she saw her reflection. What a mess! Although
she had never been vain about her appearance, Aurian was appalled.
Painstakingly, she used her dagger to trim away the bits that
straggled round her face, until it didn't look so bad. And it was
certainly more comfortable and practical in this climate, she
comforted herself, as she got to her feet and trudged on.

That day she also solved the problem of the insects, quite by
accident. Catching sight of a ship in the distance coming


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downriver, Aurian had no recourse other than to fling herself
facedown into the mud and roll, camouflaging herself and lying
perfectly still on the ground until the galley was out of sight.
It was then that she realized that the stinking mud that coated
her skin was a perfect shield, not only against sunburn, but also
against the bloodsucking gnats that had plagued her so. Thanking
providence, she went on her way^^much relieved, stopping

and again to renew her protection as the mud dried and ked in the
strong sun. My own mother wouldn't know me now, she thought-=and
wondered what was happening to Eilin, so far away in her Northern
home. Would the Archmage take

his spite on her? Aurian shuddered, wishing that she had ic way of
warning her. But there was nothing she could do except grit her
teeth, and go on with the task at hand.

By the fourth day, the land was gradually becoming less boggy.
Aurian began to come across little strips of cultivated land with
the odd tethered goat, and crude huts of woven rushes—the hovels
of peasants and fishermen. This meant that she was forced to
switch to traveling by night, hiding in the leech-haunted reed
beds by day for lack of anywhere better. The

326 • MAGGIE FuRty

constant danger of discovery placed a terrible strain on her
nerves. She had hoped to be able to steal food from the peasants
to supplement her inadequate diet of fish, but these people were
so desperately poor and wretched that she could rarely bring

herself to do it.

On the sixth night, Aurian came to land that was totally
cultivated. Every precious bit of soil between the river and the
cliffs had been used. The dwellings that she came across had a
more solid appearance, constructed as they were from withy and
daub, and thatched with the ubiquitous rushes. Stunted trees had
begun to appear, and in addition to the welcome cover they
provided in this more populated area, Aurian was delighted to


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discover that they bore a harvest of nuts, though in her own
lands, these would be well out of season. Still, who was com
plaining? Aurian thanked the Gods for such a boon.

Two nights later, as she rounded a bend where the lon^ river
valley kinked back upon itself, Aurian came upon the city. The
sight of it took the Mage completely by surprise, making her
forget the weariness of eight days' hard travel. She had never
seen anything like it! Bone-white in the moonlight, the buildings
clustered thickly on the flat ground on either side of the river,
then rose almost vertically on perilously constructed terraces
hollowed back into the cliffs that loomed above the valley on
either side. Narrow, sinister-looking warships crowded the
riverside wharves, together with smaller craft and low, flat
barges whose workmanlike appearance was much more comforting.

The city was much bigger than the Mage had expected,

and its architecture seemed strange to her. The roofs were flat,
or domed, or twisted into slender, fluted spires. Doors and
windows tended to be arched, rather than the square utilitarian
shapes with which she was familiar. Impossible bridges, looking
slender as threads from the ground, were suspended across the
chasm hundreds, even a thousand feet above. The very thought of
them made Aurian feel sick and dizzy with her irrational terror of
heights. She was puzzled by the lack of protective walls, not
realizing that beyond the cliffs the city was guarded by something
more powerful, more terrifying, than any defense that man could
devise.

Aurian pushed her draggled hair out of her eyes and tried

to get her tired brain to work. It would be easy enough to get
into the city, but once inside—what then? How could she find Anvar
and Sara in a place that size? Were they there at all? Were they
even still alive? Why, oh why had she left them in the first
place? The questions circled in her mind, but she found no
answers.

Belatedly remembering her exposed position, Aurian turned right,


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toward the cliffs, and took shelter in a grove of low, twisted
trees. She recognized them from others she had encountered on her
way upriver, and as she had expected they held a bountiful crop of
ripe nuts. With the child in her belly sapping her energy ever
more quickly, Aurian was starving. Hurriedly, before she lost the
last of the moonlight behind the dizzying cliffs, she gathered a
large pile of nuts then sat down m comfortable concealment =among
the roots of an old tree to eat, cracking open the hard shells
with the hilt of her dagger. Aurian felt better for the food.
Turning to the problem at hand, she began to employ Forral's
method of breaking it into manageable steps. So what were the
first steps here? Stop worrying, to begin with! If Anvar and Sara
were here, she would find them. If not—she'd deal with that when
the time came. But first things first. In order to enter the city
without arousing suspicion, she must steal some clothes to replace
her ragged fighting gear. She had to look enough like the natives
to pass as one of them, so she would need to see what they looked
like and come up with an appropriate disguise. Fortunately the
language would be no problem. Having accomplished her disguise,
she would need whatever passed for money in these parts. Aurian
realized with grim amusement that she was about to add thievery to
her growing collection of skills, both magical and martial.
Stretching her aching limbs, she allowed herself to relax. Now
that she had a plan of sorts, she could rest for a while, hidden
in the sheltering trees,

xhausted, she fell dead asleep among the roots of the tree. MIC
was still asleep at dawn, when the bird hunters came with their
dogs and nets. The dogs were on her in a flash, their yelps
awakening her just in time to draw her sword and defend herself
from their masters. The hunters were no warriors. Aurian killed
one, and put another two out of action before their comrades
managed to bring her down in their nets. By that time
the commotion had attracted other peasants from the fields around,
and Aurian found herself lying helplessly tangled in the nets, in
the midst of an astonished, vociferous crowd. "See that pale
skin!" "Look at that hair—the color of blood!" "A warrior?" "A
Demon?" "A ivomanT' "She killed poor Harz!" "Fetch the Elder!"

Elder be damned, Aurian thought, and moved her hand a little, to


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summon Fire-magic to burn away the nets. The movement was
injudicious. The peasants saw, and a heavy blow from a stave sent
her down into unconsciousness.

Aurian awoke with a blinding headache, to find herself lying on
the marble floor of a long, white hall. She was trussed in the
nets, which had been bound tightly with rope. Her staff] was still
in her belt, but her sword was gone. The Mage curs«£ softly. It
looked as though she had been taken to the city, andt brief period
of observation told her that she was in some kind ot hall of
justice. The judges, she discovered, were respectfuUfj addressed
as Arbiters. There were three of them, dressed alik in long white
robes and flowing white headdresses, sitting b? hind a table on a
raised platform at the far end of the chamber. Their faces were
masked in white, rendering them anonymous and expressionless. To
Aurian it was an unnerving sight. In her country, white was Hie
color of death.

From tales that Forral had told her, Aurian thought that the
brown,   dark-haired,   fine-boned   people   must    be the
Khazalim. In that case, the use of her magic would mean instant
death—and she had already seen the bowmen that stood guard on the
balcony that circled the upper gallery of the hall, She decided to
leave magic as a last resort—to wait, and see if she could bluff
it out. While her captors awaited their turn, Aurian heard the
Arbiters deal with other cases. The puniL1 ments were
unremittingly harsh. The loss of a man's hand theft; castration
and stoning, respectively, for an adultei couple. Gods, what would
it be for murder? Fear clenched a of ice in Aurian's stomach, and
she tensed herself, ready ttf her life dearly. Not here though,
not with those bowm

they wanted to execute her, surely they would take her outside .
..

It was Aurian's turn. Her captors dragged her before the impassive
Arbiters and placed her upon her knees, still bound, while the
village Elder, his face haggard through hardship and pitted with
the scars of disease, told his story. When he had finished his
tale the Arbiters turned to the Mage, and she felt their cold eyes


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pierce her, taking in her alien appearance. Then the man in the
center of the trio spoke. "Have you aught to say for yourself?"

How thankful she was that as a Mage, she knew their language!
Aurian's brain had been working with the lightning speed of
desperation to concoct a plausible story that might save her life.
Since they seemed so keen on fidelity, she had decided on rape.
Haltingly, Aurian explained that she had been I traveling with her
husband and his sister (in case Anvar and Ir Sara were somewhere
in the city) and that they had been blown [south by the storm and
shipwrecked. She had lost the others r;and made her way upriver in
search of them. Eventually, she ihad fallen asleep beneath the
tree and had awakened to find Herself molested by a gang of ragged
men (that part was true, at ny rate). Half asleep and believing
that she was about to be raped, she had defended herself as best
she could, She was prepared to die rather than yield herself to
any man but her husband .

The Arbiters conferred in low-voices, then the spokesman in the
center turned back to Aurian. "This tale does not explain your
prowess at fighting."

Aurian fought to stay calm, wishing that she could see his face.
"In my country, many women train as warriors."

"I see," Resting his arms on the table, he leaned forward, L and
she saw his eyes narrow behind the mask. "And how do you | explain
your knowledge of our language? Only the demon sor-Mwrers of the
North have such facility with our tongue. Can you Ely that you are
one of those sorcerers?" A low babble of astonishment came from
the onlookers, people closest to her backed hastily away, their
eyes wide •> fear. Aurian gulped. She had betrayed herself. She
took a breath, thinking qyjckly, hazarding her life on a gamble.

"I was. But I fled their corruption, to be with my husband." What
would he make of that?

"And is your husband also a sorcerer?" "No. He is a Mortal man,
and our joining was forbidden. That is why I fled, renouncing the
evils of sorcery forever. I never intended to trespass in your


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lands, and bear no ill will toward your people. I deeply regret
what I have done, but truly, it was an accident. All I want is to
find my husband and leave this place. I am alone and bereft and
afraid. For compassion's sake, will you not let me go?"

The Arbiter drew himself upright. r'Compassion? There is no
compassion for wrongdoers in this city. You have taken a life.
Forbidden! You are a foreigner trespassing in our lands.
Forbidden! You are a sorceress. Forbidden! What right have you

to compassion?"

Aurian dropped her eyes. "None. Yet I ask it anyway. It

may be—it is all I have left."

Again, the Arbiters conferred. The man in the center, who
obviously wielded greater authority, seemed to be arguing with the
other two. At last he turned to her. "I believe that you art
telling the truth, at any rate, for had you not renounced your
sorcery, you could have used your evil powers on those who
captured you, or to escape from us. You have not done so, which
implies that you mean no harm. And truly, I pity you, for you are
alone and bereft, indeed. Your husband has not reached this city.
If he had, he wotftd have been brought to us, in accordance

with our law."

His words hit Aurian like a physical blow. She had no need to
feign grief or dismay. Anvar and Sara must be dead! She was to
blame, and all this had been for nothing. When the Arbiter spoke
again, his voice was less harsh. "By law you should die for your
crimes, yet surely the Reaper of Souls would look upon us harshly
for condemning a woman in your straits. Yet we cannot let you go.
So we will give you a choice. As an alternative to execution, you
may risk the Arena, where warriors—criminals like yourself-—fight
to the death for the entertainment of the Khisu and the people.
You are said to show skill as a warrior. Perhaps, if you fight
well, you will win your freedom—or if you wish to seek your
husband further, you will have a choice of


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following him to the Granaries of the Reaper. Do you accept this
judgment?"

It was not a question, and Aurian knew it. But at least it left
her with one slim avenue of escape. "I accept—and I am grateful
for your mercy," she said.

"One thing more ..." The Arbiter beckoned to an official of the
court and spoke to him in a low voice. The man left the room, and
presently returned bearing a gray metal box, intricately chased
with strange, arcane symbols that made Aurian shudder. The Arbiter
blew away the coating of dust and raised the lid, withdrawing
something that she could not see. He ordered her guards to unbind
her, approached her cautiously, and with a surprisingly gentle
touch, fastened something around each of her wrists. As the second
catch snapped shut, Aurian lurched and fell, her scream of agony
echoing in her ears. It felt as though she were being wrenched
inside out. A creeping weakness overwhelmed her, as though her
very soul were being leeched away. She felt strong arms beneath
her as the Arbiter lifted her to a bench by the wall and held a
cup of wine to her lips. Aurian sipped it gratefully. Her muscles
would not support her, and her head was swimming. But far worse
than that, somewhere within her, unplaceable, there lurked an
absence—a cold gray void that seemed ever to slip away from her
seeking mind. "What have you done to me?" she whispered.

The Arbiter sounded shaken.J'I have placed upon you the Bracelets
of Zathbar Wizard-Bane—artifacts won from a Dragon's hoard, long
ago. The secrets of their making were lost in the mists of time. I
had no idea that they would affect you so severely, but they are
necessary, if you are to live within our lands. They are set with
spellstones that negate your sorcerous power, drawing it into
themselves, and they will act as a safeguard for my people against
any attempt on your part to employ your evil powers upon us."

Aurian felt a flash of rage. Zathbar Wizard-Bane, indeed! Why,
these people who protested so strongly against the use of magic
had actually employed Negative magic to bind her powers! Oh Gods,
Aurian thought despairingly. How am I ever going to get out of


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this?

The warriors' quarters at the Arena were pleasant—for a prison.
Aurian's room was a cell in that it had barred windows and a
sturdy door, but the smooth white walls and brown tiled floor were
spotless, and there was a table, a chair, a chest, and a narrow
bed. Pegs were attached to the walls to hang clothing, and a gay
woven rug on the floor provided a splash of bright color. Aurian
remembered little of her journey to this place. Someone had helped
her to her cell and removed the bonds that had been placed upon
her, and she had fallen asleep on the bed

utterly spent.

When she awakened it was dusk. An oil lamp burned in niche high in
the wall, enclosed behind an iron grating, pit     , sumably in
case she decided to set herself on fire, the Mage thought wryly.
The pain and weakness had passed, leaving only the hideous gray
void—the absence of her magic. Aurian fought the panic that
threatened to choke her. Don't be a fool, she told herself, or
you'll never get out of this. But oh, thai drear, chill emptiness
. , . Get used to it, she told herself implacably. Fast.

She sat up, scanning the room, and saw a generous meal on the
table. Ah, that looked good! She seemed to have been hungry
forever. Though it had cooled, it was good. There was some kind of
spiced, savory porridge made from cooked pulses, a haunch of roast
meaj^that turned out to be goat, and strange, flat bread. There
was a bowl of fruit, and white cheese so strong that it made her
eyes water, and wine, a rich, dark red, fruity and strong. Aurian
gorged herself, making up for her days of fasting. Then she
returned to the bed with a brimming cup of wine and the bottle,
propped her back against the wall and put her feet up, squinting
at the dancing flame of the lamp that doubled and blurred in her
vision. Gods, that wine was strong! Or was it simply affecting her
because she was so spent?

The Mage felt curiously numb and detached. The theft of her
powers, her current predicament, and the loss of Anvar and
Sara—she couldn't face any of them, not yet. She knew she ought to


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be making some kind of plan, but she simply could not bring
herself to care. Since her flight from the Academy she had been
constantly driven, constantly on a knife edge. Now


she was imprisoned and forced to be still, and her mind and spirit
were making the most of the opportunity to rest and renew
themselves. The wine helped, too. She found herself drifting into
a doze . . .

There was the sudden snick of a key turning in the lock. Aurian
shot bolt upright, blinking in the dazzling sunlight that poured
through the barred window of her cell. She reached for her sword,
but it was gone, of course. A tall, brown-skinned man of middle
years entered, bearing a tray. The Mage made no move, but watched
him as he went to the table and set his burden down. His head was
completely bald, and he wore a red patch over his left eye, A
pale, jagged scar ran down his face from beneath the patch.
Beneath his loose red robes, his body was broad in the shoulder
and rangy, reminding her, with a pang, of Anvar.

He turned to her, bowing deeply. "A propitious day to you,
warrior." His voice was deep and smooth.

Aurian, reacting instinctively to his courtesy, inclined her head
in reply. "A propitious day to you, sir—and yours will be more
propitious than mine, I fear," she added dryly.

The man smiled. "That remains to be seen, Eliizar am I,
Swordmaster of the Arena," He bowed again,

Aurian got to her feet, rubbing her painfully stiff neck, and

responded in kind, "Aurian am I—and a fool, it seems, for

ig to sleep sitting up!" As she spoke, she wondered why the

!••• 'celets had not impaired her ability to understand the local

language. Could there be a loophole^n the spell?


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Eliizar smiled, "You were wrary, indeed—and hungry, too, it
seems," He cocked an eyebrow at the scant debris from her previous
night's supper. "I thought it best to let you sleep. We have
masseurs here who can remedy your stiffness, but first, let us
break our fast together, I am curious as to your history, and I
feel sure you have many questions that you would wish to ask me."

Breakfast consisted of eggs, hard-boiled and shelled; the
ubiquitous flat bread; cheese, honey, and fruit; and a covered pot
from which issued the most tantalizing aroma . . . "What's this?"
she asked Eliizar.

His eyebrows went up in surprise. "You do not know liafa? Why, you
have never lived! This is the warrior's boon—it gives
strength, alertness, sustenance." He poured a cup of steaming
black liquid and handed it to Aurian, who grimaced.

It looked like mud! Inhaling the heady aroma, she took a sip—and
choked. The taste was strong, and very, very bitter. "It—it
doesn't taste the way it smells," she said sheepishly.

Eliizar smiled, and ladled a spoonful of honey into her cup,
stirring vigorously. "Try again," he prompted.

Aurian picked up the cup as though it were a viper, but not
wanting to lose face, she drank again. This time her face lit up
with delight. With the honey smoothing out the bitterness, the
drink was delicious—and stimulating, too. Aurian, who had such
difficulty waking up in the morning, approved. She began to tackle
her breakfast with a will.

"How came you here, Aurian?" Eliizar asked, drawing her attention
from the food. "How comes a lady to be a warrior? Swordswomen are
unknown in this land."

Aurian repeated the story she had told to the Arbiters. When she
mentioned her two missing companions, Eliizar's good eye narrowed
thoughtfully. "Ah," he said. "Then there-may be some truth in the
rumors after all."


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"What rumors?" Aurian pounced on the words. The Swordmaster
hesitated. "It may be nothing," he said at last. "You know how a
rumor can grow from nothing—" Aurian clamped her hand round his
wrist. "Tell me!" Eliizar looked away. "Very well," he said
reluctantly. "There was talk in thejyiarket some days ago ttet a
Corsair ship had found outlanders farther up the coast, and that
one was a woman of surpassing fairness. But no outlander has been
seen in the city to my knowledge, save yourself."

"If they had been captured, what would have happened to

them? Please tell me."

"They would have been brought before the Arbiters, as you were.
That is our law," the Swordmaster said brusquely. "But if they had
not?" Aurian persisted. "Well, there have long been rumors of an
illegal trade in slaves, but then the woman would have been sold
to a house of pleasure. You can be sure that she has not. Word of
such a wonder would have reached every man in the city by now,
without a doubt. Leave it, Aurian. Whatever has happened to them,
it cannot affect you." Eliizar swallowed hard, looking

unhappy. "Warrior, you must concentrate on your own survival in
this place—for as long as you can. The minute you entered the
precincts of the Arena, you came under a sentence of death, be it
soon or late."

Aurian, dismayed, let go of his arm. "But the Arbiter said I would
have a chance to win my freedom!"

The Swordmaster shook his head. "It was cruel and wrong on his
part to dangle such a hope before you," he said flatly.

"Then he lied? There is no way—"

"Impossible!" Eliizar rose abruptly. "Here, you are naught but
sword fodder for the Khisu's entertainment. He is a cruel man, as
I know to my cost. First I must place your level of skill against
the other warriors—I have your sword, to return to you. You will


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train with them under supervision—we only fight to

death within the Arena itself and in the Arena, always. Be

led. When you do fight there, if you overcome your first

inent you will then fight two together, then three. If, by some
miracle, you survive all that—we pit you against the Black Demon."

Aurian's scalp prickled. "And if I defeat this Demon?"

"Then you win your freedom. But it is impossible. No one has ever
defeated the Demon. No one can."

Aurian stood, straightening her shoulders. "I will defeat him,"
she growled. "When do we start?"

Eliizar shook his head sadly, and left without another word.
Aurian heard the key turn in the lock. She shrugged and returned
to her breakfast, refusing j:o countenance the insidious fear she
felt for herself, and for her child. She would need to keep her
strength up. After she had eaten she rested for a while, then
began to put herself into the deep meditation of Forral's long-
neglected swordsman's exercises. Whatever was to come, she would
be ready. She had to be.

Ckapter             22

THE     INVISIBLE             UNICORN

gain!" Maya shouted. D'arvan gathered his exhausted      • HHH
limbs and rushed toward her across the forest clearing,     'jj
swinging his wooden sword wildly. The warrior sidestepped neatly,
stuck out a foot and tripped him. The Mage went down like a felled
tree, sprawling facedown in the mud and last year's leaves. "I
think that's enough for today," Maya said tactfully, the corners
of her mouth twitching with suppressed mirth as she went over to
help him up.

"You—you vixen!" D'arvan spluttered, wiping the mud


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from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, pet, but it is a standard move." Maya offered him her
hand. "If you like, I'll teach it to you tomorrow."

"Why bother?" D'arvan scrambled up and retrieved his cloak that
hung from a nearby bough, wiping his glum face on the end of it
before slinging it around his shoulders. "We've been at this for
about two weeks now, and I still hardly know one end of a sword
from the other!"

"It'll coivt.e, don't worry. Two weeks is no time at all in sword
training—especially when starting from scratch at your

age."

Her words did nothing to soothe his irritation. "So it's my age,
now, is it? It seems I can't win. When she teaches me magic, Eilin
treats me like a child, and now you tell me I'm in my dotage!"
;

"When you act like this, I can't help thinking that Eilu has the
right of it!" Maya snapped.      °>' >i

Seeing the scowl on her face, D'arvan made an effort to shake off
his gloom, afraid of jeopardizing the love that was blossoming
between them. He managed a lopsided smile. 'T sorry, Maya—I know
I'm out of temper this morning." He p his arm round her shoulders
as they began to wafle *«ck toward    I the tower. He shivered,
and it was not just the cooling of b body in the chill gray
winter's day. "I didn't sleep well la-night—every time I closed my
eyes, I had nightmares."

"Why didn't you wake me?" The warrior tightened her

rt to I

was         f



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"I'm        I

;put        I

AURIAN          •       337

arm round his waist, her voice full of sympathy. "What were you
dreaming about, that was so dreadful?"

"It was my brother—well, half brother. I kept dreaming that he was
creeping up on me with a knife—trying to kill me, as he tried once
before." D'arvan swallowed hard. He was still in thrall to the
dregs of his dreams, feeling a tension between his shoulder blades
and dry tightness in his throat—the lurking, all-pervasive terror
of the stalking assassin, of the hidden knife in the dark.

"Well, I'm not surprised, considering—" Maya stopped in mid-stride
and turned to him, her eyes very wide. "D'arvan, you don't think
it could be true, do you? I mean, the two of you were so closely
linked. You don't think he has found out where you are, and he's
coming to—"

D'arvan gasped at the truth to which his own fear had blinded him.
Her instincts were always much surer than his own. "Dear
Gods—Eilin!" he shouted. "He'll come to the tower! Quick!"
Snatching Maya's own sharp blade from her scabbard, he plunged
away through the trees, leaving the warrior, with her shorter
stride, straining to catch up.

"D'arvan, you fool, wait!" she called after him. "You can't—" But
he had already left her far behind.

D'arvan had almost reached the border of lte trees that hemmed
the grassy sward beside the lake, when Eilin's mental shriek for
help rocked him back on his heels. Panting, he redoubled his pace,
forcing his way through branches that sliced, whiplike, across his
chest and face, tripping over roots that seemed to rise and reach
out for him, twining about his ankles nd knees. He was too
preoccupied with thoughts of his brother > wonder why the forest
seemed to be so much denser, his way tirough it far longer than it


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had been before. Davorshan! How had he managed to pass the wolves
that guarded the valley? What sorcery had he used to creep up on
them like this? The Mage gasped out a curse. If only he had paid
more attention to his dreams!      n

When P'"xvan reached the lakeside he stopped dead, con-'used and
dismayed. The border of trees now ended right by the hore, digging
in with writhing roots to churn and obliterate the smooth, grassy
slope that had been there before. That was not the only change.
The island tower had been transfigured
beyond all recognition. Huge vines snaked up round the once smooth
walls, scratching the stonework and tapping at the hardened
crystal of the windowed rooms. Thickets of thorny bramble and sloe
choked the wooden bridge and the ground

before the tower door.

Round the mainland end of the bridge, the apple trees from Eilin's
orchard had gathered in a tight knot. D'arvan watched in
amazement as unseasonal fruit swelled on each bough with uncanny
speed—but the reason failed to occur to him until a branch whipped
back with snakelike speed and hurled an apple like a stone from a
slingshot. He dodged, but the hard fruit drove with bruising force
into his shoulder, missing his face by inches. A fusillade of
apples followed it, forcing him to duck behind a tree for his own
protection. But its roots began to tug themselves out of the
ground in a shower of soil as it moved to give the orchard trees a
clear shot at their target, The entire Valley was in turmoil;
every growing thing was moving to protect Eilin, Mistress of Earth-
magic. And mistaking him for another intruder, they were blocking
him from going to her aid! Taking a firm grip with both hands on
Maya's sword, D'arvan began to hack at the surrounding branches,
frantic and unthinking in his haste.

A sinister rustle passed through the ranks of the assembled trees.
A crimson mist began to loop and roil among the reaching
branches—the rage of the forest. A sound like the whistling howl
of a gale filled D'arvan's ears as the boughs began to toss and
sway, their twigs tike bony fingers grasping at his hair and
tearing at his eyes and clothing. His knuckles dripped blood as


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the branches clutched and smote at his hands, trying to knock the
sword away. Far away, it seemed, beneath the snarling, raging din
of the forest's fury, he heard Maya, crying for help. Torn,
D'arvan tried to turn back to her, but his way was blocked by a
thicket of holly trees that bristled with glossy, dagger-pointed
leaves. Taking advantage of his hesitation, the forest flung roots
like earth-encrusted tentacles around his ankles. One sharp jerk
and he was down. The roots began to tug him away, farther back
into the deep heart of the forest. Briars looped round his hands,
which still clutched the hilt of the sword, and dug clusters of
sharp thorns into the tender skin of his wrists and the backs of
his hands. Dust devils swirled across



AllRIAN           •       339

the ground, flinging dead leaves, earth, and pebbles stingingly
into his eyes.

"Help me . . ." Once again Eilin's cry seared D'arvan's mind; it
was weak now, and despairing.

"I can't!" he gasped aloud, tears of pain and frustration running
down his face. Already the knees and elbows of his clothing had
been torn to ribbons on the rough ground, and the skin beneath was
scraped raw. Already his hands were becoming numb, their
circulation cut off by the ever tightening loops of vine. Soon he
would lose his grip on the sword, then "he would be helpless to go
to his teacher's aid ...

Of course! Fool! What he been thinking of? He was an Earth-Mage,
too! No wonder the forest had taken him for an enemy, hacking at
it like some stupid, untutored Mortal! Straining to focus his
whirling thoughts, to remember what the Lady Eilin had taught him
over the past weeks, D'arvan gathered his power and reached out
with his mind, trying to contact the heart—the very soul—of the
forest.

It beat back at him furiously, its intelligence obscured behind a


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mist of seething red rage. But D'arvan persisted. "I'm a friend! A
friend! I'll help you to help the Lady! See, I'm an Earth-Mage,
her own pupil. See?" Beseechingly, he held his powers out, as
Eilin had shown him, open to the scrutiny of the forest. He
summoned the moist, heady scents of spring's burgeoning and the
ancient musk of the mother soil that cradled the seed; the dapple
of sunlight in the beech tree's shade and the diamond-dance of the
lively stream; the silver of moonlight and the silk of morning
mist; the stark white shfoud of winter's mourning and the poignant
exuberance of autumn's fire.

And something changed. Like the snick of a key unlocking a door,
like the falling away of chains, like the relaxing of winter's
claws upon the land with the coming of spring, the forest accepted
him. The howling died away to a muted murmur, and D'arvan felt
relief like the lifting of & massive weight as the ire of the
trees ceased to hammer at him. The roots and vines loosed their
grip and fell away, and a clear avenue opened before him, across
the churned ground and over the bridge, leading right to the door
of the tower! Scrambling to his feet, D'arvan ran, a single errant
branch poking him hard in the back to hasten him on his way.

The vines across the door fell back with a slithering rattle as
D'arvan approached, sword in hand. As he jumped past them into the
kitchen, he wondered if they would come after him, but some force
seemed to be preventing them from entering the building. When he
reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, the young Mage
discovered the reason. He staggered back, gagging on the reek of
evil magic. Choking, with streaming eyes, he pulled himself
upright using the smoothly curving stair rail and began to haul
himself, step by step, up the metal stairs.

The upper rooms that led off the staircase were utterly
devastated. D'arvan flinched at the destruction, as he peered into
room after room. The windows were cracked, the wooden benches
overturned and splintered, the tender young seedlings torn and
trampled underfoot. Now that he had opened his mind to the use of
his powers, the Mage could feel their distress acutely, their
tiny, soundless cries of pain piercing his mind and wringing at
his heart. But each room was empty of people, and reach though he


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might, he could no longer touch Eilin's mind. Chamber after
deserted chamber he passed during his ascent, and found the same
appalling destruction. Then, rounding the final curve of the
staircase, he stopped. At the top of the stairs was a figure that
bore in its left hand a sword that was dripping with blood.
Davorshan. At the sight of D'arvan, his face contorted into an
evil, leering grin. "Hail and well met, brother," he said. "It
took longer than I had thought to find you—but the weeks of
wandering lost on those blasted moors will be well repaid by your
death!" Raising the blade, he stepped forward,

murder in his eyes.

Davorshan had the advantage of height—Maya had taught D'arvan that
much. Grasping his blade in a hand that was suddenly wet and slick
with sweat, the Mage began to back slowly down the stairs, feeling
his way with careful feet since he knew better than to take his
eyes from his brother, even for an instant. Davorshan's hatred
scorched into his brain—like the rage of the forest, but deeper,
closer—far more intimate. They had been linked for so many
years—how well his brother knew him! Inexorably, Davorshan's
malice ate into his mind, -working on his fears and self-doubts,
chipping away at his confidence and courage. "Half-breed!" his
brother spat. "Spineless, gutless, powerless mongrel!    Did
you   really think it would work,

AURIAN          •       341

D'arvan, running away to hide behind the Lady's skirts? And what
have we here?"

His merciless, rummaging will unearthed a memory—to D'arvan, the
most precious of all. "So!" Davorshan's cruel laughter mocked him.
"What have you been up to, brother mine? Rutting with a little
Mortal bitch, since you can't manage anything better! Is she any
good, D'arvan? Perhaps I'll try her, after I've killed you. Or
maybe I'll do it first, so you can watch! Where is she, eh? Where
have you hidden your Mortal slut?"

Red rage flooded D'arvan's mind. His hand, holding the sword,


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began to shake. Yet Maya's training held firm. She had taught him
better than to be gulled by a transparent gibe. Instead he began
to gather his powers as he continued to back away, wondering which
aspect of his Earth-magic he could use against his brother. The
plants upstairs were too small, but . . . Could he bring the vines
that enveloped the tower to his aid? If they could break through a
window—

"Oh, no you don't!" Davorshan's voice was a snarl. "I won't waste
my time on a contest of magic, D'arvan—not on her ground!"

"Really?" D'arvan lifted his hand, ready to strike.

"I warn you! Do you want to be responsible for Eilin's death?"

D'arvan stopped in mid-gesture, his eyes flicking involuntarily
past his brother to the top of the stairs.

"Well done." Davorshan sneered. ^It has finally occurred to you!
Had she been dead, you would have known it!"

"Where is she?" D'arvan cried. "What have you done to her?"

Davorshan shrugged, and held up his dripping sword. "Don't depend
on her coming to your aid, though you gave me no time to finish
the job. But if you want to bring magic into this, remember where
my talents lie. I can raise the waters of the lake to swamp this
tower! And when the tower collapses, where will Eilin be, eh?"

"Bastard!" D'arvan grated through clenched teeth.

"No, brother. You're the bastard. Eliseth told me that much.
You've leeched my power all our lives—the power that
should have rightfully been mine—and when I kill you it will all
be mine! You should never have been born!"

So that was how Eliseth had subverted him! D'arvan felt his
brother's resentment, his burning greed and the unreasoning rage
that consumed him. When it reached a crescendo, Davorshan would
attack. He felt carefully with his foot for the next step down,


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and found it to be the broader landing of one of the tower rooms.
The glimmerings of a plan came into his mind. He stretched his
lips wide in a mocking grin. "Oh no, my brother, you're wrong.
Eilin told me the whole story. I'm the child of our mother's love.
She hated Bavordran, and she only had you to allay his suspicions.
I may be the bastard, but you're the one who should never have
been born!"

"Liar!" Davorshan charged heedlessly down, his face twisted, his
bloody sword flailing. D'arvan wrenched himself to one side, into
the open doorway of the room, and stuck out his foot as he had
seen Maya do only that morning. He felt the hot wrench of tortured
muscles as his brother's momentum twisted his leg to one side,
unbalancing him—but as he fell, he heard thudding and clanging as
Davorshan tumbled headlong down the metal staircase. It had
worked! D'arvan used an upturned bench to help himself to his
feet. Sweat sprang out on his brow as fire and ice lanced
agonizingly up the injured leg, which would not bear his weight.
He staggered, falling again.

Spitting out one of Maya's favorite oaths, D'arvan pulled himself
to the stairs and began to slide down, step by step, on his rump,
as he and Davarshan had done so often as children. The memory hurt
like a knife twisting in a wound, but childhood was over now, and
the soul companion of those days had turned into a murdering
monster. He had to get to the bottom to finish Davorshan, if yet
he lived—for otherwise his brother would surely finish him.

By the time he reached the bottom, his face was soaked with sweat
and tears. Davorshan lay facedown on the broad kitchen flags at
the foot of the steps, unmoving. D'arvan prayed he might already
be dead. The hilt of the sword was ice in his trembling hand as he
perched on the lowest step, directly above his brother. "Oh,
Gods," he prayed, "please don't force me to do this!" But
Davorshan moaned just then, and stirred, rolling onto his back.
Though his eyes were glazed, the hatred, uncon-

AURIAN          •       343

querable, still twisted his mind. Still and always. D'arvan faced


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it at last, and accepted. Lifting the sword high in both hands, he
drove the point down through his brother's heart—and felt pain
unspeakable ram through his own breast as their minds linked for
the last time. Screaming, he convulsed, his arms clutched round
his chest as he doubled over.

"Brother ..." Davorshan's broken whisper fled through D'arvan's
mind, as his brother's soul fled his body. D'arvan felt the pain
in his chest give way to the searing wrench that marked the
passing of a Mage, A Mage who had died by his hand.

"D'arvan!" Maya's gruff voice was a ray of light that pierced the
dark well of the Mage's grief. Numbly, he lifted his head to look
at her. Dropping down beside him on the step, she put her arms
around him. Tears, tears that he himself had been unable to shed^
flooded her face, and he knew she understood. Yet her voice, when
she spoke, was surprisingly matter-of-fact. "You killed him." It
needed no answer.

"The way things stand, he won't be the last," Maya went on. "It's
never an easy thing, for most of us. It never should be. All we
can do is try to distance ourselves a little and get on with our
lives as best we can. But I promise you that never again will it
be as bad as this first time. The worst is over now, love."

D'arvan clung to her, oddly comforted by her blunt words. How like
his Maya, to dispense compassion and common sense in the same
breath. How lucky he was to have her, in all this ruin and death .
. . "Eilin!" His voice cracked. "Maya, she's upstairs. Hurt—badly,
I think!"

"Seven bloody demons!" Maya leapt to her feet. "Where?"

"At the top." He tried to get up, and sank back down again with a
yelp of pain.

"You're wounded?" She whirled back sharply.

"Wrenched my leg, doing that tripping move of yours. You go
on^I'll follow as best I can."


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Maya bit her lip, nodded, and fled upstairs.

D'arvan made slow and painful progress, hauling himself up by his
good leg and the stair rail. He was only halfway up when he heard
the ring of booted feet on the metal treads and

-S~.-*

May a reappeared round the curve, abruptly stopping her headlong
descent when she saw him. "She's dying."

Maya was right. D'arvan knew it as soon as he saw the Lady, who
lay in the wreckage of her chamber like a crumpled bundle of rags.
He had not known that one body could hold so much blood. It was
everywhere, splattered and smeared across the bed and walls,
pooled on the floor, soaking her robes that were rent and sliced
in a dozen places. Her skin already held the pale translucence
of imminent death.     Maya propped    him against the wall with
his weight balanced on his good leg, and ran back to Eilin. The
old D'arvan would have retched and turned his eyes away from the
horror. The new D'arvan felt his guts twist—but with outrage. In
one grim instant, his grief and guilt at killing Davorshan
vanished. "/ will not let this happen!" His voice sounded alien
and distant, even to himself. "D'arvan, there's nothing we can do
for her." Maya was on her knees beside Eilin, her voice choked
with grief. "Even a Healer couldn't—" "My father can."

"What?"

D'arvan felt very calm. It was a dangerous thing to try, a
desperate thing—but it was their only chance. "Maya, get out of
here. You mustn't be caught up in this."

"Damned if I will!" She scrambled to her feet, her hands and knees
stained with blood. "You haven't time to fight me over it." She
picked up the Lady's staff from the floor and handed it to him.
"Here. You'll need this for support—in more

ways than one."


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"Stubborn bitch!" He kissed her mouth, overwhelmed by love for
her, and felt the tension of her lips melt as she return

his embrace.

"Pigheaded bastard!" she retorted. "Be careful, D'arvan She
stepped back, unsheathed her sword, and flung it out of the door.
"You can't have iron near the Phaerie, the legends say,

she explained.

"Really." D'arvan was annoyed with himself for not knowing that.
"Do they say anything else useful?"

"Umm .        .     . yes. You have to call him by                                 three true

names. Hurry, D'arvan."

Leaning on the staff to support his injured leg, D'arvan

AUR1AN          •       345

gathered his powers, hurling his mind and spirit forth, and tried
somehow to reach the mysterious other place where the Phaerie were
said to dwell. Once more he invoked the essence of the forest—its
scents and colors, all its moods through the changing days. The
sounds of drowsy bees and bright birds, the rustle of leaves and
ripple of stream, the scuttling dash of rabbit and squirrel, the
soft, careful footfall of deer and stealthy glide of fox and
weasel. Taking a deep breath, he called, using both voice and
mind. "Hellorin! Forest Lord! Father! In the name of Adrina, my
mother, I summon you!"

Nothing seemed to be happening. Yet so clear, so real was his
vision of the forest that he could almost see it taking shape
around him. The ruined chamber faded from his sight, and as if
through a shifting mist he saw trees take shape—the stately silver
columns of beeches, a sturdy oak gnarled like the thews of a
giant, supple willow and martial holly bristling with spears. Gay


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hawthorn like a flower-decked maiden and slender rowan, ethereal
as a dream. Through the trees starlit water glinted— with a start
he recognized the lake and its island, though the tower had
vanished. He could smell the heady summer scent of the grass that
covered the solid earth beneath his feet. But it was winter
outside! How could this be? D'arvan's eyes widened. Maya was
standing ro one side of the forest clearing, her mouth agape, her
hand reaching automatically for her missing sword. And at her
feet, the still form of Eilin lay.

"Who summons the Forest Lord?". Th^ voice was deep and sad as the
autumn wildwood, as light and merry as a summer breeze amidst the
treetops. Before the mighty oak a figure stood, obscuring the
great tree with its immensity. He was baked in shimmering,
changeful gray and green, and so vast was he that the silver
glinting in his long dark hair was the light of stars. His brow
was circled with a diadem of golden oak leaves, and above them
towered the shadowy branches of the proud stag's crown. Once more
he spoke, his voice like winter's bite, like the gladsome warmth
of a new spring day. "Who dares summon the Lord of the Phaerie?"

D'arvan, awestruck, almost dropped to his shaking knees. He took a
firm grip on Eilin's staff and reminded himself that this—this
being—was his father. He bowed deeply, at a loss for
words. This was far beyond his wildest imaginings. What could he
possibly say to one such as Hellorin?

"My Lord, allow me to present the Earth-Mage D'arvan— your son."
Maya's gruff voice cut through the silence.

"What?" the Forest Lord thundered, transfixing her with his glare.
Lightning flashed in his eyes, beneath darkly frowning brows. As
he raised his hand, the very trees seemed to quail. D'arvan
suddenly found that he could move. Leaning on the staff, he limped
across to Maya, placing himself protectively in front of her.
"It's true!" he cried. "I called you by your true name of Father,
and you answered. My mother was Adrina of the Magefolk, and in her
name I summoned you, for we have dire need of your help. The Lady
Eilin, my mother's friend and Guardian of this Valley, is dying."
It all came out in a rush. Before D'arvan's astonished eyes, the


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awesome figure vanished. "Where has he gone:*" D'arvan looked
wildly around. Then, from behind the oak stepped his father—shrunk
now to normal, Mortal size, but not a whit diminished in might and
majesty. Great muscles etched and shadowed his bare chest beneath
the cloak. Strong legs, clad in dark leggings and tall boots, were
planted wide apart on the forest floor. A ghostly image of the
antlered crown still rose above his oak-circled brow. His stern,
kingly features and hard mouth were gentled now, and the
expression in his dark eyes was indecipherable. "My son?" The deep
voice was soft, and lilted with a

thousand questions.                         ""-

The Forest Lord strode forward, and strong hands clasped D'arvan's
shoulders. Dark, fathomless eyes searched his face, and D'arvan
found his own eyes brimming with tears. "My son," Hellorin
murmured, the beginnings of a wondering smile lifting the corners
of his sculpted mouth. "My own son, and 1 never knew I had you."

"Father . . ." D'arvan whispered. Dropping the staff, he flung his
arms round Hellorin's broad shoulders, and there, in the starlit
forest clearing, father and son embraced at last.

"D'arvan? Lord Hellorin?" Maya's hesitant voice broke into their
silent communion. The tears in her eyes were evidence that she was
far from unmoved by their reunion—but ever practical, she gestured
toward Eilin's stricken body. "My apolo-

AURIAN          •       347

gies, Lords, but the Lady's condition is desperate. We may already
be too late."

The Forest Lord lifted an eyebrow. "Who is this temeritous
person?" he asked his son.

"This is Lieutenant Maya, a peerless warrior, a brave and true
companion, and"—D'arvan's voice rang out with proud defiance—"my
own lady."



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The Forest Lord burst out laughing. Maya was scowling, and D'arvan
gestured urgently for her to be silent, fearing the furious
outburst that he knew was coming. "I fail to see what is so
amusing," he said icily.

Hellorin took a deep, gasping breath, wiping his eyes. "Ah, my
son," he chuckled. "How good it is to see you already carrying on
the ancient traditions of our people!"

"What?" D'arvan was stunned.

"Do you pay no attention to the legends?" his father asked, his
eyes dancing with mirth. "All those stories about the Phaerie
luring Mortals away to be their brides—and bridegrooms for that
matter, for the ladies of my people would make my life a misery,
indeed, if I were to deny them their chance at the occasional
lusty Mortal stud!"

He turned to Maya with a deep bow. "Lady Maya, I am honored to
meet my son's Chosen, and I apologize for my unseemly mirth. In my
opinion, he has chosen very well, indeed." His gaze traveled over
her like a caress—so blatantly, potently lecherous that D'arvan
found himself grinding his teeth.

Maya crimsoned, uncertain whe'ther'to be indignant or flattered.
Then drawing herself up to her full height, she looked Hellorin
coldly in the eye. "My thanks for your courtesy, Lord, but this is
hardly the time. Might we, perhaps, consider the urgent business
at hand?"

D'arvan groaned and covered his eyes with one hand, and Hellorin
whooped with mirth. "An excellent choice, indeed! D'arvan, you
have a she-wolf on your hands!" His voice became sober. "Fear not,
little warrior. The Lady Eilin will come to no further harm. The
Phaerie honor her for her work in this vale, and I would not allow
her to die. In summoning me, you brought yourselves into my
kingdom, where time holds no sway. Her life is suspended
here—suspended and preserved. But I must know who irresponsible
for this atrocity, and why.



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You are right—this is no light matter, and my instincts tell me it
is part of a greater pattern of mischief. So let us make ourselves
comfortable, children. Tell me what has come to pass in

the world outside."

He waved his hand, and the clearing in which they stood wavered
and blurred. The surrounding trees became the pillars of a great
hall, their branches linking overhead to form a roof. At one side,
where the crimson-berried hollies had stood in splendor, a fire
blazed in a huge fireplace. The floor was covered

by a deep green carpet.

D'arvan gasped. "Why, it's like the Great Hall at the

Academy!"

"And from whom do you think the Magefolk stole the

design?" Hellorin's voice held a grim edge that vanished with his
next words. "Come, sit."

D'arvan retrieved Eilin's staff, and Maya helped him limp

to the deep, comfortable chairs beside the roaring fire. A huge

gray hound was sprawled before the flames, taking up all the

space in front of the broad hearth. Though Hellorin had made

no visible summons, the doors at the far end of the hall opened,

and a tall, copper-haired Phaerie lady entered, gowned in green

and as slender as the willow she resembled. Her eyebrows went

up at the sight of the bloodstained strangers, "Will you bring

refreshments, please?" Hellorin asked her. "And convey the


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Lady Eilin to our Healers."

Her brown eyes^idened at the sight of the Earth-Mage, "Lady Eilin!
My Lord, what evil is this?"

"That is what I intend to find out." He waved her away. "Summon
the Phaerie, my dear. I believe that this event may mark the end
of our long waiting."

The Phaerie woman's eyes burned. "At once, my Lord!" In a
soundless explosion of golden light, she vanished.

Hellorin chuckled at Maya's dumbfounded expression. "We generally
use the doors," he said dryly. "Melianne is rather

excitable, however."

D'arvan was utterly exhausted, drained in body and spirit by the
events of the day. At first he thought the ripple in the air
before the hearth was a trick played by the firelight on his tired
eyes. Then he heard Melianne's sharp voice coming, it seemed, out
of thin air. "Barodh, you oaf, get out of the way!" The

AURIAN          '       349

hound leapt up and slunk guiltily to its master's side, whining.
Where it had been lying, the shimmering air began to glow, forming
a globe of golden light which cleared to reveal a low, round
table. On its snowy cloth reposed a flask of clear yellow wine and
three crystal goblets. Bread and fruit took up the remaining
space, and the fragrance of the food made D'arvan's mouth water.
But his attention was diverted by Maya's anguished cry: "Eilin!"
He swung round in his chair to see the body of the Earth-Mage
surrounded by the same golden light. Even as he looked, she was
gone.

"Do not worry, Maya." Hellorin's voice was soothing, "My Healers
far outstrip those of the Magefolk in skill. Eat, children, and
rest yourselves—and tell me your tale," He poured wine for them,


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and handed them the sparkling goblets, Maya, about to take a sip,
suddenly hesitated, and the Forest Lord smiled. "Legends again,
Maya? Well, you need not worry about that one. Tasting our food
and drink will not put you any further into my power than the two
of you have already pur yourselves by summoning me,"

D'arvan met Maya's eyes and shrugged. This was his father, after
all, and he had helped them so far. He took a sip of the wine and
saw Maya do likewise, though she still looked suspicious. Somehow,
the thought that she would follow him, even into this, warmed him
as much as the drink—which was potent enough. D'arvan felt it
course through his body, as though his veins were running with
liquid fire. His weariness fled, and the room seemed to come jnto
sharp and vivid focus around him. The tight, hot ache of his
injured leg vanished as though it had never been.

Hellorin pressed food on them, and as they ate, D'arvan told of
Miathan's perfidy, the breaking of the Mages' Code, and the fall
of the Magefolk into evil, Hellorin said nothing until D'arvan
reached the end of his story, telling of Davorshan's attack on
Eilin and his brother's death, followed by the desperate summoning
of the Phaerie Lord. As he faltered into silence, his father leapt
from his chair, one fist pumping skyward in a gesture of victory.
"At last!" he exulted. "At last!" Outside the hall, a chorus of
glorious Phaerie voices cried out in wild celebration. Maya leapt
to her feet with an exclamation of dismay.

"Father!" D'arygjn's shocked voice cut through the Forest
Lord's rejoicing. Breathing hard, Hellorin resumed his chair. "Oh,
my son," he gasped, "if you only knew how we have waited down the
endless years for this news! For goodness' sake, sit down, girl."
He waved an irritable hand at Maya who was still on her feet, her
eyes casting round the hall for a weapon of

some kind.

"My Lord, how can you rejoice at such a grim tale?"

D'arvan asked in cold reproof. "Have you forgotten my mother? I'm
Magefolk as well as Phaerie, and you mock both my grief and that


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of all folk who suffer because of this evil!"

Hellorin looked abashed. "My deepest apologies to you both.
Please, Lady, sit down and let me explain; then perhaps you will
understand my unseemly joy."

Maya gave him a savage look. "This had better be good," she
growled. Hellorin winced.

"You have been taught that the Universe is shaped by Chance and
Balance," the Forest Lord began, pouring himself a cup of wine.
"You may not know that the Magefolk were brought into this world
to maintain and guard the Balance, as others were on other worlds,
lest Chance gain a stranglehold, and the Universe be destroyed by
Chaos, Chance's bastard

child."

Maya's fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of her

chair,

"I'm getting to it, woman, I'm getting to it!" Hellorin

snorted. "To shorten a lengthy tale, we Phaerie have always been,
well, rather unpredictable—and we wield great powers of the Old
Magic. The ancient Magefolk feared us, believing us agents of
Chance, which was, in a way, quite true. They contrived to shut us
out of the world—to imprison us in this Elsewhere, which "we
cannot leave unless summoned, and from which we might not
influence the events of the world. We arc-also unable to bear
children among ourselves in this place-hence our need for the
occasional Mortal or Mage, immune to the Magefolk spells, to
increase our race."

D'arvan froze, paralyzed by a new fear, a new grief, "You mean you
used my mother . . ." he gasped,

"No—never!" Hellorin reached out to grasp his arm. "Do you think
we Phaerie are monsters? No child is born to us, save through


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deepest love ... It tore my heart when Adrina re-

AURIAN          •       351

turned to Nexis to fulfill that ridiculous promise to her father.
I wept, and raged, and cursed—desperate to go to her, to find her
and bring her home. But I could not come unless I was summoned,
and no one summoned me—until today." His voice was choked with
grief.

"Oh, Father," D'arvan whispered, too moved to say more.

Hellorin took a long swallow of his wine. "Now it may be clear to
you why we are unfriends with the Magefolk. They robbed us of our
freedom, over many a long age—and they were wrong to do so. You
see, Chance is as essential to the world as Balance. Without us,
the Magefolk began to stagnate, becoming more introspective, more
proud and self-willed. In their pride, they created the four great
Artifacts of Power, of which the Caldron is but one. When the
Cataclysm came, we almost escaped them, but failed. Then, in our
bitterest moment, came our greatest hope. The Sword of Flame, the
greatest of the Four Weapons, was given into our keeping by its
makers, who desired that it should be taken out of the world until
ir was claimed by the One for whom it had been forged. When the
time was right, they told us, we must return it to the world,
setting traps and guards about it to ensure that it would only
fall into the proper hands.

" 'But how shall we know whose hand was meant to hold Ins thing?'
we asked.

" 'That will be your test,' they told us.

" 'How shall we know when the Sword is needed?' we begged.                                                           .^

" 'You will know,' they said, 'A time will come when the Magefolk
will dwindle and foil, and fell upon one another like wolves.
Brother will slay brother, and ambition betray trust, and the
world will fell into great evil. That will be the time,'



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" 'But how shall we return the Sword to the world?' we asked.

" 'How can we guard it, where we are powerless?*

" 'That,' they said, 'is your problem.' So I asked them; 'What is
to be our reward for undertaking this great task?' "

Hellorin paused, his eyes gleaming. "They promised us our , using
the Sword to circumvent the ancients' spells and bring us back
into the world. We swore fealty to it, and to the One who will
wield it. When he claims it, we will follow him
back into the world, to fight at his side against the evil. Having
overcome it, we will be free, as once we were. Free, my children!"

"When brother slays brother," D'arvan whispered. "So the

time is at hand. But how will you return the Sword, Father?

How will you guard it?"

The Forest Lord would not meet his eyes, but simply sat, staring
into the fire, his face shadowed by sorrow. The silence

stretched between them.

"I take it, my Lord, that this silence means that you intend to
use us, somehow," Maya said bluntly.

Hellorin looked up at last, nodding. "D'arvan, I'm sorry," he
said. "There are age-old laws governing dealings with the Phaerie.
Laws I made myself, long ago, for the sake of my people. When you
summoned me, you put yourself under those laws, and I cannot alter
them, even for my son. You asked a boon of me—the saving of Lady
Eilin's life—and I granted it. Now you are beholden to me, and I
can demand a service from you. Do you understand?"

"You want us to guard the Sword." D'arvan's disappointment in his
father warred with his understanding of the Forest Lord's
predicament. A ruler should obey his own laws, and Hellorin had
the responsibility for his people on his shoulders. "I'll try," he


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said at last, "but Father, I ask only this—I beg you, leave Maya
out of it."

"No, D'arvan! We/e in this together!"

"D'arvan, I cannot," The voices were simultaneous in their

protest.

The Mage looked from his father to his lover with mounting
annoyance. "Will you two stop that!"

Maya and Hellorin looked at one another and burst out laughing.
"Ah, what a woman!" Hellorin said. "How I wish I could keep you
both here with me! But we are in the grip erf events much larger
than any of us." He held out his arms an1 gathered both of them in
a close embrace. "I promise you wi not be parted, though you must
be sundered as lovers until our tasks are complete. That being so,
the large events must wait a while. You need time together—as far
as time applies here— and a room is ready for you. Go, children,
and rest—or not, as

AURIAN          •       353

the case may be!" His eyes twinkled wickedly. "I will call you
when it's time to go."

They met again in the Great Hall, after the passage of a night by
wordly standards, but far too short a time by those of D'arvan and
Maya. Hellorin embraced them once more. "Are you ready, children?"

They nodded. They were, as far as they might be. During their time
alone they had shared fears and secrets, exchanged their own
private vows, and loved one another endlessly, trying to store up
memories for the time they must spend apart. "Will Eilin be all
right?" Maya asked, and D'arvan marveled once more at her courage
as she stood, straight and composed, before his father.

Hellorin nodded. "Our Healers say she will recover, and she will
stay with us in safety and honor until this businesss is


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done."

"Thank you," Maya said simply. "Lord—have you any idea how long
that will be?" There was a catch to her voice, and D'arvan
suddenly realized that she was as afraid as he,

Hellorin shook his head. "Until the One claims the Sword, that is
all we know. Let us hope, for all our sakes, that he hurries!"

Maya's eyes twinkled. "What makes you so sure that it's a man, my
Lord?" She stepped back to let D'arvan say his own farewells.

Hellorin embraced him roughly. "How it grieves me, to ilose the
son I have only just found." , j,

"It grieves me to lose you," D'arvan whispered. "I hope, rfien
this is all over, we'll be able to make up for it."

Hellorin nodded gravely. "And now, my son, you must ce us into
your world," he said.

D'arvan stared at him. "Me? But how?"

"Do as you did yesterday. Summon the forest. The real st. Use the
Lady Eilin's staff that you bear—it has more yer than you
imagine."

It was easier than D'arvan had expected. Eilin's staff emed to
want to go home, of its own accord. Within a few iths, they stood
on the banks of the lake at sunrise. The ;s was scarred where tree
roots had gouged it, and though

vines had retreated from the tower, the stonework was
scored and the windows broken, leaving the building open to the
elements. "It would break Eilin's heart to see this," D'arvan

murmured.

"She will not." As Hellorin spoke, the tower blurred—and vanished.


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In its place, on the island, stood an immense red crystal. As it
caught the sun's first rays, it glowed with pulsing brilliance and
hummed with power, dazzling the eye. Within its glittering facets,
the outline of the Sword could be glimpsed, shimmering with its
own ghostly light.

"That will never do!" Hellorin waved his hand—and the massive gem
clouded and turned gray, taking on the appearance of a huge, rough
boulder. Vegetation swarmed up to cover its sides, and moss and
lichen appeared on its grainy surface.

May a gasped. "How did you do that?" she demanded. "I thought you
had no power in this world."

"I do it through D'arvan," the Forest Lord explained. "He brought
me here, and he is part Phaerie, like me, and part Mage, and the
Magefolk made these rules. But we must hurry. I can only bend
their magic so far." Already strain was showing on Hellorin's
face. "Now, my dearest daughter—"

"Wait!" Maya ran to D'arvan and threw her arms around

him.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too." He kissed her one last time, and stepped back
reluctantly as the Forest Lord raised his hand.

Maya blurred—and vanished. In her place appeared the most
beautiful creature-that had been seen since the dawning of the
world. A unicorn—insubstantial—made up it seemed from all kinds of
light: starlight's glimmer, gossamer moonlight, silken dawn
mistlight, and incandescent sunbursts where her hooves touched the
ground. On her forehead was a long, slender, wickedly pointed
silver horn.

"See?" Hellorin said softly. "Our warrior still bears her
sword—for it will be her task to protect the Sword of Flame. Only
you can see her; to all others she will be invisible. To be worthy


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of the Sword, the wielder must be wise as well as courageous. In
order to approach the Sword of Flame, the One must discover a way
to see the Unseen—for in no other way can our Invisible Guardian
be passed."

"Passed?" D'arvan shouted. "Killed, you mean?"

AUR1AN          •       355

"No, no!" Hellorin forestalled him. "I do not mean killed. It is
part of the spell that if Maya becomes visible to any person save
yourself, her Guardianship will be suspended and she will return
to her normal shape. There will be no need for killing. Besides,"
he added, "would a being who was worthy of the Sword of Flame
wantonly slay such a beautiful creature? I think not."

D'arvan shook his head. "And what do you have in store for me?" he
asked tightly.

"You? You are Earth-Mage and son of the Forest Lord. You bear the
Lady's staff, and the forest will do your bidding. You must bring
back the wildwood to this Valley, to fill it with an impenetrable
barrier of trees. The wild things will dwell here, and be
sustained, and the wolves will be your friends and share your
task. You will guard the Sword from all enemies, but the forest
will shelter the enemies of evil, and you will guard and sustain
them—yet they will never see you, or know of your presence. You
and Maya will share your Guardianship until the One comes for the
Sword, when you will be freed and reunited —as we all will be at
that time." As he spoke, Hellorin's outline began to shift and
shimmer. "I can stay no longer. Farewell, my son—-and forgive me,"
He vanished.

D'arvan looked at the unicorn. The fierce, beautiful creature
snorted and pawed the ground, flinging up clods of turf in
sunburst explosions. Then she trotted to the Mage and rested her
head on his shoulder, and her huge dark eyes were fathomless pools
of sorrow. D'arvan flung his arms round her strong, arching neck
beneath the sweeping mane, his throat tight with tears. "Oh, my
love," he murmured, "how I'll miss you!"


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The invisible unicorn snorted and tossed her head.

"You're right," D'arvan said. "I had better get started."

Turning, he lifted the Lady's staff and began to summon the
forest.

Chapter               23

DEMON

__        he Arena buzzed with the noise of the excited crowd.
I^BB The sweeping tiers of marble benches were tightly packed with
sweating bodies, all crushed together. Excitement was at fever
pitch, the crowd's attention alternating between the sanded
circular fighting area on the floor of the massive stone bowl, and
the flower-decked royal balcony where sat the frowning Khisal—the
Prince who was the only heir to the throne—and the smiling Khisu
Xiang and his new Queen, the Khisihn, whose wedding was being
celebrated today. The crowd gawked at the balcony with great
curiosity. It was indeed a day of wonders—that the Khisu, content
for so long with his harem of beauties, should have finally
elevated another lady to be his consort in place of the old Queen,
dead these many years. Rumor said that she had been slain by the
Khisu's own hand. Wrinkled, sharp-eyed crones nodded sagely to one
another. "The young Prince'11 have to watch his step now," they
were saying. "He never had his father's favor. If the new Queen
drops a son, Khisal Harihn will find himself in a sack at the
bottom of the river, like his mother!"

They watched the early bouts with scant attention and less
patience, waiting for the real entertainment to start. There was a
new warrior to fight today. A foreigner—and, Reaper preserve us—a
woman! A sorceresfre and as fierce as the Black Demon itself!
Rumor had it that she had laid an entire village to waste,
downriver. Because of this, the Arena had filled early that day.
Outside the gate, hundreds of disappointed people were still

being turned away.


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In the warriors' yard beneath the stone tiers of the Arena, it was
shady and cool. Aurian, alone in a corner, was going through
Portal's exercises, trying to prepare her body and mind for the
coming ordeal. It was difficult to suppress the fear she felt for
her child, knowing that this day's exertions and peril might spell
the end for the hapless mite. If she had had her magic, she might
have been able to protect it, but as it was . . . "Oh, Chathak,"
she prayed, "protect this child, the child of warriors."

AURIAN          '       357

Aurian was vaguely aware of the eyes of the other combatants fixed
curiously upon her. They were strangers to one another, kept apart
lest unfortunate friendships develop between them. They met only
in closely monitored training sessions, and even then were not
allowed to speak to each other. She had trained with several of
them over the last weeks, astonishing even Eliizar with her
prowess. Apart from training, her days had been spent pleasantly
enough in eating, resting, and bathing in the Arena's large pool.
Aurian was as ready as she could be. She forced all thoughts of
her erstwhile companions, and even her child, from her mind, in
order to gain the inner calm and poise that she would need to save
her life and regain her freedom, for despite Eliizar's warning,
she was determined to try.

Despite his initial reluctance, Eliizar had become a friend, as
had his plump, motherly wife, Nereni, who took care of Aurian,
since she was the only female warrior. Through their talks, Aurian
had discovered that Eliizar had been a warrior of great prowess
and an officer in the Royal Guard. He had lost his eye during an
assassination attempt on the Khisu, when he had singlehandedly
killed all four attackers. Since cripples were not tolerated in
Khazalim society, Eliizar's only options had been slavery or death
for himself and his beloved wife. Fortunately, in a rare gesture
of gratitude, Xiang had intervened, and Eliizar had been rewarded
with the post of Swordmaster at the Arena. "And a cruel,
backhanded reward it was," he had confided to Aurian. "I am forced
to send strong, healthy young warriors to their deaths to pleasure
a bloodthirsty mob. How can a man live with such a thing and still


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sleep at nights? Yet I have no choice but to remain. To leave this
post would mean death or slavery, and for poor Nereni also. Truly,
I hate the Khisu for what he has done to me."

"Are you ready?" Eliizar's voice brought Aurian back to the
present. The large wooden doors that led to the killing grounds
had been opened. A warrior was limping in, aided by two attendants
and bleeding from several wounds. Two armored Arena guards carried
his opponent—a mauled and bloody corpse. Aurian recognized the
twisted features as belonging to a brave, laughing young man
against whom she had sparred only two days before.

358 • MAGGIE FuRty

Eliizar wiped his face with a shaking hand. "May the Reaper
forgive me," he murmured, and Aurian's heart went out to him.
Impulsively, she laid a hand on his arm. "Eliizar, you must get
out of here. When I win my freedom, you and Nereni should come
with me to the North. I will have need of a true friend and a good
warrior, one eye or no."

Eliizar looked at her in amazement, then turned away as the great
gong sounded, summoning the Mage to combat. "Forgive me, Aurian,"
he whispered.

"Nothing to forgive," said Aurian lightly. "If this is my only
road to freedom, I would choose it in any case. See you later,
Eliizar—and think on what 1 said. I meant it." She dropped a
daring kiss on the top of his bald head, then, striving for calm,
she stepped into the tunnel, whispering a warriors' prayer that
Forral had taught her long ago. She was ready. She

had to be.

Aurian stepped out of the shadowy tunnel into the white-hot glare
of the Arena. A mighty roar went up from three thousand throats,
echoing and reechoing within the confines of the bowl until she
was rocked, buffeted, borne aloft by the sound. She lifted her
sword—her own Coronach that had been returned to her—to salute the
crowd. The sunlight ran like liquid fire down the keen edges of


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the blade. Aurian lifted her face defiantly, shaking back her
hair, which was too short now to braid. The stench of sweat, dust,
and blood was in her nostrils—the scent of battle.

Then Aurian saw Ke^r opponent—and was brought up short. She had
been expecting one of the hulking warriors that she'd sparred with
when Eliizar was placing her level of skill. Instead she faced a
stranger—a wiry little man whose muscles stood out like knotted
rope on his arms and legs. The top of his head barely reached her
tightly laced breasts. What is this? the Mage thought scornfully.
Do they mock me? Even as she was thinking, he darted in, his
blade a silvery blur. Cold fire coursed down her left arm,
followed by a drench of hot blood as he danced back out of
striking distance. Aurian, for a split second, gaped at the gash,
just below her shoulder, where the point of his sword had sliced
down. Portal's voice rang in her mind. "Never underestimate an
opponent—however he may look." Icy common sense doused Aurian's
battle-heated blood.


She circled the little man with newfound respect, trying to gauge
his next move, probing for a weakness in his stance. Then the
wretch was in again, like quicksilver. Aurian dodged, swinging her
own blade by instinct, feeling the draft of his sword's tip
against her thigh. There was a ripping noise, and the hem of the
ridiculous fighting kilt that the gladiators wore was flapping in
tatters against her bare skin. Again she felt the warm, telltale
trickle of blood as she backed away. Not serious this time. A mere
graze, it stung, no more. But her own swing had caught him. She
was too tall—her instinctive decapitating stroke had just caught
the top of his head. A strip of flesh hung over his left eye, and
blood streamed from the scalp wound down his face. He was circling
now as she was, awaiting an opening. As he caught her eye he
grinned—a brave smile, saluting her, Aurian found herself smiling
back, returning his salute with a barely perceptible tilt of her
blade. He had courage—and he knew that she had. Aurian found
herself wishing that she could fight at his side, rather than
against him.

She lunged—he feinted. Stalemate. Circle once more. The crowds


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were restless, they wanted action. A scatter of boos and catcalls
could be heard. The little man lashed out and Aurian rolled
beneath his blade, swearing as hot agony shot down her wounded
arm. She landed on her feet, facing her opponent. Her blade had
caught his ankle as she rolled. Pure accident, or Portal's
unstinting training taking over? He was limping badly, his foot
half severed and losing a lot of blood. The crowd roared, hungry
for the kill. To Aurian they were the enemy, not the courageous
warrior. Stop that! she warned herself. This isn't the Garrison.
Sentimentality here will mean your death.

Aurian braced herself, taking the weight and grip of the sword
with her right hand and balancing it as best she could with her
next-to-useless left hand, which was locked in a death grip around
the hilt. The little man was reeling, his face glazed with sweat
and blood. Without warning, Aurian moved swiftly to her right so
that his vision was blocked by the hanging flap of scalp over his
left eye. He turned—but too late. Aurian felt a screaming agony in
her left arm as her sword bit through bone —then his head was
rolling, bouncing across the sand as his body swayed then toppled
in a welter of blood that fountained from the severed neck. The
death howl from the crowd almost

T
knocked her flat beside him. Rocked back on her heels by the din,
Aurian stood over her dead opponent, lifting her streaming blade
and kissing it, in a warrior's salute to the fallen.

It was lucky that the crowd's roar warned her. Blinded by tears,
Aurian had not seen her next opponents leave the tunnel's mouth.
Now they were nearly upon her. Dashing her bloody hand across her
eyes, she turned to face the new challenge. What was this? Two
men, one armed with a long spear, the other with only a net.
Aurian blinked in confusion. This was completely outside her
experience. They fanned apart, right and left, until she could not
watch both. Then, too late, she understood. The warrior with the
net was a blind—a distraction. She had to watch the one with the
lethal spear that was leveled at her chest. If she took her eye
off him, he could hurl his spear, or rush her. But while she
watched the spearman, the other could creep up behind her with the


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disabling net.

Rage swept through Aurian like a forest fire. Unfair! But this
time she caught herself, forcing herself to stay calm and think.
Never mind fair—she had to win her way out of this. All the time
she was thinking, Aurian had been backing away, trying to keep
both men in her field of vision. Soon they would have her trapped
against the stone wall that ran round the edge of the Arena. She
caught the glance of understanding that flashed between her two
foes. So they wanted her there! Aurian didn't understand why, but
if that was their idea, she was having none of it.      ^

She feinted right,' then made a sudden dive to her left, toward
the net bearer. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of
movement as the spearman made his cast. Aurian felt the heavy
point go through her calf, grazing the bone and tearing the
muscle. She almost fainted with pain and shock— but the desperate
leap had taken her far enough. Her wrists were jarred as the keen
edge of her sword hit the netmans knees. He crumpled to the ground
in a pool of his own blood,

crippled and screaming.

The spearman, weaponless now, ran to grab the net while Aurian was
disabled. Once enmeshed in its folds, she would be finished. There
was no help for it—she needed the spear, with its longer reach, to
defend herself. Aurian dropped her sword and seized the wooden
shaft, wrenching the barbed metal blade

out through her leg, feeling flesh and muscle tear as she did so.
Dizzying, nauseating agony engulfed her and her vision blurred.
There was no time to get to her feet. Almost blindly, Aurian
flipped the spear around, plunging the butt end into the fallen
net. With a sharp, sideways tug, she twitched the tangled meshes
right out from under the spearman's reaching hands.

It was the last thing he had expected. To gain the net now, he
would have to come closer—closer than was wise without a weapon.
In the split second of hesitation while he weighed the odds,
Aurian acted, sliding the smooth spear butt out from under the net


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as she reversed it—and threw.

The spearman had already fathomed her plan. He was already
running, and Aurian, still on the ground, was not in a position to
throw strongly. But the range was short—and it was enough. He
stumbled, fell forward, the bloody point of the spear embedded in
his back. Could she have killed him? Surely not, Aurian thought
dimly. But dead or not, he did not rise. On the other hand, if she
failed to get to her feet, it would not count as a win for her,
either.

The howling of the crowd receded as a welcoming veil of darkness
swirled around the Mage. It would be easy to let go— to slip into
unconsciousness . . . She had won so far ... Maybe they would let
her live to fight another day . . .

What, and go through all this again? "No!" Aurian told herself
firmly. "Get on your feet, warrior!" Groping for her sword, she
set its point in the bloodstained dirt and dragged herself blindly
upright, leaning on the strong blade. The pain brought tears to
her eyes. Her injured leg would not support her, her back ached
where she had wrenched it in her fall, and her left arm was next
to useless. She was weak from exertion and loss of blood. Oh Gods,
she thought. How can I face another opponent like this? Fleetingly
she longed for her lost powers. If it weren't for these accursed
bracelets, she thought bitterly, I could save myself yet. But
wait! The bracelets stopped her from putting forth her powers, but
would they stop her from taking power in? She remembered the riot
in Nexis, and how she had used the anger of the mob to bring the
rain.

Aurian concentrated with all her might, turning her will inward to
pull, as she normally turned it outward to manipulate . . . And it
was coming! She pulled in energy from the heat of
the sun, from the very life-force and blood lust of the mob that
surrounded her. To them it seemed like a sudden chill in the air,
a brief shadow passing across the face of the sun, though no
clouds marred the sky.

Aurian's ragged breathing steadied, her vision cleared. She could


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not Heal her wounds or even still the pain, but the weakness of
blood loss had left her and her body felt the renewed strength of
her borrowed energy. For the first time, Aurian wondered why there
was such a delay, though it had given her the respite she so badly
needed. The cries of the crowd returned to her consciousness,
crashing against her like a tidal wave. What were they chanting?
''Demon! Demon!'1 There seemed to be some confusion. No more
opponents had appeared. Aurian leaned on her sword, husbanding her
strength. She saw Eliizar, standing on the sands before the flower-
decked royal balcony. He seemed to be caught up in some kind of
debate with the

King.

A solution was reached, apparently. The Swordmaster approached
her, shaking his head. "Unheard of," he said, "The crowd wants you
to miss the last ordeal of combat with human warriors. They demand
that you face the Black Demon—and His Majesty has concurred. The
new Khisihn, for some reason, disagreed, but the Khisu has
prevailed."

Aurian pulled herself upright, and looked Eliizar in the eye. What
a farce! she thought with some irritation. My fate hanging on a
Royal quarrel! "All fight," she said resignedly. "Bring on your
Demon.***

A tear ran down from Eliizar's one good eye, as he embraced Aurian
briefly. "Farewell, bravest of warriors," he said. "I am sorry it
had to end thus. May the Reaper be merciful to you." And he was
gone.

Thanks for cheering me up, Eliizar, Aurian thought rue fully. The
westering sun beat down on the back of her neck as she waited.
Flies buzzed, hovering around the blood that trickled stickily
from her wounds. The crowd was hushed now— expectant. Aurian took
one unsteady hand from her sword hilt to wipe the sweat and dirt
from her face. She was desperately thirsty, but told herself
sternly that that was the least of her worries. What was this
Demon that they all seemed so afraid of? What form would it take?



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A rumble of wooden wheels echoed in the tunnel mouth. A great iron
cage, pulled by a dozen strong slaves, was wheeled into the Arena.
As the cage halted, one slave darted up and pulled out the thick
iron pin that held the door shut, then scurried away with his
fellows as fast as he could, into the safety of the tunnel mouth.
The wooden gates boomed shut behind them, sealing off the only
exit. Aurian waited. The thick bars of the cage were set close
together, preventing her from seeing what was inside. A dark,
shadowy shape stirred restlessly within.

There was a sudden, rumbling roar that made the earth tremble
beneath Aurian's feet. A blood-freezing sound, full of fiiry and
menace. The crowd shrank back, buffeted by the noise. Then slowly
the cage door swung open, its metal hinges screeching—and a huge
black shape with eyes of flame flowed lithely down onto the sand.
A great red mouth opened in a snarl of defiant challenge, exposing
curved ivory fangs longer than the Mage's hand, Aurian gasped, and
her hands tightened on the hilt of her sword.

The Demon was a great cat, larger than Aurian could have imagined
in her worst nightmares. Twice the length of a man from nose to
tail, it stood as high as her waist. Its yellow eyes blazed like
fire as they fixed on their prey. Slowly, deliberately, it began
to stalk her, its claws like great steel scimitars gleaming
against the bloody sand,

Aurian planted her feet firmly and lifted her sword, her heart
sinking, her fear sending that same heart banging wildly against
her ribs. How could anyone hope to fight such a. creature? How
could she fight it, hampered as she was by injury and exhaustion?
Then her eyes met those of her foe, and with a sudden shock, her
mind touched the mind of the massive cat. It was intelligent! Or
rather, she. A Queen—the matriarch of her own people—captured,
humiliated, and bent on vengeance!

The Mage gathered her scattered wits and reached out with her
mind. "Wait," she said.


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"Why?" The reply was loaded with derision, but Aurian sensed the
astonishment concealed beneath. It was coming closer—too bloody
close—almost within pouncing distance, Aurian was almost glaji
that her injured leg prevented her from
running—almost. She tried again. "I'm not your enemy. I am a
captive, too." Steady, Aurian. Don't plead. "All men are my
enemies."

"I am not." The Mage kept her mental voice firm. "The people here
are my enemies, too. Why kill each other, when we have the same
foes?"

The cat paused with one huge paw uplifted, seeming to consider.
Then it fell into a menacing crouch. "You lie!" it snarled. "Die!"
And sprang.

But Aurian, a lover of cats, had seen the telltale wriggle of the
haunches before it launched itself, and was already diving forward
beneath the pounce. She felt claws rake her side like white-hot
irons, and heard a yowl of furious pain as her sword point grazed
the cat's ribs. She tried to get to her feet to turn and meet her
enemy, but the injured leg collapsed beneath her, then the cat was
on her, flattening her facedown in the dirt and knocking the sword
out of her grasp—out of reach. For the space of a few heartbeats,
neither moved. The crowd held its breath. Again, the Mage sought
the mind of her foe. "You're making a big mistake," she warned. If
her plight had not been so desperate, she would have laughed at
her own temerity.

The cat's cruel amusement flicked across her mind like a whiplash.
"Surely," it mocked. Slowly, very slowly, Aurian eased herself up
a little, not even daring to spit the sand from her mouth. Like a
searing brand, the great claws raked lightly across her back,
shredding her leather vest and scoring the tender skin beneath.
Antian cried out in pain, unable to stop herself, but she had
achieved her goal. Her right hand was now beneath her, groping for
her dagger that she had stolen back from Eliizar and had
concealed, inside her vest. The cat had unwittingly helped her by
all but annihilating the garment, and the long, flat blade slid


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easily into her hand.

Suddenly a mighty swat from a huge paw knocked her rolling, over
and over; the beast was playing with her as a per cat plays with a
mouse. This time Aurian landed on her back, a sharp catch of pain
hampering her breaching. Her ribs? Or the child? Unable to place
the location of the pain, Aurian felt a jolt of fear. The great
cat leapt on top of her, tensing its claws to disembowel her—and
froze, the tip of the Mage's dagger pricking its throat.


Aurian stared into the fierce golden eyes, only inches from her
face. "Stalemate, I think," she said. There was no reply, but she
caught the faintest flicker of doubt behind those blazing eyes.
The crowd, to a man, was on its feet—waiting. Aurian forced
herself stay calm, to take the gamble. "They say that if I slay
you, I will win my freedom," she told the cat. "Have they offered
you the same? Of course, if I make a move, you may slay me—or you
may not be quick enough."

The cat growled menacingly. Aurian's thought cut through the
sound. "You have nothing to gain from my death but a quick
meal—and I assure you, you'll find me very tough." This time the
cat seemed to respond to her humor, relaxing a fraction. Aurian
pressed her point home, "But what if we refuse to kill each other?
Do you think we could fight our way to freedom? If not, we could
certainly take a lot of them with us into death. What have we got
to lose? Do you want to stay here, caged and captive for always?"

"Men are not to be trusted." The cat's tone was flat.

"Very well." Aurian had been hoping it wouldn't come to this. She
looked once more, frankly, into the cat's eyes, "You must decide
that for yourself. But you are the most beautiful, the most brave,
the most magnificent creature I have ever seen. I would be your
friend, but if that is not possible, I will not be responsible for
your death." Moving with careful deliberation, she removed her
dagger from the cat's throat and flicked it away from her, sending
it bouncing and skidding across the sand.



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The crowd gasped. For a moment, everything was still— then the cat
opened its huge jaws, its long, lethal fangs gleaming white in the
sun. The Mage flinched and closed her eyes against the sight of
her approaching death—but at the last second the great head swung
to one side, and a rasping tongue like a steel file licked the
oozing blood from the wound on her arm. Aurian opened her eyes in
astonishment, and the cat's golden gaze met her own. "My name is
Shia," she said. "Drink my blood, and be Friend." She backed away
slightly, removing her weight from Aurian's body, Murmurs of
confusion welled from the crowd,

Aurian sat up weakly, unstrung with relief. Placing her mouth to
the cat's ribs she licked salty blood, mixed with sand. "My name
is Aurian," she said, "and I am honored." Then,
greatly daring, she reached out her bloodstained fingers and
caressed Shia's broad, sleek head. And a sound that had never been
heard before echoed across the stunned Arena—the slow, bass rumble
of the big cat's purr.

The crowd, cheated of a death, erupted into wildness. Boos and
jeers resounded, and missiles rained down into the Arena— fruit,
sweetmeats, drinking goblets—even shoes. The tunnel doors swung
open, admitting two dozen armed and armored guards. They
approached reluctantly, fanning out to form a loose circle around
Aurian and Shia as the Mage struggled to her knees. Shia trotted
obligingly over and retrieved Aurian's sword from where it lay,
dragging it back with the hilt held carefully in her mouth.
Propping herself with Coronach, Aurian tried out her injured leg.
She could balance herself without support while standing still—but
moving? Not a chance. But they didn't know that. Sword in hand,
she stood back to back with Shia as the      ring of guards
tightened around    them. "Right," she called out grimly. "Which
of you sons of pigs wants to be first?" Shia snarled a menacing
echo to her words. Their assailants looked at each other
dubiously. Apparently no one wanted to be first.

Eliizar emerged from the tunnel at a run and crossed the sands to
the royal balcony. The Khisu got to his feet, and all sound
ceased. "Your Majesty," the Swordmaster cried in a quaking voice.
"The decision of life or death for this warrior rests with you.


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Death is the usual penalty for one who fails to slay his foe, but
this woman—thifr-warrior—has honored us with the bravest
performance in the history of the Arena. None will forget this
day. Will you, on the joyous occasion of your wedding, grant her
your clemency?"

Bless you, Eliizar, Aurian thought.

On the balcony, the King considered, wavering. It would be a
munificent gesture, and worthy of a Khisu, but the Arbiters had
told him about this dangerous foreigner, and he wasn't sure that
he wanted her at large in his land.

Aurian watched the Khisu, holding her breath. This was her first
good look at him. He looked younger than he must be, but his
expression was wolfish and feral. Beneath level brows, his dark
eyes glinted with pitiless cruelty. Black hair, falling past his
shoulders, showed no sign of gray, and he sported a

drooping moustache. He had a lean, lithe, hard-muscled killing
machine of a body and looked as though he used it frequently— and
well. Gods, Aurian thought. I wouldn't like to fight him! I might
like to bed him, though. The thought, so inappropriate to her
desperate situation, shocked her. But it was undeniable. His aura
was irresistibly sexual—and equally dangerous. He was like a
magnificent wild beast.

Then suddenly the Queen—the new Khisihn—stepped forward from the
shadows of the balcony and murmured into the Khisu's ear. Her face
was veiled, but the bright flash of golden hair was unmistakable.
Sara! Aurian sagged against Shia's flank, dizzy with shock. How in
the name of all the gods had the wretched woman managed this?

Sara had been equally stunned by the sight of Aurian in the Arena.
What evil luck! If that rotten Mage should tell the Khisu that she
was already married, all the hard work she had done to win him
would have been for nothing! She stepped up to him and whispered
in his ear, glad that he was proficient in her language, though
she was making progress at learning his. "Kill this woman, Lord,"
she said. "Make me a gift of her death." Xiang stared at her in


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amazement. Was this the gentle creature that had so charmed him?
"Please, my love." Sara smiled beguilingly, and the Khisu found
her impossible to resist. His thumb began to turn down in the
traditional death signal and—

"Stop!" Prince Harihn strode forward from the rear of the balcony.
"It is the Khisu's custom to bestow gifts on his wedding day," he
said. "Somehow, I seem to have been overlooked so far." He smiled
at his father without warmth. "Give her to me, Father. Grant me
the gift of this woman's life." His voice, deliberately loud, rang
across the Arena.

The Khisu found himself the focus of hundreds of curious eyes. He
glared at his son. "In the Reaper's name, why?" Harihn shrugged.
"You've been telling me for long enough that I need a woman of my
own—and this foreign warrior presents a challenge that I can't
resist."

Sara, who had managed to follow most of the exchange, felt the
moment slipping away from her. "Lord," she protested. "I beg you,
give me this woman's death."

"There, my son." The Khisu shrugged. "See what a coil you have me
in? I must disappoint my son—or my new bride." He bestowed a
dazzling smile on Sara, before turning back to the Prince. "Surely
this woman cannot be so important? She is hardly a beauty, and any
man would think twice before bedding such a she-devil. Come," he
cajoled, a hard edge in his voice. "Choose another gift, Harihn.
If it is a woman you want, I will give you the choice of any woman
in my seraglio. Every one is in the fullness of beauty, and
skilled in the arts of love."

Harihn's jaw clenched. "No," he said flatly. "I want that one."
Father and son glared at each other, all pretense of friendliness
abandoned. The Khisu thought rapidly. What was Harihn up to? Was
he simply trying to embarrass his royal father in public, or make
trouble between him and his new bride? Or did he have some other
motive in taking this sorceress into his household?

Xiang made his decision. Most likely the witch would stick a


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dagger into her benefactor at the first opportunity, which would
solve his problem. If not . . . well, there were other, less
public ways of dealing with the matter. "Very well, my son," he
said loudly, for the benefit of the rapt crowd. "I cannot refuse
you. I give this brave warrior into your care." He raised his
thumb in the gesture of life, and the crowd applauded. Sara
gasped.

"My father, I thank you," Harihn said, and vaulting dramatically
over the balcony, he crossed the sands toward Aurian.

The Mage consulted briefly with Shia. "It seems our lives have
been saved—for now. Shall we go with this man?"

"I trust him not."

"Me, neither. But I think we should risk it. It's better than
being hacked to pieces by these armored idiots!"

As the Khisal approached, Aurian bowed low, wincing with pain and
gritting her teeth to keep her temper at the speculative way his
eyes lingered on her breasts, which had been exposed by the
ruination of her leather vest. "I thank Your

Highness," she said.

He smiled. "Bravely fought, warrior. The honor is mine. Will you
come with me?" He extended a hand to help Aurian, and the great
cat growled warningly.

"I'm afraid you've also inherited my friend," Aurian said.

The Prince glanced dubiously at Shia. "Willingly," he lied, "save
that my father did not include her in our bargain."

"Tough!" Aurian was heartily sick of this charade, and she knew
that she had reached the end of her strength. "Where I go, Shia
goes," she said flatly. "Would you like to try to stop her? Or
perhaps you're more afraid of your father . . ."Harihn scowled at
the mention of his father, and glanced up at the crowd. Aurian


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knew that he feared the cat, but was afraid of looking a fool, if
Shia should ruin his triumphant exit. "She will be very friendly
toward a friend of mine—and your people would be impressed by a
Prince who could tame such a creature," she suggested.

Harihn brightened at her words. "Very well. Will it let me help
you?"

"She will."

The Prince scooped Aurian theatrically into his arms and left the
Arena with the great cat pacing watchfully at his heels. The crowd
cheered delightedly. They seemed to have forgotten that only a few
minutes before, they had been howling for Aurian's blood. The last
thing Aurian saw as they entered the tunnel was the Khisu and Sara
glaring savagely, naked fury on their faces. Aurian felt an uneasy
chill creep up her spine. What did this Prince intend for her,
anyway? "Keep hold of my mind," she warned Shia. "I daren't pass
out yet."

nvar had been spared the humiliation of the slave mar-^^—— ket.
After several days spent languishing in the squalor and despair of
the noisome cellar, he and some fifty other slaves had been
chained together in groups of ten and marched, by night, down
through the narrow, twisting alleys of the city to the wharves. As
dawn was breaking, they were herded into open barges and rowed
some miles upriver in the broiling heat to the site of the Khisu's
summer palace.

The area was a hive of activity. The huge new edifice was being
built on a series of terraces that had been hewn by hand, at the
cost of many slaves, back into the face of the towering red
cliffs. The air was thick with dust and rang with shouted
commands. The beat of hammers and chisels, the crack of whips and
the groans of the tortured slaves echoed in a ceaseless cacophony
between the canyon's walls of red stone that trapped all sound and
heat in a simmering caldron of suffering.

Already the massive blocks of white stone that had been ferried
down from the upland quarries were being set into place. Teams of


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exhausted slaves were hauling on the ropes of the great hoists
that lifted the blocks, while others swarmed over the stepped
banks of wooden scaffolding that lined the half-built walls, or
mixed vast quantities of mortar that stood in constant danger of
drying out in the baking sun. Whole camps of masons and master
carvers and carpenters labored at their crafts, and architects
strode around the site carrying rolls of parchment and an air of
self-importance. A huge outdoor kitchen had been built on the flat
ground near the river to feed the laboring hordes, and sweating
cooks worked ceaselessly, seemingly oblivious to the stench and
dust, amidst a cloud of swarming flies.

Anvar's group was off-loaded at one of the flimsy wooden piers
that projected out into the sluggish river, and the Slave-master
for the site came to look them over, his expression sour. "Is this
all?" he demanded of the barge-train captain. "I need three times
as many. The palace will never be finished at this rate. Slaves
last no time at all in these conditions!"


The captain spat on the dusty ground. "Don't take it out on me,"
he grumbled. "I only bring them—however many. Maybe if you treated
them better, they'd last longer." He glanced disparagingly round
the dusty, noisome work site.

"Don't tell me how to do my job, you dockside layabout! If the
Khisu's accursed palace isn't finished on time, heads will
roll—and I'm not taking the blame!" the Slavemaster retorted. "How
I'm expected to work with the rubbish you people have been sending
up here—Look at that one!" His finger shot out in the direction of
Anvar, whose light skin and hair made him very conspicuous in the
group of slaves. "What in the name of the Reaper is that supposed
to be?"

The captain shrugged. "How should I know? I only bring them,
remember? Zahn doesn't tell me where he gets his slaves, and I
don't ask questions—it's not healthy. As long as he keeps sending
them, you'd be wise just to use them, and keep your mouth shut.
Who cares what color one bloody slave is anyway? Zahn? Not if
there's profit in it! The Khisu? All Xiang cares about is getting


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his God-blasted palace finished. Just do what you usually do—work
the bastard till he drops and bury him out of sight somewhere, or
throw him in the river for the lizards: If anybody asks, / never
saw him. I'm off now. This place stinks!"

"Some help you are," the Slavemaster grumbled. "Tell Zahn I need
more—and the quality had better improve, or someone just might
whisper in the Khisu's ear that someone has been importing illegal
Northerners,"

The captain spat once more. "I don't tell Zahn anything— and I
would watch my mouth if I were you. Knowing him, you're likely to
wind up buried under your own foundations." He turned on his heel
and left.

The slaves were put to work at once. One by one, each man was
unshackled and questioned as to whether he had any particular
skills, such as masonry or carpentry. If they had, they were
lucky, for they were sent to assist the artisans and spared much
grueling labor in the brutally hot climate. As the overseer worked
his way toward him, Anvar found himself in a dilemma. Should he
pretend to be ignorant of their language, in the hope that it
might give him a chance to escape, or should he claim the
knowledge of carpentry that his grandpa had
taught him, and so survive longer in this terrible place? But he
was spared the decision. As the overseer approached him, the
Slavemaster intervened. "Not that one," he snapped. "I don't want
him around too long. Put him on the pulley gangs."

The pulleys—the worst work on the site, as Anvar soon discovered.
Twenty slaves at a time hauled on thick ropes that raised the
massive stone blocks up the half-finished walls. The more blocks
that were raised, the higher the walls became, and the greater the
effort required from the struggling, exhausted slaves. The death
toll was appalling. Once a block had begun its ascent there could
be no stopping, for if momentum was lost the stone would fall, and
might crack as it hit the ground, incurring a huge waste of time
and labor to hew and transport another from the quarries. And the
Khisu wanted his palace finished. So if a slave was unlucky enough
to lose his footing or collapse from exhaustion in the line, he


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would be trampled by those behind him, who would, in their turn,
struggle desperately to keep their own bare feet from slipping on
the slimy, bloody pulp that had once been a man.

It was a nightmare unending. From dawn to dusk, the work rarely
halted. Food was scarce and unsatisfying—a thin mush of cooked
grain doled out morning and evening. Water was insufficient for
the slaves' needs in the burning sun, and many collapsed from
heatstroke. Brutal overseers with whips stalked the lines, never
permitting the pace to slacken. Clouds of biting insects assailed
the slaves, and snakes and scorpions came scuttling from beneath
the shelter of the blocks as they began to lift, scattering at
random toward the bare feet and legs of the helpless slaves. It
took many agonizing hours for a man to die from their venom.

By the end of the first day, Anvar's fair skin was burned and
blistered by the fierce sun. His hands and shoulders were bloody
and raw from the friction of the coarse ropes, and his bare feet
were scored and lacerated from the uneven, gritty ground. His back
was striped with whip cuts, his head throbbed from the relentless
heat, and his tongue was swollen in his parched mouth. His pain-
filled world had shrunk to a single thought: keep moving. Endure.

In the blessed cool of evening, another gang replaced the
exhausted survivors at the pulleys, and the work went on by

AURIAN          •       373

torchlight. Anvar and the other slaves on the day teams were
herded into a high-walled stockade. No attempt had been made to
provide sanitation, and the place stank like a cesspool and
swarmed with flies. A handful of gruel was doled out to each slave
as he passed through the gate, and a long stone trough within the
compound was filled with muddy river water. Anvar fought for a
drink at the trough, where men crowded and jostled like beasts for
the unsavory water. Then he staggered away from the mob and lay in
the filth where he fell, too exhausted to think, or even register
the pain of his abused body. It seemed that he only slept for an
instant, before he was awakened with a kick to begin another day
of toil and torture.


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There was no doubt that if Anvar had been of true Mortal blood, he
would never have survived this terrible place for two days
together. But somehow, while he slept, his Mage blood worked
automatically to heal and restore him enough to face another day
of dreadful suffering, though it could only do so much. Anvar had
not been trained in the Healing arts, and Miathan had stolen the
active element of his powers. Food and rest were needed to restore
the energy used in the Healing process, and these were in
desperately short supply. So, day by wretched day, his condition
began to deteriorate, the Healing becoming less and less effective
and only serving to prolong his misery.

The overseers were amazed by his endurance, and wagers began to be
made concerning how long this strange, pale-skinned Northerner
would last. Anvar was oblivious to it all. His exhausted, pain-
wracked mind afid body only worked at survival level, and the
luxury of thought was a long-forgotten dream. All that remained
was a faint spark of consciousness, a stubborn, relentless
manifestation of the will to survive.

Aurian opened her eyes. Moonlight shone in dazzling star-and-
diamond shapes through the lattices of delicately carved shutters,
forming lacework shadows on the pale, thin sheet that covered her
bed..She was confused—her coming here was all a daze, and she was
still half asleep. But something had awakened her. Something
wrong. What? The back of her neck prickled. Something. Some vague,
formless fear that brought back the irrational childhood urge to
hide her head beneath the covers,
hoping that the unknown terror would be unable to find her there.
Aurian tried to pull herself together, reminding herself sternly
that she was a warrior. She lay very still, concentrating with all
her senses to locate the source of the wrongness.

Ah. She had it now. The silence. Each night since she'd come to
these lands, the darkness had been filled with the rhythmic,
creaking chirrups of nocturnal insects that formed a shrill
nighttime chorus. Now everything was still—utterly, utterly still.
Aurian could hear herself breathing in ragged, shallow gasps—could
hear the thunder of her own heart. Despite the warmth of the room,


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icy sweat slid down her spine. What else? She was missing
something. Shia! Aurian could hear only the sound of her own
breathing. No one else was in the room.

Shia was gone!

Aurian looked wildly around her, but the room was growing darker.
Something was sapping the moonlight from her window, consuming it,
drowning it in an overwhelming wave of utter blackness. Something
stirred in the corner—she could feel it as it moved, creeping, no,
gliding silently toward her. It passed in front of the window—and
her blood congealed to ice at the sight of the shape that haunted
her most nightmarish memories. Nihilim! Miathan had sent the Death
Wraiths!

Aurian tried to move, to reach for her sword—no, that was no good!
The Wraith advanced, uttering the weird, cruel bass chuckle that
she remembered so well. The wave of leeching coldness and terror
that spun out before it washed over her . . . The spell! Finbarr's
spell! What was it? Her mind was in a whirl of panic—she couldn't
think! She couldn't move! Her tongue was frozen in her mouth, her
limbs were frozen to the bed! It swooped down on her, its great
maw drooling long ropes of slimy, clinging darkness—to engulf her,
as it had engulfed Forral . . . "Forral! Forral\"

"For pity's sake, Lady, wake up!"

Aurian blinked; her vision cleared. She was sitting up in bed, in
a room aglow with lamplight. Before her, instead of that hideous
shape of evil, was Harihn, shaking her shoulders, his tanned face
gray with shock. Her left arm was bound up in a sling, and her
throat was raw with screaming. Shia was by the bed, her snarling
face a demon mask of fear and fury, her slitted

yellow eyes glaring—glaring at something that wasn't there. It
wasn't there! As Aurian's nightmare faded, the great cat suddenly
relaxed, shaking her head in bewilderment, her ears still
flattened, the tip of her black tail twitching back and forth. And
as the bitter tide of reaction to her dream flowed over her,
Aurian began to shake uncontrollably, weakened by her wounds and


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undone by the vivid memory of Forral's hideous death as the barely
healing scars in her emotions were ripped asunder by what she had
just experienced. Unable to help herself, she collapsed in a storm
of hysterical weeping.

She heard Harihn curse, heard him call a servant to fetch the
surgeon. Then he was back at her side, patting her shoulder
awkwardly as she wept. "Hush, Lady, hush," he soothed her
helplessely. "It was only a dream—a bad dream from the fever. I am
here—your Demon is here. Nothing can hurt you, I promise."

Then the surgeon was there. Aurian vaguely remembered the round-
shouldered, wrinkled old man who had stitched the torn muscles of
her calf, quaking all the while under the baleful glare of Shia,
who had barely been able to restrain herself from attacking this
puny creature who was causing her friend such pain. Now he was all
bustling efficiency despite the comical long white nightgown that
he wore. The sight of him was so ludicrous that Aurian wanted to
laugh, but she couldn't stop crying, and somehow the laughter and
sobs mingled so that she couldn't get her breath. She fought free
of Harihn and clutched her bandaged aching ribs, wheezing
.helplessly as tears poured down her face.

Aurian heard the surgeon tsking, then a cup was forced between her
lips and she choked on a coldly burning brew, coughing and
spluttering and causing further pain to knife between her ribs.
"Deep breaths, Lady, if you please," she heard the surgeon
chanting patiently, speaking to her as though she were a small
child. Then she heard Shia's voice in her mind, sensible and
comforting. "Enough, my friend," the cat said, "or you will harm
yourself."

With a superhuman effort, Aurian got control of herself, enough to
swallow the rest of the draft. The tight knot within her
unraveled, and she could relax, though she was still shaking as
she leaned back against the pillows and wiped her eyes.

Harihn looked relieved. "By the Reaper, Lady, but you frightened
us all!" he said.



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"Nonsense!" the surgeon said briskly. "It was only the fever. You
were very ill, Lady, for several days." He leaned over to place a
hand on her forehead. "It has broken now, so you should have no
more bad dreams. And you will be pleased to know that your child
is safe."

The child! She had forgotten all about it! And days, he had said.
There was something she should be doing—something urgent—but the
memory of Forral haunted her, and she felt weak and confused by
the aftermath of her dream ... Oh Gods, that hideous creature!
Aurian shuddered. "Wine?" she gasped, trying to force the memory
away.

The surgeon smiled. "I know my patients are mending when they ask
for wine. Is there any here, Your Highness?"

"Should she have it?" the Prince asked anxiously. "I mean, what
with the drug—and she has not eaten anything . . ."

"That can soon be remedied." The surgeon went to the door and gave
orders to a hovering servant.

While she waited, Aurian tried to piece together what had
happened. "How badly was I hurt?" she asked the surgeon.

His wizened face creased in a frown. "Lady, you gave me some work!
But your arm is healing, and your ribs were simply cracked, not
broken. They will soon improve with care. As to your leg ... The
muscles were badly torn. I fear there will be some scarring." .^

"Never mind that. Will it be all right?" The surgeon hesitated.
"It should," he said at last. "That is, if you give it a chance to
heal, Lady. You must stay off that leg for ten days at least, and
more if possible."

"What!" Aurian shot bolt upright, wincing at the pain from her
cracked ribs. "I don't have that kind of time!" "Lady, you must."

"But there's something I have to do—it's important!" Desperately
she tried to remember what it was.


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The surgeon frowned at her as though she were a petulant child.
"Suit yourself," he replied frostily. "But if those muscles have
no chance to heal properly, you will be crippled, or at best ft
that leg will always be weak. You must stay in bed until I tell f

you otherwise. If not, you have only yourself to blame for the
consequences."

Aurian swore viciously and thumped the pillow with her fist,
frustrated by the limitations of Mortal medicine. If only she had
her powers, she could Heal her injuries in no time!

Just then the servant returned with a cup of warm broth. "Drink
this, Lady," the surgeon told Aurian, "then you may have your
wine." Despite her frustration, Aurian realized that her stomach
was churning, not just from emotion, but from hunger. She drank
the broth down eagerly, then the surgeon handed her a goblet of
sweetish red wine.

"Have no fear, Highness," he told the Prince. "Together with the
drug it will make her sleep again, which is all to the good.
Perhaps then we can all return to our rest." His voice held an
acid undertone.

Aurian's hand tightened round the stem of the goblet in panic. She
couldn't sleep! What if it returned in her dreams? But it was too
late. Already she had drunk most of the wine, and she could feel a
drowsy euphoria stealing over her. It felt good, after what she
had just undergone. She heard herself giggling, as she held out
the cup for a refill.

The surgeon tsked disapprovingly, then shrugged. "It may be for
the best," he sighed, as he poured more wine. "Whatever she
dreamed about, it gave her a severe shock. You ought to have some
too, Highness. You look—" That was all Aurian could remember.

•           /

"You look exhausted. Why not have a servant watch this ungrateful


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woman? You have more important things to concern you, and you must
sleep."

Harihn dismissed the surgeon with brusque thanks. The wretch was
so officious! But since he was so skilled in his art, he
invariably managed to get away with it. The Khisal rubbed wearily
at his gritty eyes, and turned back to the mysterious lady whom he
had rescued so impulsively from the Arena. She slept peacefully;
the terror that had haunted her face was smoothed away in repose.
What had she dreamed, to cause such anguish? Had it been her
husband's name she had cried out? His inquiries to the Arbiters
had revealed that she had probably been widowed, and the_sunjeon
had told him that she was with
child. That had come as a shock. Given her condition, her
performance in the Arena had been near miraculous! Silently
saluting her courage, he bent over and tucked the thin sheet more
closely around her shoulders.

The Demon lifted her head and snarled, baring long white fangs.
"Hush, you," Harihn soothed, keeping a wary eye on her. "You
should know by now that I will not harm your friend." The cat
dropped her head back to her outstretched paws, contenting herself
with a black look for the Prince. She had remained on guard all
through Aurian's illness, treating all who tended her friend with
similar suspicion. Most of the servants were afraid even to enter
the room.

Deciding to take the sturgeon's advice after all, Harihn poured
himself some wine. Opening the carved shutters that stretched from
the floor to the ceiling, he took his cup out into the balmy,
moonlit peace of the garden. Ah, how he loved this place! The
small, walled area with its grassy lawn and flowering plants and
trees was a haven of green in this arid city. His mother had
created it when she came here, a captive bride, to this small but
exquisite palace on the south side of the river— the opposite side
from the Arena and the Khisu's sumptuous dwelling. Her refusal to
live in the same house with her Lord and his harem had been but
one of the reasons for her murder. Xiang, used to the subservient
women of his land, had not been able to deal with her pride, and
her contemptuous hatred, never concealed, of the man who had taken


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her by force from the Xandim, her own people".

Harihn crossed the lawn to sit on the low marble coping that
circled the pool where carp swam in gilded splendor. The scent of
huge white blossoms from the tree that overhung the moon-silvered
water was intoxicating, but his thoughts were elsewhere. After all
these years, he still missed his mother. He remembered her
vividly—her long brown hair, her flashing eyes, the indomitable
spirit that his father's brutality had never quenched. Harihn
dwelt here for the same reasons that she had —to maintain his
independence and to keep as far from Xiang as possible. But it
hurt. This place was haunted by his mother's memory, and perhaps
that was his own fault, for he had never allowed it to be changed.
There had been some raised eyebrows, to say the least, among his
servants when he had placed the

AURIAN          •       379

flame-haired foreigner in his mother's old suite of rooms.
Somehow, though, it had seemed the right thing to do. Her spirit,
her courage and pride and refusal to surrender in the Arena had
called back such powerful memories of his mother that he had been
compelled to intervene, to help this woman, though he had been too
young to save the other.

Since then, of course, he'd had time to consider his rash act, and
had wondered, more than once, what had possessed him. All he'd had
from the lady so far was her name—Aurian. Where had she come from?
What was her history? How had she —a mere woman—learned to fight
so well? That she was one of the witch-breed of Northern sorcerers
made him nervous, despite the bracelets she wore that, he had been
assured, would negate her magic. Not for the first time, Harihn
wondered if he had bitten off more than he could swallow. He had
never thought, for instance, that it would mean giving shelter to
the fearsome Demon! And the Khisu, of course, was furious with
him, but that was nothing new.

Thinking of Xiang, Harihn had to admit that there were advantages
to his deed. It had been most enjoyable to see that look of
thwarted rage on his father's face, and that of his bride. Now why


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did she want the warrior dead? Harihn was convinced that the women
must have been traveling on the same ship. Two foreigners
appearing in the city at the same time? It was more than
coincidence. He smiled to himself. If his mystery lady could
provide him with information to the new Khisihn's disadvantage,
that might give him a new^and necessary lever to use against the
Khisu. Harihn's mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. The hatred his
father bore for him was no secret. In that respect, this Aurian
could prove useful, indeed. She could fight like a demon—that much
he had seen for himself—and she had her own Demon to help her.
Between them they made a formidable team. The Khisal smiled to
himself. Perhaps, in saving her, he had made the right decision
after all.

When Aurian awakened, it was broad daylight. The Prince had gone,
and a stranger was drowsing in a chair by her bed. Aurian gasped.
The man was huge\ But Shia was asleep on the bottom of the bed,
curled up with her tail wrapped over her eyes, and the Mage took
jjLais a sign that her new warder could
be trusted. She wondered if he would bring her some food. Her mind
felt clear now, but her insides were cramped with hunger. She
reached out to touch his arm, and the big man snapped to attention
at once, his face a picture of guilt. Aurian saw the fear in his
eyes, and instinctively sought to soothe him. "Don't worry," she
said. "There's no harm in your being asleep. Everyone else was."
She smiled at the oblivious Shia. "Only—I'm terribly hungry. Do
you think you could arrange for some food? And some liafa?" While
at the Arena, she had become addicted to the stuff.

The giant leapt to his feet, nodding fit to loosen his bald head,
his broad brown face breaking into a shy smile. Aurian's eyes
widened. He must have been almost seven feet tall, his shoulders
so broad that she wondered how he could fit them through the door.
He bowed, and left the room with a speed that belied his enormous
bulk.

He returned very shortly, bearing a tray almost as wide as his
shoulders. From the contents, Aurian decided that whatever time of
day it was, it was not breakfast time. But she didn't care —her
mouth was watering. There was a thick soup, a roast fowl, and the


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meal was rounded off with fruit, cheese, honey, and the usual flat
bread. A flask of wine and a brimming jug of liafa competed for
the small amount of remaining space. "Why, this is a feast!"
Aurian exclaimed. "Thank you, thank you very

much!"

Shia stirred, smelling the food, her golden eyes lighting up as
they fixed on the -tsay. Aurian sighed. It wasn't that she
begrudged sharing with her friend, however . . . But her friendly
giant had even thought of that. Tucked beneath his arm, where he
had been carrying it to leave his hands free for the tray, was a
bulky, cloth-wrapped object. He unwrapped it with a flourish,
presenting it to the cat without a sign of fear. It was a haunch
of raw meat. Shia, to Aurian's utter astonishment, purred loudly
and rubbed the side of her face against the man's

hand.

"Why, thank you," Aurian told him with a smile. "That was very
considerate . . . Shia! Not on the bed, please!"

"Why not? I'm hungry, too!" Shia gave her a black look, and
dragged her meat out into the garden.

Aurian could wait no longer to attack the food. "What's
your name?" she asked the huge man indistinctly, with her mouth
full. He simply looked at her, shaking his head and waving his
hands in front of his face.

"His name is Bohan. He cannot answer you, for he cannot speak." As
Harihn entered, Bohan prostrated himself, touching his forehead to
the floor. The Prince gestured negligently, and the huge man left
the room. "I sent him to serve and to guard you—he is a eunuch, as
is proper."

"Poor man!" Aurian gasped. "How cruel!"

Harihn looked surprised. "Cruel? How so? All ladies of rank are
served by eunuchs. How else would the sanctity of their persons be


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guarded?"

Aurian shuddered, thinking of Anvar. Anvar! Great Chathak, how
could she have forgotten him?

The Prince shrugged. "It is of no consequence. I trust he is
satisfactory?" He settled himself comfortably on the bottom of her
bed and casually helped himself to a leg of her fowl. Aurian took
another huge mouthful, reluctant to lose any more of the bird.
"How are you feeling?" Harihn asked, and she choked getting it all
swallowed. She took a gulp of wine and a deep breath.

"Hungry," she replied pointedly, then regretted her churlishness.
After all, she was very much indebted to him, and dependent, at
the moment, on his continuing goodwill.

The Prince smiled tolerantly. He was handsome, Aurian thought,
with his black curling hair, thick level brows, and dark, lustrous
eyes. His face was gentler, less angular and wolfish, than that of
his father, but the same pride was in his bearing, and his body
was lithe and strong. She was, however, beginning to find his
condescending manner very irritating, and had to force herself to
keep a rein on her temper. "My apologies, Your Highness," she
said. "I'm afraid I'm never at my best when I first wake up."

"You may call me Harihn," he told her, with the air of one
conferring a singular honor, "and I have no objections to you
eating while we talk."

Thanks a lot, the Mage thought sourly. "Thank you very much," she
said aloud. "You may call me Aurian."

Harihn raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

With an effort, Aurian restrained herself from flinging her

•

BJI^H
breakfast in the complacent idiot's face. It was good, and she


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needed it. Instead she gave him a very direct look. "Harihn, why
did you rescue me?"

The Prince smiled. "Lady, you have naught to fear from me. You are
more valuable to me alive than dead. You see, I need you—and your
Demon, if she will help. I saw you fight in the Arena, and I need
your skill to protect me. My life is in danger from my royal
father—not to mention his new wife. If she should give him another
heir—" He made a slicing motion across his throat.

After a moment, Aurian discovered that her mouth was open, and
hastily shoveled some food into it, to give herself time to think.
She had almost started to tell him why she couldn't possibly
stay—but she realized that the self-absorbed young Prince would
hardly take her problems into consideration. Besides, she could
not leave until she had found Anvar and, even more important,
discovered a way to remove these bracelets that crippled her
powers.

The Prince was frowning, obviously wondering why she was not
overcome with delight at the prospect of being his bodyguard.
"Excuse me, Your Highness," Aurian said hastily, managing to
dredge up a smile from somewhere. "I'm overcome by the honor you
do me. But ... the surgeon must have told you of my condition. How
can I defend you adequately when I've grown great with child?"

Harihn shrugged. "I appreciate your frankness in discussing this
delicate matter with me, of course . . ." The distasteful curl of
his lip gave the lie to his words. "However, it may not be a
problem. You have your Demon to assist you, and besides, your
condition may lull any would-be assassin into a false sense of
security. After all, who would expect a pregnant concubine of
possessing warrior's skills?"

Aurian choked again. When she had regained her breath, she pushed
the tray away, her appetite abruptly gone. "Did you say
concubine?" she demanded.

Harihn's eyes widened. "Surely you did not expect me to marry you?
My people would never countenence a foreign sorceress as their


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Khisihn!"

"Of course I didn't! I thought you wanted me for a body-

AURIAN          '       383

guard, not—" Aurian spluttered angrily, all restraint scattered to
the winds. "You must be out of your mind!"

Harihn assumed such an air of benign patience that Aurian wanted
to throttle him. "The surgeon warned me you might react in this
way," he said. "Being pregnant, you are not in your right mind at
present—and I have your history from the Arbiters. I appreciate
that as one newly widowed, your sensibilities may be raw, but it
is not permitted for a woman to be without a man to govern and
guard her. How could it be otherwise? You need a man's
protection—a home and a future for your child. If you leave here,
you will be at the mercy of the law, and the best you can hope for
is slavery—or a return to the Arena. Could your child survive
another such bout? Could you? I think not. I have no idea how
things are managed in your own land, but here, as a widow, your
husband's brother, or some relative, or even his closest friend,
would take you into his family as his concubine, or even as a
wife, if he wished. You are a stranger here, and have no one to do
you this service. Surely you cannot be insensible of the honor I
do you?"

Great Gods! He was actually preening\ Aurian cursed her
imagination for coming up with the idiotic story of a missing
husband. She cursed the ridiculous laws of this land that passed
women around like possessions, and cursed this arrogant young
booby who thought he was doing her such a favor! What gall! Then
she pulled herself together, and started thinking with frantic
haste. Maybe that tale about Anvar being her husband would stand
her in good stead, if he coujd be found . . . She took a deep
breath and crossed her fingers beneath the sheet. "But Your
Highness," she blurted out, "what about my husband?"

Harihn frowned. "Aurian, your husband is dead."



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"But what if he isn't?" Aurian protested. "We don't know for
certain." At her words, the image of Forral's face rose before her
with such painful clarity that she gulped back a sob. Oh, Forral,
forgive me, she thought. "What happens if he comes here only to
discover that I've become another man's concubine?" she went on,
unable to suppress the quiver in her voice. "Please, Your
Highness, surely you could put a search in motion? I beg you ...
As a woman alone in a strange land, I throw myself upon your
mercy." Well, groveling had worked
with the Arbiters. If only the Prince would take the same bait . .
. But as Aurian forced tears into her eyes, she saw Harihn's
expression harden.

"Lady," he said flatly, "to find the one you seek would be
impossible."

Drat it! I've outfoxed myself! He has no intention of finding
Anvar, Aurian thought, because he wants me himself. She had no
other recourse but to persist. "What, with light skin and light
hair, and blue eyes? I'd have thought he would stand out in this
city. If he was brought here with Sara, surely someone must
remember having seen him?"

"Exactly! And in all this time, there has been no word of such a
man—What did you say? He was with Sara? The Khisihn? Why?" Harihn
leaned forward, his eyes suddenly intent.

What had got into the man? Aurian wondered. Could she use this
sudden interest to her advantage? "Did Sara not mention him?" she
fished.

"She most certainly did not! Should she have? Were they together?
Why did she not speak of him? Is this something I could use to
discredit my father?" Harihn's questions tumbled over each other
in his eagerness.

So that was it! Aurian fought to suppress her relief. If she
handled this right . . . She assumed what she hoped was a shocked
expression. "I'm not surprised she didn't mention Anvar to the
Khisihn. She's his concubine. That's why she wants me dead,


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Harihn=*-in case I betray her secret! Of course if poor Anvar is
dead, it won't make any difference, but if he's still alive, it
would put your father in a very embarrassing position."

The Prince let out a whoop of triumphant laughter. "Ah!" he said.
"You are repaying my investment already! I wondered, when I
rescued you, if you two knew one another. Two outland-ers arriving
so close together was too much of a coincidence. I wonder what my
father will say when he hears that his precious new Khisihn is
another man's concubine!"

Aurian sighed. What an innocent! "Sara will say that I'm lying, or
that you are lying, and the Khisu will believe her of course, and
then we'll both be in trouble," she said flatly, and

Harihn's face fell. "What you need is proof," Aurian urged him.
"If you could only find Anvar . . ."

The Prince's face lit up. "By the Reaper, Lady, but you are
clever! I never would have thought of that. What a pity that you
are a foreign sorceress. You would make a far better Khisihn than
that she-jackal of my father's. You are worth your weight in the
treasures of the desert!" It seemed an odd sort of compliment, but
Aurian let it pass. Harihn leapt to his feet. "I will send a man
down to the docks at once—the trail should start there, if
anywhere."

"Harihn, I don't know how to thank you," Aurian told him, in an
excess of relief. "As soon as I'm on my feet, I'll repay your
kindness, I promise. With your permission, I'll start training
your personal guard in Northern fighting skills. Then, if your
father should make a move against you, you'll have as much
protection as possible." And when I go away, she thought, at least
you'll still be defended.

"Lady, you have my heartfelt thanks." Harihn faced her, his front
of arrogance replaced by gratitude.

Aurian realized that he was very much afraid of his father —and
very much alone. And now she intended to betray him— to win his


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trust and use what aid he could offer her, and then, as soon as it
was expedient, to leave him. In that moment she hated herself. How
far would the ripples of Miathan's evil spread? Were they
beginning to engulf her, too? Aurian forced a smile, but she was
shuddering inwardly, despising herself for what she was doing.
"Your Highness," she said, "it will be my privilege to help you."
And may the' Gods help me, she thought.

Onaptcr               25

THE         PRISONERS

he Nightrunners had made their home in a safe and secret honeycomb
of caves, reached from the ocean via a tunnel where waves beat
into a shadowed opening in the cliff. This entrance, with waters
that were deep enough to float a ship, opened into a vast cavern,
hollowed out aeons ago by the sea's ceaseless pounding in the
constricted space beneath the cliffs. A gently sloping beach of
shingle narrowed as it curved round, to be lost in deep waters
that lapped the sheer, sea-smoothed walls at the rear and opposite
sides of the cave. Anchored in the pool were four small ships,
their lines lean and swift, the figureheads at their prows carved
and painted with skill and love in the shapes of legendary beasts.
A cluster of smaller boats were moored by the beach, which sloped
up to a broad shelf of flat rock, the wall behind it pierced with
dark entrances to the maze of corridors and chambers where the
smugglers dwelt.

The cavern was lit by lamps and torches fixed in brackets to the
rock itself, or mounted on tall wooden poles planted firmly in the
shingle. Their flickering light was picked up by glittering
fragments of mica and fine veins of ore in the walls, and thrown
back in splintered rainbow gleams that echoed the sparkle of tears
in Zanna's eyes.

She didn't want to leave. Why, in three short months, this place
had become her Home! They let me have a life here, Zanna justified
herself, against the guilt that dogged her love of this place.
Though Dulsina's sister Remana had been so kind and welcoming, she
had not tried to coddle Zanna as though she might break apart. In


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the secret world of the Nightrunners, everyone made themselves
useful.

Zanna paused in the entrance to the massive cavern, assailed by
memories of the day she had first arrived in this place. She had
been weary and chilled to the bone—and not a little afraid.
Despite Dulsina's assurances, the reluctance of the smuggler crew
to accept her had left her uncertain of her welcome in their
hideaway. But from the moment Vannor's daughter had stepped
unsteadily down the springy gangplank with a whin-

AUR1AN          '       387

ing, fretful Antor in her arms, Remana had been a fount of comfort
and reassurance.

The tall, gray-haired woman, older and stouter than her sister,
but with the same upright carriage, brisk manner, and shrewd,
twinkling gray eyes, had taken Antor in one arm and put the other
around the tired girl's shoulders, cutting short Zanna's attempt
at an explanation with a flood of brisk and friendly chatter.
"Never mind that, child—you look quite worn out! I don't suppose
these useless men even thought to feed you, did they? No? I
thought not! Men! The only way to drive any sense into them is to
hit them over the head with an oar. What? Dulsina gave you a
letter for me? Wonders will never cease! I know it's not easy to
get messages to this place, but my sister is the worst
correspondent . . . Here you are, my dear—the kitchen. We'll get
you fed and warm in no time . . ."

As she spoke, Remana had been leading the bemused Zanna through
what had seemed, at the time, to be a maze of interconnecting
caves and tunnels. At last they reached a low arched entrance at
the end of a corridor, and passed into the warm, fragrant cavern
that was the communal kitchen. In the Nightrunner community, even
kitchen duty had its place. It was left to those unable to perform
the more arduous tasks of survival—the old and the very young. In
this way, everyone, even the children, contributed to the welfare
of the close-knit group. A sense of belonging was fostered at a
very early age. It was a good system, in Zanna's opinion—better


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than that of the city, where the poor were bonded like slaves, and
little children and folk too old to do manual work^begged in the
stinking streets, or were forced to turn to crime in order to
survive.

The kitchen was loud with chatter and brightly lit with many
lamps, its smoke-stained walls glowing a soft red with the warm
light of the cookfires. Even at this early hour, the place was
filled with a businesslike bustle. A budding young girl, one of
the goatherds who tended the small flock that grazed on the cliffs
above, was pouring warm, fresh milk into cans that stood in an icy
pool at the back of the cavern, where the sea penetrated through
some subterranean chink in the rocks. A boy sat at the edge of one
hearth, stirring a caldron of porridge. By its side steamed a
kettle of fragrant tea, made from dried flowers and sea grass that
grew at the top of the cliff. An
old man with gnarled hands was gutting fish in a corner, and the
fruits of his labors were baking on griddles at a nearby fire,
supervised by his wife. One old woman was beating gulls' eggs in a
basin, watched hungrily by the small boy and girl who had climbed
the sheer cliffs to collect them. The mouth-watering aroma of new
bread filled the air.

Antor caused a sensation. Within seconds, the little boy had been
taken over by a vociferous group of delighted old fisherwives, and
was being bathed and fed, pampered and cos-setted and exclaimed
over. Remana, having made sure that they were not neglecting the
business of breakfast in their zeal, turned her attention to
Zanna, seating her by the fire with a large bowl of porridge, a
cup of the steaming tea, and a hunk of warm new bread and pungent
goat's-milk cheese. Pouring some tea for herself, she sat down on
the other side of the hearth to peruse Dulsina's letter while
Zanna ate.

"Well! My poor dear girl, you have had a time of it, haven't you?"
Zanna blushed beneath her scrutiny as Remana looked up from the
letter with lifted brows. "Don't worry, child—we'll take good care
of you both, and you can stay as long as you like! Be assured that
you are welcome here, my dear—very welcome, indeed!"



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And so it began—one of the happiest times in Zanna's life. She was
given a chamber close to Remana—a tiny curtained cubicle that,
like many of the living areas, had been chipped painstakingly out
of the rock during the many years that the Nightrunners had dwelt
in..this labyrinth of caves. The delightfully eccentric
furnishings were made of driftwood, and brightly colored rag rugs
covered the floor. Thick woven hangings helped take the chill from
the walls, for only the kitchens and the main living and work
rooms had fireplaces, vented via natural faults in the cliff.

"But aren't you worried about the smoke being seen?" Zanna had
asked Remana.

"Not a bit, my dear. For one thing, by the time it filters up
through all that rock, there is very little smoke to be seen. For
another"—Remana's eyes grew large and round as she lowered her
voice—"no one ever comes to this desolate part of the coast. You
see, the area is haunted!"

"Haunted?" Zanna gasped.

AURIAN          •       389

Remana burst out laughing. "Zanna, if you could see your face!
It's naught to worry about. There is a massive standing stone
nearby, out on the far headland of the bay—a great, towering black
thing that looks very sinister—especially in the moonlight.
Leynard's grandfather, the first of the Nightrunner leaders,
discovered that the local fishermen and herders were very
superstitious about it, so he arranged some 'hauntings'— you know,
mysterious lights around the stone at night, ghostly voices on the
wind, the sound of invisible horsemen passing by —all the usual
old rubbish. Now, no one will come within miles of it. Mind you .
. ." For an instant, her brow creased in a frown. "I must admit
that the animals are also afraid of it, but truly, there's nothing
to worry about. In fact we bless the stone, because it keeps us
safe. I'm only warning you in case you go riding up there. The
vicinity of the stone is best avoided, if you don't want a spill."

"I can learn to ride?" Zanna, the stone forgotten, could barely


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contain her delight.

"You mean that father of yours never taught you?" Remana looked
shocked. "I've heard Dulsina say that Vannor was over-protective
of his daughters, but by the Gods, that's going too far! Of course
you can learn to ride—it's something every girl should know. Later
in the year, when the weather improves, I'll teach you to sail,
too . . ."

And so it proved. Remana, as good as her word, lost no time in
recruiting a young smuggler named Tarnal as Zanna's instructor,
and she soon became an insatiable horsewoman, going out with the
towheaded lad every day that the uncertain midwinter weather
permitted. The Nightrunners kept a troop of swift, sturdy,
surefooted ponies that usually ran wild on the grassy headlands,
but came happily down a narrow, sloping tunnel whose entrance was
concealed in a clump of gorse at the top of the cliff, to be
stabled safely below in the caves when the eastern coast was
lashed by storms.

Zanna adored her rides with Tarnal. From the clifftop above the
smugglers' cave, the view was glorious. Below and to the right was
a pale sweep of crescent beach, embraced by cliffs and cradling
the shining sea. Some half league away on the opposite horn of the
crescent was a green knoll crowned by the stark and sinister
standing stone, and behind were the vast,
curving, green-gray swells of the empty moorland. Astride her
beloved pony, a shaggy, gaily marked piebald that she had named
Piper, Zanna would ride for miles across the moors with the
smuggler boy, their hair, dark brown and palest gold, streaming
behind them in the winter wind. They would return at dusk, tired
but exhilarated, their hands and faces tingling painfully from the
cold, to hot soup in the kitchen and an affectionate scolding from
Remana for staying out so long. Though she missed her father, it
felt as though Zanna were truly coming home.

Zanna had wondered at first why she could see no evidence of
actual smuggling, but a chuckling Remana had soon put her right.
"Oh, not in winter, dear child! This is our quiet season, you
might say. The seas are far too rough to risk our ships at this


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time of year, and to be honest, there's little to trade."

She had explained to Zanna that the chief activity of the
smugglers was to ply their trade between the coastal villages,
transporting locally grown foodstuffs and crafted wares between
the communities on a baiter system, thus cutting out the ruinous
tariffs charged by the Merchants' Guild, and allowing the poor
peasants to enjoy a few of the luxuries that would otherwise be
denied them. "Of course, your dad, as Head of the Guild, is
officially against such criminal behavior." Remana had remarked.
"Fortunately, he holds the private belief that the merchants make
profit enough, and the peasants should enjoy the fruits of their
labors. Besides"—she winked at Zanna—"there's also the little
matter of our Southern partnership! At least there was . . ." Her
face had clouded over, and she had said no more, but Zanna knew
that she was thinking about Yanis. She vowed to herself once more
that before it was time for him to set out again, she would come
up with some kind of plan for him to defeat the Southerners.

As the winter days sped by, Zanna learned many things from her
smuggler friends. The old men had taken her to their hearts, and
showed her how to fish with a line in the tidal pools outside the
cavern. At low tide, they fought for the privilege of teaching her
to set crab pots along the rocky reefs, near the mouth of the
cave, that protected the hideout from the close approach of other
ships. In the spring, Remana had promised her, when it was calm
enough to teach her to sail, she herself

AURIAN          '       391

would show Zanna the secret of navigating the one safe route
through the treacherous maze of submerged reefs.

In winter, much of the work for the younger, fitter men involved
repair and maintenance of the ships and their gear. While
snowstorms raged outside, the women showed Zanna how to mend nets
and ropes and sails, and how to make the rugs that protected their
feet from the cold stone floors, by hooking shreds of rag through
coarse sacking. They also taught her the secrets of their
beautiful and intricate weaving, to make the warm wall hangings


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that brightened up the gloomy darkness of the caves.

These were companionable times, filled with chatter and laughter,
gossip and teasing among the younger women. There was a great deal
of talk about the handsome, wind-bronzed young men, and who was in
love with whom, and who would marry. At these times, Zanna was
content to listen, and keep her own counsel. Though Tarnal had
become her devoted shadow, she had already decided that she would
marry none other than Yanis, for she had loved him from the first
day she had set eyes on him. Fortunately, or perhaps-
unfortunately, the leader of the Nightrunners had no idea, as yet,
of the fate she had mapped out for him—and now he might never
know, for Zanna had to leave.

Zanna had paused in the shadowed entrance to the great harbor
cavern, paralyzed by the rush of happy memories that had assailed
her with such pain. Angrily she shook her head, and brushed her
tears away. This was doing no good! For three long months she had
been happy—until word had come of the recent catastrophe in Nexis.
Word of monsters, hideous beyond imagining, that had caused so
many deaths. Word of the Archmage seizing power, and holding the
city in a grip of terror. And no word of Vannor, who had been
missing without trace since that horrific night when so many had
died.

When Remana had told her the news, Zanna's guilt at leaving Vannor
had returned to overwhelm her. She had known at once what she must
do. She must return to Nexis to find her dad, or at least find out
what had happened to him. Of course, if the Nightrunners
discovered her intentions, they would never let her go—so that was
why she was sneaking around now, late at night, preparing to make
her escape.

It was fortunate that there had been several days of stormy
weather, and the horses were stabled below in the caves. The
blizzard raging outside would make the journey more difficult and
dangerous, but Zanna was sure she only needed to get as far as
some kind of shelter that night. Then, having lost the pursuers
that Remana would no doubt send after her, she would be able to
continue in daylight. Surely it wouldn't be too difficult to find


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her way over the moors to Nexis? She hoped not.

Zanna peeped around the side of the archway to look for the
watchman who guarded the ships at night. He came into view, his
footsteps crunching on the shingle beach, and she heaved a sigh of
relief. So far, her plan was working out. The watchman was Tarnal.
She had forced herself to wait, with scant patience, until the
night when he would be on duty. Taking a deep breath, Zanna
stepped out to meet him.

"You're up late!" Tarnal sounded surprised, but as she had
expected, his brown eyes brightened at the sight of her.

Oh dear, Zanna thought, I hope I don't get him into too much
trouble! She arranged a smile on her face. "I couldn't     B
sleep," she told him ruefully. "Even though we're underground
H here, the storm still seems to bother me."      *

"Ah, that happens to a lot of us smugglers," Tarnal assured her.
"It means you're weather-wise, as we call it. You have the makings
of a good Nightrunner, Zanna."

He grinned at her shyly, and she understood all too well what was
on his mind. He'd been mooning after her for ages, but of all the
times to .wart getting romantic . . . Oh dear, Zanna thought. Not
now, Tarnal, please! "Anyway," she said briskly, "since I couldn't
sleep, I thought I'd come down to the stable to see if Piper is
all right."

Tarnal's face lit up.. "Good idea," he said. "You never know with
horses in this wild weather. Tell you what, I'll come along in
case you need any help."

Oh no you don't, Zanna thought grimly. If you get me alone in that
nice, warm, bracken-filled cavern . . . "That's very kind of you,
Tarnal," she said swiftly, "but if Yanis found out that you'd left
your post, you would be in a lot of trouble!" She gave him a
conspiratorial wink. "Stay here, Tarnal, I'll be back shortly,
don't worry." With that, she beat a hasty retreat, praying that he
wouldn't take it into his head to follow her.


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AURIAN          •       393

The stable cavern was warm with the press of animal bodies. As she
entered, replacing the heavy hurdle that barred the exit behind
her, Zanna could hear the soft huffing sound of horses breathing
in the shadows, followed by a rustle of straw and a scrape of hoof
on stone as the sleepy creatures became aware of her presence.
Great, lustrous eyes swung in her direction, gleaming like jewels
as they reflected the light of the lamp that she carried.
Stretching on tiptoe, Zanna reached up and placed the lamp
carefully in a niche carved high in the rocky wall on her right-
hand side. There were strict rules about keeping any kind of flame
away from the tinder-dry bracken that covered the cavern floor.
One spark, and the cave would become an inferno within seconds.

Shuffling through the deep-drifted bedding, Zanna moved along the
wall until she came to the row of pegs, hammered into a natural
transverse crack in the stone, that held saddles and bridles.
Rummaging under a pile of bracken, she unearthed her warm cloak
and the bundle of food and belongings that she'd hidden there
earlier in the evening. Rather than lugging the whole lot, along
with the ungainly, flapping saddle, through the mass of restless
animals, she decided to catch Piper first, and bring him here.
Unhooking his bridle from its peg, she took an apple from the
pocket of her skirt, and wriggled her way carefully between the
milling horses, calling softly for the piebald pony.

Piper came to her calling. She had been teaching him to do this by
bringing him a treat every tinae she wanted to ride him. Zanna
smiled as he snuffled greedily into her palm and scrunched the
fruit in a single bite. While he was looking for more, she slipped
the bridle into place and fastened the buckle quickly. Then,
despite her hurry, she threw her arms around Piper's arching neck,
burying her face in his streaming black-and-white mane to stifle
her sobbing. Oh Gods, she did love him so! And Remana, and Yanis
and Antor and Tarnal, and all the others . . .

The pony snorted, and turned his head to nibble at her pocket, his
ears cocked forward hopefully. She had no more apples, however;


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all he found was her handkerchief, which he tugged out anyway.
Zanna's sobbing turned to shaky laughter. "Why, thank you, you
clever creature!" she told him. Having

fe
retrieved her chewed and rather soggy possession, she led the pony
to the place near the wall where she had left her belongings.

Tethering Piper to a handy peg, Zanna turned to lift the saddle
down—always a stretch for her, because of her short stature.
Placing it carefully on the pony's back, she stooped under his
belly to find the dangling girth—and jerked upright with a yelp as
a hand grasped her shoulder. "Tarnal! I told you not to—" Zanna
spun round, her heart hammering with shock

—to find herself in the arms of Yanis.

"I've been waiting for you to make a run for it, ever since we
told you about your dad," the smuggler said. But there was
sympathy, not anger, in his face.

"Yanis, please don't stop me," Zanna begged. "I must go

—I can't bear it! I have to know, don't you see .                                                  .     ." Her eyes
overflowed with tears.

"I know, girl. In your place, I'd feel the same," Yanis told her
gently. "But rushing off all alone in a storm is no answer. Why,
there's hard men, experienced men, been lost out on those moors in
the blizzards, and all we've found come spring was their bones
picked clean by wolves. If we found anything at all,

that is."

Zanna stared at him in dismay. For a moment she had hoped to
persuade him . . . But though it was obviously not to be, her
agile brain was already at work on a new plan. Yanis would be
watching the horses like a hawk at first, but if she could allay
his suspicions long enough . . .



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"All right." She sighed, and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, Yanis, I
didn't know the moors were so dangerous, but now you've explained
it to me." Zanna caught her breath, suddenly very conscious of his
arms around her, aware that this was the first time he had touched
her since the day of her arrival. She didn't want him to let her
go, but if her new scheme was to work, it was imperative that she
fool him into thinking that she was resigned to her fate. Sighing,
she pushed him away, and

turned to go.

"Wait!" Yanis caught hold of her arm. "I know what you're
thinking, Zanna—that you only need wait a while and then you can
try again. Only it won't work, see?"

AURIAN          '       395

Zanna gasped, furious that he had outguessed her. "And just how
did you manage to work that out?" she said acidly.

The young smuggler's face darkened. "I know what you think of me,"
he said stiffly, "but that's the first time you've come near
calling me daft to my face. Well, let me tell you
something—there's stupid and stupid, and it didn't take much for
me to realize what you were up to. All I did was put myself into
your shoes for a minute. I would never have given up so easily,
and I knew for sure that you wouldn't, loving your dad like you
do!" His grip around Zanna's arm tightened, as he continued. "The
Nightrunners can't let you go running off to get killed, you
little idiot! I won't let you! I'm a patient man, believe me, and
it's winter, so I've nothing better to do. Get used to having me
around, girl, because I plan to be your shadow from now on!"

Zanna stared at him openmouthed, too outraged to speak. She stared
into that rugged, handsome face, those dark gray eyes that were
sparking with anger, the mouth that was hard now, and unyielding.
Not long ago, Vannor's daughter would have been overjoyed at the
thought of having Yanis constantly at her side. Now, the idea
filled her with rage and frustration. "Damn you!" she yelled—and
kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. "I might just as well


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be your prisoner!"

With a stifled curse, Yanis let go of her arm, and Zanna fled from
the cavern with tears of anger streaming down her face.

f

"I might just as well be your prisoner!" The Earth-Mage Eilin
glared at the Forest Lord. "You deliberately took my staff and
gave it to D'arvan, so that I could not return to my Valley. You
could hardly wait to seize the chance to tamper with the fate of
the World Outside once more!"

Hellorin looked at her steadily, but made no reply to her charge.
The suspicion dawned on Eilin that he was simply waiting for her
anger to run its course—after all, what need had he <> waste his
breath in fruitless debate? No matter how much he might storm and
argue and protest, she was utterly in his lower.

The Mage found that she was shaking with rage. "Meddler!" she
spat. "It was^ ever so with the Phaerie. It's of no
consequence to you that the Atchmage rides roughshod over all the
world. Just so long as you can exercise your influence on events,
what do you care? Don't you realize that I am the only Mage left
in the North to oppose Miathan? You've let those two children
loose in my Vale with my staff to face the Archmage alone. In the
name of all the Gods, my Lord—they need me!" "No, Eilin, they do
not need you." Hellorin spoke softly, but the underlying power of
his voice sent a shiver across the smooth, silver-gray bark that
coated the walls of the chamber. The Mage fought to hold on to her
anger; the legendary temper of the Magefolk was the only thing
that had saved her from being overawed by this stupendous
immortal. Eilin folded her arms and her lips thinned into an
obdurate line. "Why not?" she demanded. "Give me one good reason
why not!"

"Because I am Lord here, and I say that they do not!" When
Hellorin frowned, it was as though a cloud had passe <' over the
sun—though there was no sun in this changeles timeless Elsewhere.
As Hellorin's dark brows drew together, Eilin shivered at the


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sound of a distant growl of thunder. "Have a care, Magewoman. I do
not meddle, as you call it, through idleness or spite—though the
debt your people owe to mine is a sore temptation . . ."
Hellorin's voice was a blade of ice, and Eilin took an involuntary
step backward, rubbing at the goose-flesh that pricked her skin.
"So that's what this is about!" she hissed. "Revenge—pure and
simple! Oh, you may protest your innocence, Lord, but if I had not
been a Mage—"

"Had you not be"eh a Mage, you would never have survived the
murder attempt by one of your own people," Hellorin told her
flatly, his eyes glinting with irritation. "Had you not been a
Mage, you would never have come here to plague me!" "If I plague
you, let me go!" Eilin countered swiftly. "By all the Gods, Eilin,
is there no telling you? /—ca> not!" Hellorin threw out his arms
in a gesture of defeat, a.m stamped across the mossy-green carpet
to the deep window embrasure, where a flagon of wine and two
goblets stood on the sill. Throwing himself into the window seat,
he poured wine for them, and held out a cup to her.
"Here—sit down, you wretched woman, and stop bristling! Let us
end this wrangle, once and for all!" "But—"

AURIAN          •       397

"Eilin—please?"

The Earth-Mage was disarmed by the change in Hellorin's voice.
Biting her lip, she crossed the room to him, and perched
tentatively on the edge of the window seat.

"You look just like a little brown bird, poised and ready to fly
away at the slightest hint of danger." Hellorin's chiseled mouth
had softened in a smile.

Eilin, much to her dismay, found the last shreds of her righteous
anger melting like sunrise mist. "Little brown bird, my eye!" she
retorted tartly, but despite her best efforts, she found that her
lips were twitching as she took the goblet from his hand.

Hellorin's eyes never left her own. "Rest you, my Lady," he said


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softly. "Your Healing is but lately accomplished, and you need
time to regain your strength. It does you no good to agitate
yourself in this way."

"Is that why you won't let me go yet?" Eilin seized eagerly on his
words. "Do you mean that when—"

"No." The word held a terrifying finality. Hellorin sighed. "Lady,
I have put off this explanation lest you be distressed beyond the
limits of your strength—and because I feared that you would not
believe me." He took her hand in a firm, warm grip, and his
fathomless eyes bored into her own. "Eilin, you must try to
understand. What I am about to tell you is the absolute truth—I
swear it on the head of my son. When you were brought to us, your
injuries were fatal, even to one of the Mageborn. My Healers
brought you twfck from the very brink of death. In this place,
where the Phaerie are empowered and time holds no sway, it was
possible for them to do this. But thanks to your Magefolk
ancestors, their power—our power—no longer t-xtends into the
mundane world. In short, you have been Healed in this world, but
not in your own. If you try to return—"

"No!" Eilin choked on the cry. Her blood was ice in her veins. "It
can't be true—it can't]" But the lines of sorrow on the Forest
Lord's face, the overflowing sympathy in his eyes, convinced her
beyond any words that he spoke the absolute truth. Eilin, after
the tragedies of her life, had believed herself more than a match
for any disaster that Fate flung into her path—but

I
this last cruel jest on the part of destiny felled her with a
single,

lethal stroke.

The impenetrable citadel of fierce Magefolk pride, with which
Eilin had surrounded herself after the death of Geraint, began to
crumble and totter at last, and the Mage felt as though she were
falling into pieces along with it. "I cannot leave?" she
whispered. "I can't go home—ever?"


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The pain in Hellorin's eyes said everything. "I fear not, Lady,"
he told her sorrowfully. "At least, not unless—"

But Eilin never heard those vital, final words. They were drowned
in a sound of endlessly breaking glass, as her adamantine fortress
exploded into shards that were falling, falling like her tears . .
.

Hellorin could only hold her helplessly while she trembled and
wept. She had been dreadfully weakened, of course, by her
injuries—far more than she realized—but he was utterly shocked by
such profound distress. To see Eilin brought so low was more than
he could bear: she who was so fierce and proud— and how he admired
her for that! No one had stood up to him so well in aeons—save
little Maya, of course! We have been out of the world too long,
indeed, he mused. They seem to have produced a wild and wonderful
breed of women in our absence. But even the strongest of women
occasionally needed help.

The Lord of the Phaerie gathered his powers and . . . "ENOUGH!" he
roared. The air was ripped apart by a tremendous thunderclap, and-
toghtning arced across the chamber in a searing flare. Eilin
jerked to her feet, cramming her knuckles into her gaping mouth.
Her tangled hair was a bristling aureole from the residue of power
in the room, and her eyes appeared enormous in a chalk-white face.
Hellorin smiled at her. "Much better!" he said briskly. "And now
that I have your attention,

Lady ..."

Seizing the hand of the startled Mage, the Forest Lord pulled her
after him out of the room, and rushed her, clattering, down the
wooden spiral of stairs that twisted inside the walls of the
slender tower. Ignoring the incredulous stares of his subjects,
Hellorin towed her through the seemingly endless series of halls
and chambers that made up his citadel, until at last they crossed
the imposing Great Hall where Maya and D'arvan

AURIAN          •       399


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had rested, and burst through the great arching outer doorway and
into the open. Without pausing, he hurried her down the steps of
the outer terraces, and across the meadow toward the misty outline
of the woods beyond.

"Hellorin, wait! I can't—" Eilin's breathless wail halted the Lord
of the Phaerie. He turned to see that she was in real distress.
Her legs were shaky, and her chest was heaving with the
unaccustomed exertion that had come too soon after recovering from
her dreadful wounds. But at least she was speaking again, and that
irate glint in her eye promised well for the resurgence of her
fiery spirit.

"Well run, my Lady," he told her—while thinking it was just as
well that she had no breath for the blistering retort that was
written all too clearly across her face. Putting his arm around
her, he turned her back to face the way she had come— and was
gratified by her gasp of pure delight. "Forgive me for rushing you
out in such a rude and rough fashion, Lady," he said gently, "but
I wanted very much to show you this." There, before them, climbing
up and up from the gentle swell of the grassy meadow, was the
pride of Hellorin's heart: the citadel and home of his people.

The Phaerie, consummate masters of illusion that they were, had
excelled themselves. Combining nature with magic, they had created
a true entity that actually lived and breathed around them—unlike
the oppressive heaps of soulless, murdered, hacked-out stone that
formed the dwellings of Mage and Mortal. Glowing like a jewel in
the st/ange, golden half-light that was an unchanging feature of
this timeless Otherworld, the citadel took the outward form of a
massive, craggy hill. Its walls and balconies were cliffs and
ledges, its windows were concealed by glamourie from outward view,
and its many slender wooden towers, such as the one in which Eilin
had been staying, were groves of soaring, living beech. Level
areas boasted glades and gardens with translucent, bright-hued
flowers that sparkled like spun glass in the eerie amber light.
Streams and fountains decked the hillside in diamond-glitter, and
cascaded down the sheer rock faces like drifting silver veils.



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Hellorin let out his breath in a contented sigh. Down through all
the ages, this sight had never failed to move him with a pleasure
so intense that it was almost pain. He smiled at
Eilin, who stood beside him as though she had been turned to
stone. Her face was rapt and glowing.

"Beautiful, is it not, beyond all words?" he murmured. "Though
your exile must be bitter, can such a place as this not ease your
sorrow, Lady?"

Eilin sighed. "A little, perhaps — in the course of time." "Ah,
time — but time, at last, may mend all things." Seeing the Mage's
quizzical frown, Hellorin was swift to enlighten her. "Your exile
need not last forever, Lady — only for as long as we ourselves are
imprisoned here."

"What?" Eilin gasped. "But I don't understand." "It has all to do
with our magic, and its limitations," the Forest Lord explained.
"The power of our Healers cannot extend into your world, but when
we Phaerie are released from our exile, our Healing powers will
also be freed from their restrictions. You can return in safety
then, and be well and whole again as you were before."

Eilin was still frowning. "But I thought the Ancimi Magefolk had
imprisoned you here for all eternity."

"Ah, of course! Now I perceive your confusion. I explamcu the
prophecy to Maya and D'arvan, but I had forgotten that you would
not know. But you are weary, and the midst of a meadow is no place
for lengthy tales. Come back with me now, my Lady, to my Great
Hall in-the citadel, where you can be refreshed and rest in
comfort. Then I will tell you all that you wish to know ..."

"So your — our — freedom depends on the One who comes to claim the
Sword of Flame?" Eilin felt crushed all over again with
disappointment. Almost, she wished that Hellorin had spared her
these ridiculous notions. A Phaerie prophecy was too fragile a
thread on which to hang her hopes!

"You must have faith, Lady." Hellorin took her hand. "Believe me,


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had you known the Dragonfolk as I did, their words could not have
failed to comfort you. Events are in motion — we have only to
wait."

"Yes, but for how long?" A tear trembled on Eilin's laiL,.   ,
"Events are in motion as we speak, out there in the world! My I

AURIAN   •              4ol doing goodness-knows-what with this magic sword
of yours—"

II.. _._._ 1-_.--                   I...-•„!__.____I.                      «?*?,--,--- -^-~—-~ *-—--
—'-1"-""'    '--

\ icwn u«                     +01

doing goodness-knows-what with this magic sword of yours—" Her
words were lost in a sob. "They need me, Hellorin! While I am
forced to kick my heels in this—this Nowhere, and I don't even
know what is happening—" To her dismay, she was weeping again.

"Hush, Lady, hush," Hellorin comforted her. "There, at least, I
can ease your mind. Come, Eilin, I have one more wonder to show
you."

Taking the Mage's hand, he led her away from the fire, toward the
far end of the hall. There, to Eilin's puzzlement, a short flight
of stone steps ended in nothing. They simply went halfway up the
wall—and stopped. Above them, the wall was hidden by a rich
hanging of green-gold brocade. Hellorin mounted the steps, taking
her with him, and pulled the curtain aside.

Eilin gasped. There, set high in the wall, was a glorious window
of glittering, many-hued crystal shaped like a sun-n.rst. Around
the edges, the richly colored panes sent pinpoints »t jeweled
light cascading into the chamber. In the center was a single,
circular pane, set at eye level from the vantage point of the
stairway.

"Here." Hellorin guided her forward with an arm around her
shoulders. "Look through my window."


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"Oh!" The Mage blinked, rubbea her eyes—and peered closer. "By all
the Gods, it's Nexis!" She swung around to face him, suddenly
suspicious. "Is this more of your Phaerie trickery?"

"Upon my oath it is not!" The Forest Lord's eyes glinted with
annoyance. "Gods, but if you are not the most contrary, stiff-
necked creature ever to come within these walls!" Suddenly he
began to laugh softly, shaking his head. "Nay, but I have not
enjoyed such a battle of wits and wills since I lost my poor
Adrina . . . Trust me, Lady Eilin—you I would not deceive. This is
my Window upon the World, left me by your \retched ancestors, no
doubt to tantalize me with all that the Phaerie were missing! It
was through this casement that I first saw Adrina, collecting her
dealing herbs in the forest . . ." He

ease you, Lady, we will come here whenever you wish and keep vigil
together, until our exile may be ended at last.

The Earth-Mage looked up at the Lord of the Phaene, suddlly and
utterly moved by hi. kmdness. How could her ancestors have been so
cruel as to shut this magnificent, kindly, arelt hearted being
away from the world? Her fingers t.ght-Son^ hand,gand fo'r the
first time in their -quamtance she smiled at him. "Thank you, my
Lord,' she sa.d simply. 1 would like that very much.

CKapter               26

A   BARGAIN           WITH        DEATH

nvar's endurance had finally reached an end. After many days—he
had lost count of how many—in the slave camp, he was laid low by a
fever carried by the whining, biting insects. One morning he found
himself unable to rise, his body wracked by shivers and delirium.
The overseer rolled him over with a sandaled foot. "This one is
finished." The words echoed weirdly in Anvar's receding
consciousness. "Get the others to work, and we'll see to him
later. What a pity-already he has won me a month's wages. Had he
lasted a little longer it would have been more."



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These were the last words that Anvar heard as he was drawn down,
down into a spiral ing blackness. In that moment, all pain and
sorrow and weariness lifted from his heart, and gladly he let go,
to commence the final journey.

For several days after her talk with Harihn, Aurian did little but
eat and sleep, and argue with the surgeon about when she could get
out of bed. The search for Anvar had made no progress, and she was
anxious to get matters moving at her speed. But the surgeon
remained obdurate, and to her dismay, she was prevented from
trying out her injured leg by Shia, who had come down unexpectedly
but firmly on the side of the wrinkled little man. Since the great
cat never left her side, Aurian found herself helplessly confined
to bed, waited on hand and foot by the gigantic Bohan. Out of
gratitude for his devotion, and the well-meaning concern of both
Shia and her host, Aurian tried to curb her irritation, but her
frustration was mounting with each passing day.

Harihn spent a good deal of time with the Mage, and in the course
of their conversations, told her about the city-state of Taibeth,
to which she had come. It was the capital city and northernmost
outpost of the Khazalim, most of whom lived a nomadic life in the
arid wilderness to the south of the great river valley, or dwelt
jn scattered settlements to the west, farther up the river. "It is
a difficult land," he told her, "and the

Khazalim are a difficult people—fierce, Warlike, and merciless to
their enemies. My father is a good example of our race."

With that, he went on to speak of his unhappy childhood. The
Prince's mother had been a princess of the Xandim, who lived far
across the desert and were renowned for their legendary horses.
She had been captured on a raid and wedded to Xiang, but her
spirit had proved too proud and independent to suit the Khisu.
When Harihn was a boy, Xiang had finally had his mother drowned in
the river by assassins, claiming her death as an accident. Her son
had spent his childhood roaming the Royal Palace, lonely and
unloved, a constant victim of his father's brutality. But the
Khisu had never taken another Queen, and as sole royal heir,
Harihn's life had been preserved —until now.


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Harihn, to Aurian's dismay, refused to let go of the idea of
somehow using Anvar to discredit the new Queen. "Truly," he said,
"your husband may yet prove to be a weapon for me against my royal
father."

"Now wait a minute," Aurian broke in. "I'm not having Anvar put in
danger because of this feud of yours."

"Danger? Feud? Aurian, you do not understand." The Prince leaned
forward, his eyes intense. "Your husband is in the gravest of
danger, if yet he lives. If the Khisu discovers the connection
between this man and his new Khisihn, then Anvar's life will not
be worth a grain of sand. And what of the Khisihn herself? I saw
her ruthlessness when she pleaded for your death. She would never
leave your man alive to give away her secret! Nay, I must
intensify the search at once. I would rather have this pawn in my
hands as soon as possible, not only for your peace of mind and for
my benefit, but for his own safety."

Nonetheless, it was another four days before the search yielded
.any results. Aurian, driven mad with impatience, had finally won
the right to be allowed out of bed. Her persistence had worn down
Harihn, the surgeon, and Shia, to the point where it had been
decided that Bohan should carry her outside, and settle her on a
comfortable chair in the lavish walled garden, with her injured
Jeg propped up on a footstooJ. She was sternly forbidden to get to
her feet, however, and the eunuch remained in constant attendance
on her to see to her every need.


Well, it's progress at least, Aurian thought glumly. At first she
had badgered the Prince to remove those accursed bracelets and let
her Heal herself, but he had told her that the secret of their
unlocking had long been lost by the Khazalim. Besides, according
to an ancient law, the freeing of a sorcerer within the bounds of
the kingdom would result in all parties concerned being flayed
alive. Though the Mage had grudgingly dropped the matter, it only
served 'to increase her despair.



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Aurian sat by the ormanental pool in the shade of a flowering
tree, inwardly fuming. Shia, having utterly lost patience with her
irascible friend, had taken herself off to sleep in the shade. The
Mage was moodily shredding the waxy, perfumed, trumpetlike
blossoms between her fingers and throwing the fragments into the
pool, where they were instantly seized by the greedy golden
carp—and just as instantly spat out again. But they kept trying,
all the same. Stupid things, Aurian thought grouchily. You'd think
they'd learn.

Just then Bohan, who had been sitting on the grass nearby, leapt
to his feet at the sound of approaching footsteps, and hastily
prostrated himself before his Prince, who came hurrying along the
terrace, his face alight. "News, Aurian," he cried. "I have news
at last!"

Aurian tried to rise, but he pushed her gently down again into the
chair. Pain lanced through her strapped ribs, but she ignored it.
"Tell me!" she cried. Harihn dropped to the grass beside her,
panting in the enervating heat, and poured two goblets of wine
from the jug on the low table beside her. "We located the captain
of the Corsair ship last night," he said. "Naturally he was
reluctant to admit to illegal trade in foreigners, but a brief
sojourn in my dungeon soon changed that!" His eyes sparkled with a
savage glee that Aurian found distasteful. Like father, like son,
she thought. I ought to be more careful.

"It seems," Harihn continued, "that he sold your Anvar to a
notorious slave trader named Zahn. My men paid him a visit this
morning. At first he denied all knowledge of the matter, but when
offered a simple choice—a large bribe on the one hand, or a visit
to his friend the captain in my dungeon on the other—he became
most helpful. It is just as well," he said, frowning. "Had I been
forced to arrest Zahn, it would have attracted the Khisu's
attention. Zahn is his main source of

slaves to build his summer palace. If my father had found out
about your husband, things might have gone very badly for us

all."


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"Never mind that," Aurian prompted impatiently, not interested in
any of this—a mistake, as she was later to discover. "Where is
Anvar? What did you find out?"

"Try not to hope too much, Aurian." Harihn's face grew somber.
"Zahn sold him to the work gangs building my father's summer
palace upriver. The Khisu only wants it finished, and cares not
how many lives he wastes to gain his ends. I visited the place
once. The brutality with which the slaves were treated made me
sick." He took hold of the Mage's hand. "Aurian, your Anvar went
there several weeks ago, and slaves die in that place like flies.
And you Northerners have not the constitution for this climate. It
is almost certain that he is dead, Lady."

"No!" Seeing her stricken face, he went on quickly. "But I have
readied a boat, and I will go myself, at once, to see."

Instantly the old glint was back in Aurian's eyes. "Good," she
said. "I thought I would have to talk you into it for a minute.
How soon can we start?"

Harihn stared at her, taking in the strapping on her ribs that was
visible through the gauzy white robe that she wore, the leg
tightly swathed in bandages, and the left arm still in a sling to
immobilize it as much as possible. Fading bruises lingered on her
arms and her pallid face. "Aurian, you cannot go," he told her
firmly.^.

Aurian's jaw tightened. "Would you care to wager on that,

my Prince?"

At any other time, the journey upriver would have been very
pleasant. Aurian and Harihn reclined on cushions beneath a shady
canopy, the ever attentive Bohan fanning away the swarms of
insects that hovered over the sluggish waters. Though Harihn had
forsaken his extravagant royal barge for a plainer craft in order
to attract as little attention as possible, there was an
unmistakable air of luxury about the voyage. Fruit and wine had


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been provided, but the Mage was far too anxious to eat. She sat
bolt upright, gazing upriver, willing the bargemen to row faster.
Never in her life had she bitten her nails, but she was doing it
now.


Harihn watched her, a frown on his face. "Aurian," he said at
last. "Must you fret so?"

"What do you think?" Aurian snapped. "How can I not fret when
Anvar is suffering so badly? I blame myself for this." Her voice
was bitter.

"Aurian, what could you have done?" The Prince sat up and laid a
soothing hand on her arm. "You take too much upon yourself. What's
done is done—remember how near you came to losing your own life.
You might have turned your back on Anvar, as the Khisihn has done,
but you did not. What more can you do? Whether we come in time or
no, we will not come any quicker for your worrying."

"I know," Aurian said miserably. "I just can't help it."

As the barge approached the jetty at the site of the summer
palace, Aurian could see for herself how badly the slaves were
abused, and how much they suffered. Her throat constricted with
fear. Surely Anvar could never have survived this? Why, oh why had
she ever left him? Her knuckles tightened, the nails of her
clenched fingers digging into the soft wood of the barge's rail.

When they were safely moored, Bohan carried the Mage ashore and
set her down on the dusty ground while Harihn sent for the
Slavemaster. They waited. Aurian was in a fever of impatience.
Shia, to her disgust, had been made to stay behind, but Harihn had
brought his surgeon with them. The little man was frowning, his
lips pursed in disapproval at what he saw. When Aurian caught his
eye, he responded with a slight shake of his head. "Oh, please,"
she began to pray, even though she knew now that the Gods she had
grown up with had only been Magefolk like herself. "Please . . ."

The Slavemaster duly arrived. Recognizing his Prince with a start,


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he dropped to the ground, quaking all over. Harihn hastily
summoned him to rise and drew him to one side, out of earshot.
Their discussion seemed interminable to Aurian. Though she was
unable to hear, she could see the Slavemaster spreading his hands
in denial and shaking his head vehemently. At last Harihn tired of
the argument, and snapped his fingers. Immediately two grim-faced
palace guards, armed with great curved scimitars, climbed out of
the barge and positioned themselves on either side of the
Slavemaster with drawn blades.

The Slavemaster sank to his knees, pleading. Pointing! Aurian
turned her eyes in the same direction. The slave compound.

Harihn returned to her, his expression grim. "Anvar is here," he
said. "Bohan will take you to him at once, for the news is grave.
The Slavemaster says he is dying."

The stench in the compound was overwhelming. Bohan set Aurian down
beside the solitary occupant, who was huddled on the far side, in
the scant shade afforded by the wooden palisade. Aurian gasped.
Anvar was scarcely recognizable; his reddened skin was peeling and
blistered, his lips cracked, his body covered in bruises and sores
beneath the sweat and grime. He barely breathed. Aurian took her
arm out of its sling and pulled his head onto her lap, wiping the
dust from his face with the trailing sleeve of her robe. Her
vision blurred with tears. "Quick!" she snapped at Bohan. "Fetch
some water!" The eunuch hurried off, and Aurian beckoned the
surgeon over.

His face was grave as he made his examination. "This man is
dying," he said flatly.

"Surely you can do something?" Aurian pleaded. For                                                 the first time,
the surgeon's professional mask slipped. He laid a                                                 sympathetic
hand on her shoulder. "Lady, I can do nothing—only                                                 end his
suffering and speed him on his way. It would be by                                                 far the kindest
thing."

"Damned if you will!" Her eyes blazed with such fury that the
surgeon threw himself flat on the ground in terror. "Get out of


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here!" Aurian spat. "(j&/"

As the little man scrambled away, she reached forward and took
Anvar's scarred hands in her own. As her tears fell on his face,
Aurian's heart was wrenched by a stab of excruciating memory. She
had been through this exact experience before— when Forral died!
Her indrawn breath was a sharp hiss. "Curse you, Anvar, don't die
on me, too! I can't face this again! I won't

let you die!"

She gripped Anvar's hands in an iron grasp, as though she could
drag him back to life by main force. Desperately she fought to
access her power—to reach himv to Heal him—but her will slipped
away like water trickling through her fingers, drawn into the dead
gray vortex that was the power of the bracelets. Aurian gritted
her teeth against despair. "No," she

•       •       -     ..        i       .         .!_:.          i——————.1"


But the harder she tried, the more she felt herself weakening as
her power poured into the bracelets. Her vision darkened, her
awareness of this foul place and the sun's merciless heat slipped
away until her consciousness hung, it seemed, by a single thread
of will. But that thread was made of adamant. She struggled on,
down a tunnel of endless blackness, refusing to give in.

A gentle touch on Aurian's shoulder snapped her back. She found
herself slumped, faint and dizzy, over Anvar's motionless form,
her mind reeling from the shock of the sudden transition. She
could no longer feel him breathing. No! It couldn't be over! Bohan
swam into focus, kneeling beside her on the filthy ground, a jug
of water beside him. With a gentle finger he touched the tears on
Aurian's face, his own eyes brimming with sympathy. And something
clicked in the Mage's mind. She remembered the Arena—remembered
drawing strength from the crowd around her. "Bohan," she
whispered, "will you help me?"

The giant hesitated for a moment, fear in his eyes. Then he


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nodded. "Put your hands on mine," Aurian told him. He did as he
was ordered, his great hands engulfing both those of the Mage and
Anvar. Aurian took a deep breath. "Good. Now stay absolutely still
and relax. Lend me your strength, Bohan, to save Anvar's life."

Aurian concentrated—concentrated as she had never done before,
straining to breach the barrier that was the power of the
bracelets. Then it came. Like a floodgate opening, Bohan's
strength flowed into her, supplementing her own. Through a reddish
haze, she saw the rust-colored stones of the bracelets pulse and
glow like tiny embers as they sated themselves on her magic. A
scorching heat ate at her wrists, but she paid no heed. With a
sudden shock, she realized that the bracelets stored power—not
just her own, but the powers of all the Mages who had borne them
before her. If she could access that power, even for an instant,
she could break down the very walls of Death itself! But how to
release it—what was the key? Come on, Aurian urged herself. Think!
Anvar's life depends on it! She found her thoughts turning to him,
then, reaching for the essence of the man. Anvm-.* Those piercing
blue eyes that held his

The memory of that smile went like an arrow to her heart, and her
heart turned over in her breast ...

And Aurian's vision was suddenly blocked by a vast, darkly
shrouded form that loomed over her, towering into the sky.
"Aaaah," it said, its voice a deep, dry, rustling whisper like
leaves turning in a midnight graveyard—like worms that seemed to
eat into her very soul. "So, this time you think to cheat me?"

Aurian swallowed hard, gathering her courage to answer back—to
defy Death itself. And from somewhere the courage came. "If that's
what it takes," she replied. "You have had enough from me and
mine. Seek your prey elsewhere!"

Death laughed like a blade drawn up Aurian's spine. "A fool you
are, to believe that matters are so simple. Yet in your ignorance
you have found the only coin which will permit you to bargain with
me. Many before you have tried to make such a bargain, but I warn
you that my price is high—and both of you will pay it, ere we meet


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again." The Specter loomed forward threateningly, and Aurian bit
her lip, steeling herself not to shrink away from His overwhelming
Presence.

"You have courage, Lady." This time the voice held an undertone of
respect. "And for all my evil reputation, never believe that Death
is merciless. Far from it. If your coin—the coin that you and this
man both possess—is good, and not counterfeit, you may yet have
the best of the bargain. Remember that, when you come to pay my
price!"

The figure disappeared-in a blinding flash of red light. The power
within the bracelets, suddenly released, coursed through
Aurian—through Bohan, throwing him backward—then through Anvar.
Aurian felt her soul rushing outward to meet the soul of her
companion—to enfold it safely, and bring him home again.

Aurian blinked, baffled for a moment to find herself back in the
squalor of the slave compound. Then she saw that her wrists were
bare. The bracelets had crumbled away to fine, powdery ash that
was already dissipating as she watched.

Anvar stirred beneath the Mage's hands, his brilliant blue eyes
opening to meet her own. All traces of his hurts had vanished.
Later, Aurian would realize that in that flash, her own

I

hurts had also been healed, but now she was simply consumed with
relief, and gratitude, and wonder for the miracle that her own
indomitable will had wrought.

"Aurian?" Anvar's voice was barely a whisper in his parched
throat.

"I'm here." The Mage could scarcely find her own voice.

Bohan was at Aurian's elbow, proffering a cup of water, but her
hands were shaking too much to take it, and she was afraid to lose
her tight grasp on Anvar, lest by doing so she would let him slip


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away from her again. Instead she propped him, while the eunuch
held the cup to his lips.

"Witch! You've betrayed us all!" The sun was blotted out as
Harihn's shadow fell across the little group on the ground. His
eyes, stretched wide with horror, were fastened on Aurian's
wrists, where the bracelets of Zathbar had been.

"Harihn . . ." Aurian began urgently, but the Prince's jeweled
sword had already flashed free of its scabbard. She tried to get
to her feet, but was hampered by Anvar, who had seen the danger
and was also struggling weakly to rise as the blade arced down.

Bohan moved with an agility that belied his immense size, flinging
himself between the Mage and Harihn's blade. He had drawn his own
short sword, and metal clashed with metal, showering Aurian and
Anvar with sparks as he turned the blow aside. Harihn's wrist
twisted down and outward from the back shock of the blow, and
Bohan's left hand shot out to grasp it, tightening his grip until,
with a cry of pain, the Prince dropped his weapon. Aurian saw his
chest swell with a deep breath as he prepared to call his guards.

"Stop!" Her voice, though not loud, was like a whiplash. From her
kneeling position, she addressed the Prince, speaking low and
rapidly. "If you kill me, Xiang will want the bracelets back. What
will you say to him? You can't produce them— they're gone. He has
waited for a chance like this, he'll say you removed them. He has
a new Khisihn now, remember, a chance to have other heirs. He'd
enjoy having you flayed alive. Think about it."

Harihn paled, as her words spelled out his dilemma so succinctly.
Aurian pushed her advantage. "We're ready to leave, aren't we?" •-
«-•»

He nodded.

"Good. Then let's get out of here before anyone notices what has
happened. We can work something out when we get back to the
Palace."



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"The surgeon saw." The words grated from between Harihn's teeth.
"He came gibbering to me with some tale of sorcery. Others must
have heard."

Aurian frowned. "Right. Get something to wrap Anvar in, so no one
will see that he's been Healed. Bohan will carry him to the barge,
and you can take me." She forbore to mention that she too had been
Healed. In fact, she had only just noticed. "I'll cover my wrists
with my sleeves so no one will see that the bracelets are gone,
and when we get to the barge," she went on, "you curse the surgeon
for lying—be furious with him." "I think I can manage that,"
Harihn muttered grimly. "Just make sure nobody believes what
really happened and get us out of here as quickly as possible. You
can offer the surgeon a bribe or something later. All right?"

Harihn scowled. "Very well—for the present. But this matter is not
ended between us—Lady."

"Fair enough," Aurian said evenly. "Just get on with it." Bohan
fetched a blanket from the artisans' camp and tarried Anvar down
to the barge while the Prince followed with Aurian. He carried W
sti^y,\m We averted,\i\*'^ro &t!£\«& with anger. When he had
stowed her safely on board, Aurian watched with horror «s he
carried out his charade with the hapless surgeon, who backed away
in terror, right down to the very end Of the jetty, as his Prince
bore down on him in wrath. His screams rang out as Harihn seized a
whip from a nearby overseer and lashed him across the face and
shoulders, punctuating the blows with shouts loud enough for the
entire camp to hear. "Liar! Fool! How dare you come to your Prince
with such

a tale!"

The surgeon fell on his face, wailing. The Prince threw away the
whip and advanced on the poor man—and Aurian gasped with horror as
he lifted the surgeon bodily and hurled him into the river. Hordes
of the great toothed lizards appears as if by magic, converging on
their helpless, thrashing victim, noirincr a/ail was rut short in
a flurryinc



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face and ripped to pieces. Then there was only silence—and a
spreading red stain on the waters.

Harihn, stony-faced, leapt into the barge and signaled the oarsmen
to pull away. There was not a sound from the shocked onlookers as
his voice echoed across the water. "So perish all who lie to their
Prince. Remember that."

Aurian, utterly sickened, turned away from the carnage and made
Anvar comfortable on the cushions, pulling the blanket away from
his face.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

Aurian nodded, bemused by the irony that he should be asking her.
She patted his arm gently. "You rest—I'll be back in a minute."
She turned to Bohan. "Take care of him, please." The eunuch
nodded, and she took his hand. "Bohan, I can't thank you enough
for your help today. I'm forever in your debt."

The big man smiled, shaking his head.

"Yes," the Mage corrected him firmly. "Somehow I'll find a way to
repay you, my friend."

Steeling herself, Aurian made her way to the bow, where the Prince
sat, staring sightlessly at the muddy river. "I hope you're proud
of yourself," she hissed. "How can you justify such a monstrous
act?"

Harihn spun to face her, wretchedness and disgust on his

face. His eyes glinted with unshed tears. "The man was a surgeon!"
he flung at her. "He thought he had seen a miracle! How could he
resist telling others, arid proving our undoing in the process?
The slave was dying—dead in fact. Your actions

were against all nature!" His voice curdled with bitterness. "Did
you not think there would be a price to pay? A fair bargain, was
it not? A life for a life—my servant in exchange for your man. You


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robbed the surgeon of his life, Aurian, by your deed. I was merely
the agent. Only hope it ends here—for the Reaper may exact a
higher price for the soul that you snatched from his grasp!"

"Superstitious nonsense!" Aurian snapped, unnerved by his words.
She seemed to remember something—something about a price, and true
coin^ but it eluded her. Death had already wiped his words from
Her mind. "I simply acted in all good

"And how many lives may be lost in the future because they will be
denied the surgeon's skill?" Harihn's voice was rising to an
hysterical pitch. "How will his family take comfort from your good
faith? And when my father has me flayed alive for loosing a
foreign witch on his people, what will you—"

"Enough!" Aurian leapt to her feet, rocking the barge. Her voice
was shaking. "Very well. The fault is mine. I take responsibility.
But your law put those accursed bracelets on me in the first
place, and the same law brands me a criminal for using my powers
to save a life, and condemns you by default because I did it
whilst in your custody. Were I faced with the decision again, /
would do the same thing—not only for Anvar, but also for you, or
for anyone else that I cared about!"

She sat down beside him once more, her voice softened. "I'm sorry,
Harihn, for bringing such trouble upon you. This is a shabby way
to repay all you've done for me, and I'll try to think of a way to
protect you from the consequences. But can't you see—/ had no
choice?"

Harihn tore his eyes away from hers. "Lady, I fear you," he said
frankly. "You talk of repeating the same act, had you the need—but
I tell you plainly, were you before me in the Arena once more, I
would not lift a hand to save you, knowing the consequences as I
do now."

Aurian tried desperately to think of a way to mend matters. "You
speak of consequences, but the thread has not unraveled yet, and
the tale of our lives is unfinished. I hope in the end that you
won't have clause to regret saving my life, Harihn. It may be that


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I can help you, now that my powers are unfettered."

Harihn flinched. "No!" he cried. "Do not tempt me with your evil!
I would never gain power by such ends."

"Now you see what an awesome responsibility the Magefolk carry,"
Aurian said. "Such power is a constant temptation—and a constant
burden. Think of the slaughter, if I backed you in a revolution.
Think of the deaths on my conscience then. But to use my power to
save a life—I cannot believe that to be an ill deed."

Harihn sighed. "I think I understand—a little. Lady, leave me for
a while, go tend to your husband. I have much to think upon—and
much to regret."


They had almost talked the journey out. Aurian was surprised to
see the city around them once more, and the ornate contours of the
Prince's boathouse in the distance. But she could not begrudge the
time she had taken to reach some form of understanding with
Harihn. His fear of sorcery was the fear of all his people, and in
a way they were right, she thought, remembering with a shudder the
Nihilim that Miathan had unleashed, and the terrifying ferocity of
Eliseth's storm. Those two had sold their souls for power, and the
thought sickened her. Would she finish up like that? Never, Aurian
vowed to herself. Not wanting to think about it, she went to the
stern to check on Anvar.

He was sleeping, but his eyes opened at her approach, as though in
some way he sensed her proximity. Perhaps he did. When she had
pulled Anvar back from death, their very souls had touched. Who
else could say they had shared such closeness? Yet Aurian found
herself reluctant to approach him. She was stricken with guilt
that she had abandoned him to such suffering. How could she face
him now? He must hate her, surely? But as she hesitated, he
reached for her hand, holding on to it with surprising strength,
as though she were still his only anchor on life. "I thought you
wouldn't come," he whispered. "I almost let go. I'm sorry, Aurian.
I should have known better."



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Aurian stared at him, tears in her eyes. He was sorry? "Oh,
Anvar," she murmured. "How can you ever forgive me?"

"You came," he said. "You're always,*here when it matters. Why did
it take me so long to realize that?"

Aurian was completely taken aback. "I made a proper mess of things
with my temper this time," she insisted. "I should never have left
you like that. You can hit me when you're feeling better—I deserve
it."

"No." The stubborn set of Anvar's jaw was an echo of her own.

"Then I'll do it myself!" She made a parody of punching herself in
the jaw and falling over, and he laughed. Oh, thank the Gods that
he was all right, that she had arrived in time. In an excess of
relief she hugged him, and felt his arms tighten round her
shoulders.

"Have you found Sara?" His words were like a drench of
icy water. Aurian pulled away from him, frowning. Always bloody
Sara! And how in the world was she going to tell him that Sara had
betrayed him—had abandoned him for a King and not lifted one
finger to find him, let alone help him. It would break him for
sure. She looked away from the hope in his eyes. "Sara is fine,"
she evaded. "She came out of this better than any of us."

To her intense relief, at that moment the barge bumped up against
the edge of Harihn's jetty. "Here we are!" she said briskly.
"Let's get you inside, and get you cleaned up and fed.
Bohan—that's the enormous fellow—will take care of you. Don't
worry, you can trust him. When you've rested, I'll tell you
everything that's been happening." Quickly she beckoned to Bohan
to take Anvar up to her rooms, and got out of the way before he
had time to ask her any more awkward questions.

Anvar lay in bed, watching the light breeze stir the filmy gauze
canopy that protected him against insects. Silken sheets felt cool
and luxurious against his newly bathed skin. This time, for some
reason, the Healing had not had its usual enervating effect, and


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he felt alert and tingling with life—and fabulously hungry. Not
surprising, he mused, feeling his protruding ribs with bony
fingers. His body tensed as he recalled the horrors of the slave
camp, and his hands flew automatically to the unyielding iron
collar, the mark of slavery that had still to be removed from his
neck. "No!" he told himself firmly. He mustn't think of that.Tt
was all over now. Aurian had come for him, as he had prayed she
would. She had saved him again.

Anvar was reminded of his first meeting with the Mage, when he had
run away from the Academy's kitchens. He had awakened between
clean sheets in a room in the Garrison, with all his hurts Healed,
to see her smiling at him. He had not trusted her then. But this
time I'll do better, he promised himself. He would repay her by
taking care of her, at least until her child was born. The Gods
knew, she needed him, though he would have a hard time convincing
her. She was so bloody stubborn and independent! He would just
have to make her understand. And Sara, too, he thought guiltily.
How could he reconcile the two? Sara would never tolerate having
the Mage with them.


"Tough!" Anvar, speaking aloud, startled himself with his own
vehemence—and his own conclusions. But the truth had begun to dawn
on him during his imprisonment in the cells below the slave
market. Sara, the love of his childhood, tugged at his heart. How
could she not? But she was no longer an innocent girl. She had
hardened. There was a calculation now in her manner—something
tainted, that he dared not trust. It had taken their time alone,
when they were shipwrecked, to show it to him. Aurian's absence
then had left a void within him—as though part of himself had
gone. Gods, how he had missed her! How his heart had lifted, to
see her again! The thought of the Mage had given him courage—had
given him hope through all the terror and torment. He had known
that she would come—it was Aurian that he trusted. Not Sara.
Aurian.

But you love Sara, part of Anvar's mind protested, and he knew it
was true. But did he love what she was now—or what she once had
been? And did he love Aurian? She was a friend, a true companion,


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but a Mage? Could I love a Mage? he asked himself. Gods, I don't
know. I just don't know. But I know who I'd rather have beside me
in a tight spot!

Anvar heard the door opening, and the rattle of a tray being set
down. Someone moved on the other side of the gauze that shrouded
his bed. It must be the taciturn Bohan, bringing some food. But to
his surprise, it was Aurian who thrust aside the curtains. Anvar
smiled, delighted to see her again, even after only an hour's
absence.

"How are you feeling?" Aurian asked.

Anvar thought she looked worried. Was she still feeling guilty
about his suffering in the slave camp? "I'm fine," he hastened to
reassure her. "In fact, I don't need to be in bed at all—except
that your friend Bohan put me here and made me stay!"

Aurian made a droll face. "He did that to me, too," she told him
sympathetically. "Sometimes he's a little overzealous. Here, I've
brought you something to eat." She put the tray down on the bed,
forestalling him as he made a grab for the food. "I know you're
ravenous, but take it slowly," she warned him. "We don't want you
making yourself sick."

Anvar nodded, knowing that she was right. "Where are we?" he asked
her, between bites. "What is this place?"

Aurian grinned. "Ostentatious, isn't it?" she said. "It belongs to
the Khisal—the Prince. He rescued me from the Arena, and—"

"He rescued you from the what?"

Aurian paused to pour herself some wine. "I suppose I had better
start from the beginning," she said. While he ate, she told him of
her dealings with the Leviathan, her discovery that he had been
captured, and her terrible trek upriver in search of

him.



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"I'm sorry about your hair," Anvar interrupted. "It was so

beautiful .             .     ."

Aurian shrugged. "It just wasn't practical in this heat," she
said, but the compliment made her smile, nonetheless. "Besides,"
she went on quietly, "I missed having you around to

brush it for me."

Anvar reached out and took her hand. "In that case, you'd better
start growing it again," he said firmly.

Aurian was staring at him as though she could hardly believe her
ears, and he was surprised, and shocked, to see tears in her eyes.
"I didn't think you'd want . . ." she whispered.

It tore Anvar's heart to see her so vulnerable. She was always so
brave, so self-sufficient, that he tended to forget that she
needed comfort and support, just like anyone else. He gripped her
hand more tightly. "Aurian, what happened was just as much my
fault as it was yours," he told her firmly. "I behaved abominably
to you on the ship, and afterward. Let's put it behind us. We need
each other. I'll make Sara understand

somehow."

She flinched and looked away at the mention of Sara's name. "I'd
better tell you the rest," she said grimly.

Anvar felt alarm tighten his throat. But she'd said that Sara was
safe . . . Seeing the bleak look in the Mage's eyes, he decided it
would be wiser to let her tell the story in her own

way.

Aurian spoke of her capture on the outskirts of the city, and how
they had used the bracelets to take her powers, and condemned her
to fight in the Arena. She had reached the climax of her fight
with Shia—now that took some believing— when she was interrupted


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by a fearsome clamor. They heard shouts from outside, and the
sound of weapons clashing.


Aurian spun round. "What the—Xiang!" She was up off the bed and
running for her sword, which stood propped in the corner, but even
as she moved, the door burst open and several men-at-arms rushed
in, bearing loaded crossbows. Anvar's warning cry froze in his
throat. Aurian whirled—and fell, clutching at her shoulder, above
her right breast. Blood spurted between her fingers. The bolt,
which had torn through her flesh and right out the other side at
this short range, clattered off the wall behind her and fell to
the floor, leaving a bloody smear. Instantly, the Mage was
surrounded by a circle of soldiers, their crossbows cocked and
aimed at her. Anvar, who had leapt from his bed regardless of the
danger, only had time for a brief glimpse of her motionless form
before he was seized and dragged from the room.

Ckaptcr             £7

REVELATIONS — AND BETRAYAL

nvar's captors bound his hands tightly behind him, with cords that
cut painfully into his wrists. The soldiers were far from gentle,
leaving him with a new set of bruises to replace the ones that the
Mage had Healed, but Anvar had more to concern him than his
growing discomfort. What had they done with Aurian? How badly was
she hurt? Were these the Prince's guards? Had he repented of his
hosp'i-tality? Why had he tried to attack them back at the slave
camp? The Mage had had no time to explain. Anvar wished she had
been able to finish her tale. As it was, he had no idea what was
happening. But he had time enough to worry about it. They left him
in Aurian's chambers, guarded by two grim-faced, taciturn
soldiers, and there he remained for over an hour, with only his
fears for company.

Xiang swept regally into Harihn's audience chamber, arm in arm
with his Khisihn, and surrounded by an entourage of guards.
Seating himself in the Prince's gilded chair, he motioned for
someone to fetch a seat for Sara as the captain of his guard


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approached with a deep bow, and began to make his report.                                                                ^

"The palace has been secured, Your Majesty. The Khisal is in our
custody, and his sorceress has been disabled by our bowmen. We
have her below in the dungeons, unconscious, but under heavy
guard."

"Well done." Xiang smiled his approval. "You have captured the
Demon?"

The captain nodded. "Indeed, Sire. It cost us several men to
overcome it, but we have it unharmed as you ordered. It too is
imprisoned below, awaiting transport to the Arena."

"Excellent! And the slave?"

"My men are bringing him now, Your Majesty."

"Very well. You may bring in the Khisal, also."

The Khisu settled back in his son's chair, smiling trium-

AURIAN          •       421

phantly. As soon as the message from his Slavemaster had reached
him by carrier bird, he had put his plans into action. Harihn had
overplayed his hand this time! What a fool the boy was, to free
the sorceress from the bracelets, and allow her to practice her
evil arts before witnesses! And all to save the slave who,
according to the Khisihn Sara, had kidnapped her from her native
land. It had all been part of some plot to overthrow him, Xiang
had no doubt. Harihn was in league with the two foreigners, but he
had underestimated his father, and now he would pay! For releasing
the sorceress, he had put himself under automatic sentence of
death. Xiang wondered whether to keep his son alive for a while,
to suffer the terror of the threat hanging over him. The
sorceress, of course, would be executed as soon as possible.
Unfettered, she was too much of a threat to be left alive.

There was a stir at the doors of the chamber, and the guards


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dragged Harihn into the room and cast him, white-faced and
trembling, at the Khisu's feet. Xiang smiled with cruel enjoyment,
savoring the terror in his son's eyes.

At last the soldiers came for him. Dragging Anvar through a long
series of corridors, they thrust him between a pair of huge doors
inlaid with bronze. The vast, high-ceilinged room beyond seemed
filled with soldiers. The young man that Aurian had identified as
Harihn was cowering before a man enthroned on the low platform. If
Harihn was the Prince—this could only be the King!

Then all thoughts fled from Anvar's mind at the sight of the
golden-haired figure seated to one side of the throne, regal and
resplendent in jewels and fine silken robes. "Sara!" he shouted
joyfully. He struggled to reach her, but the guards held him fast.
The cold aloofness of Sara's demeanor did not waver as Anvar was
hurled to the floor by the Prince's side. With his hands bound
behind him, he was unable to save himself, and his forehead
cracked against the marble floor. As he staggered to his knees,
blinking to clear the exploding lights that obscured his vision,
the King began to speak, addressing Harihn.

"Well met, my son," Xiang said, sneering. His eyes gleamed with
triumph. "I am informed that you have laid yourself open to a
charge^efe treason, by releasing a known sorceress
from the bonds that constrained her power, against the laws of
this land. What answer do you make to this charge?"

Anvar managed a sidelong glance at the Prince and saw the young
man's face contort with shock and panic. "No!" he howled. "It
isn't true! I did not release her! She escaped from the bonds
herself—"

"You lie." The Khisu's voice cut through his son's terrified
protestations, and Anvar saw sweat break out on Harihn's forehead.
"Furthermore," Xiang went on, "you have stolen one of my slaves—a
rare specimen from the Northlands. My Khisihn has told me that
this creature was responsible for kidnapping her from her home, in
league with your sorceress. I can only assume that you are
consorting with the Khisihn's enemies for one reason—to bring


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about her overthrow, and mine." He turned to Sara. "Is this the
slave, my Queen?"

The words hit Anvar like a death blow. "Queen!" he shouted, too
horrified to consider the consequences. One of the guards hit him
hard across the mouth. "Silence!" he roared. Anvar went sprawling,
tasting blood in his bruised mouth.

Sara's gaze flicked contemptuously over her former lover. "That's
the one," she said coolly.

"Very well," Xiang replied. "What shall we do with him, beloved?
The choice of his punishment shall be yours." Sara shrugged. "Kill
him," she said offhandedly. Anvar went cold all over, numb with
shock at her words. He could not, would notjpelieve that she had
so callously ordered his death.

"Wait!" Harihn cried. "The slave is mine!" "What did you say?"
Xiang's voice was grating and cold as a knife against stone.

"Your informant lied, Your Majesty," Harihn said. "I own the
slave." Tearing an arm free from the grip of the guards, he
produced a crumpled parchment—the deed of ownership for a slave.
"I bought him from your Slavemaster with good gold, not three
hours ago—and with good reason."

"You have already been condemned as a traitor," the Khisu snapped.
"Your ownership counts for nothing!"

"Father, hear me out," Harihn shouted, his voice cracking with
strain. "I did this for your benefit! This slave is the living


proof that your Khisihn has betrayed you, and must die! She is his
concubine!"

Anvar gasped.

"No!" Sara shrieked. "He's lying!"



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"Silence!" the Khisu roared. His face was livid. "Now," he growled
at his son, "I will have the truth of this, before I end your
miserable life. Where did you get such a preposterous tale?"

Harihn trembled as he faced his father. "From Aurian— the
sorceress. Did you not think it strange that the Khisihn wanted
her death so badly when she fought in the Arena? It was because
she knew the truth—as well she ought. This man is her husband."

Anvar, already reeling from the revelations of the day, was
stunned. Aurian had told Harihn he was her husband? Why had she
lied to the Prince?

The sound of the Khisihn's mocking laughter echoed shrilly through
the room. "She said he was her husband?"

"You deny it?" Harihn suddenly seemed less sure of himself.

"Of course," Sara replied calmly. "She lied to spare herself a
traitor's death. This man is not her husband—he is her servant,
her accomplice in my kidnapping. Do you think I, the Khisihn,
would lower myself to lie with a mere servant?"

The scorn in Sara's voice went like a knife through Anvar's heart,
and he missed the look of shock and outrage on Harihn's face. He
steeled himself against the pain, telling himself that she didn't
mean it—that she was at the Khisu's mercy, and only trying to save
herself.

The Khisu turned his glowering gaze on Anvar, and spoke ro him in
the Northern tongue. "Well, slave? What say you? On the one hand,
my son says that the Khisihn is your concubine. She, however,
accuses you of being her kidnapper. Weigh well your reply, for
lives depend on it—including your own miserable existence!"

Anvar hesitated, so confused by this tangle of betrayal and lies
that he didn't know what to say. If he supported Sara's story, it
would mean his own death, not to mention Aurian's and the
Prince's. On the^other hand, Sara's life was at stake



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. . . He wavered, trapped in the dilemma, only knowing half the
facts and unable to make a choice.

"See?" Sara shrilled triumphantly. "He can't say I'm lying! He's
only keeping silent to protect his mistress! My Lord, be-    j
lieve me. I would never betray you! But your son would—    \
indeed, he already has, by conspiring with the sorceress against

both of us!"

A look of relief crossed the Khisu's face, and he smiled at his
Queen. "You are wise as you are beautiful, beloved. How could I
doubt you?" He gestured to his guards. "Kill these traitors. Then
I will deal with their sorceress."

Darkness. A cold, damp floor beneath her. Agony in her right
shoulder, spreading fire down her arm and side. Nausea clutching
at her throat. Aurian caught her breath against a moan. There must
be guards about. Better if they believed she was still
unconscious. No one could see her in this black hole— not without
Mages' sight. She had recognized the livery of Xiang's soldiers,
and could hazard a fair guess at what must have happened. Aurian
lay very still, facedown on the hard stone floor where she had
been carelessly tumbled. With her extra Healer's sense, she
checked first on the child within her. To her relief, all seemed
well. The mite must be hardy indeed to survive all that had
recently been happening to its mother.

Mother. It was the first time she had used the word, even in her
thoughts. Despite her pain and discomfort, despite her peril,
Aurian's lips curved in a smile. She had accepted the child at
last, and her love and pride for this tough little survivor
heartened her considerably. It was taking after its indomitable
father, she decided, and the thought of Forral strengthened her
resolve. She turned her attention to the wound on her shoulder,
and began to control the searing pain. Without that to impede her
concentration, Aurian set about repairing the damage. She would be
needing to use that arm, her sword arm, she thought

grimly.


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It was more difficult than she had expected. Aurian had never
tried to Heal herself, but she knew from her lessons with Meiriel
that there was considerable risk involved. Healing took a great
deal of energy; partly from the Healer, but partly from the
patient. That was why magical Healing was so debilitating

to both parties. In Healing herself, she had only her own strength
to draw on, and she knew that unless she was very careful, she
stood in grave danger of burning herself out completely, and
killing herself. There were precedents. But oh, it was difficult
to school herself to patience, to proceed with care, stopping
frequently to rest. Aurian was keenly aware that time was very
much against her. What was happening up above? How long had she
been unconscious? Not long, she comforted herself. The blood from
her wound had still been fresh and flowing. But Harihn had said
that his father sought his death, and if Sara was involved,
Anvar's chances of survival were slim. Forcing herself not to
think about it, Aurian returned to her work. It was her only
chance of helping them. Step by step, working as fast as she
dared, she set the damage to rights, painstakingly reconstructing
the torn flesh and muscles, knowing that a mistake made in haste
could cripple her arm for good.

Done at last! Aurian moved the wounded arm and shoulder
experimentally, wishing she had time to rest the repaired tissue.
Never mind. It would do. Not quite as good as new yet, but it
would serve her purpose, and improve with time. But there was no
doubt that the work had taken its toll. She felt limp with
exhaustion, only wanting to lie where she was on this filthy,
freezing floor and sleep until her body had recovered itself.
Well, no chance of that. Mindful of the risks of overtaxing
herself and being unable to return to her body, Aurian extended
her consciousness carefully outward, Peeking the sparks of human
awareness that would mean guards.

She had gone no distance—no distance at all—when Aurian
encountered a set of thoughts that made her heart leap with joy.
Shia! The great cat was imprisoned in the next cell!



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Shia's thoughts were scorching with fury. "There were too many of
them! They used nets!"

Aurian could feel her friend's pain as she struggled against the
entangling bonds. "Patience," she soothed her. "I'll get you
free—only stay still, and don't attract attention."

"Very well," Shia grumbled reluctantly. "But when you do —those
men are my meat!"

Aurian had no quarrel with that.

Now—how to gee out of the cell? The Mage regretted that
her powers had been weakened by the Healing. Impelled by her
growing sense of urgency, she'd have liked nothing better than to
demolish the heavy door in a single blast! However . . . Again,
she sought for the guards. Ah. Over a dozen of them, but in true
mercenary style they were all congregated in the guardroom on the
upper level, away from the damp, noisome chill of the dungeons.
There was only one on this floor, stationed at the bend in the
passage by the foot of the stairs, ready to give the alarm if
anything stirred. Even better, she could sense the angry,
frightened presence of other captives—a good number—occupying
other cells farther down the passage. She fervently hoped they
were Harihn's guards, imprisoned down here ouc of che way.

Aurian crept to the door of her cell. Instead of blasting it,
which was not only physically impossible for her at this time, but
would bring all Xiang's guards down on her, and possibly the low
ceiling as well, she turned her remaining power to manipulating
the lock, feeling for the worn, stiff tumblers with her Healer's
senses much as she would probe a wound for damage. Ah. Pressure
here—and there. The Mage gathered her will

and—pushed.

The rusty lock grated open. Aurian froze, her body tensed for
combat. Had the guard heard? Apparently not. Disgust at his
inattention warred with her relief. Forral would not have
tolerated such laxity! Opening the door only enough to squeeze


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herself through, lest the rusty old hinges betray her with their
squeak, Aurian sidled afohg the low, arched passage on silent
feet, suppressing a wish for her warrior's clothing. Not only
would this thin robe be awkward in a fight, but it was useless
against the piercing cold of the dungeons, which was already
stiffening her muscles and eating its way into her very bones.

Aurian could see the profile of the guard silhouetted against the
yellow torchlight at the bottom of the stairwell. The fool's eyes
were turned away from her to look longingly up the steps toward
the warm guardroom, instead of down the corridor he was meant to
be guarding. Serves you right! Aurian thought, as her arm went
around his throat in the quick, lethal throttling hold that Maya
had taught her so long ago. But she had never killed with her bare
hands before, and was unable to suppress her shudders as he slid
soundlessly to the floor, his
windpipe crushed and eyes staring wide with shock. Clenching her
teeth, the Mage quickly rifled the still twitching corpse for
sword, knife, and keys, trying to avoid the accusing stare of
those horrid eyes. Then she ran, as quickly as she could, back
down the corridor to Shia's cell, feeling keen relief at leaving
her grisly handiwork behind.

As Aurian sliced through her restraining bonds, the great cat
exploded into motion like an uncoiling spring—and fell heavily to
her side, her numb limbs refusing to support her. "Shh!" Aurian
warned, and knelt to rub the cold legs and paws. Though curses
seemed not to be a part of the cat's mental vocabulary, Shia's
tirade of low, spitting snarls sounded so much like a stream of
human invective that the Mage had to smile. "Listen," she told her
friend, "once you're on your feet, go to the bottom of the stairs
and guard this corridor. Wait for me there, while I free the other
prisoners."

"Those men?" Shia's eyes blazed with a savage light.

"Not those men," Aurian said firmly. "Once I've freed the good
men, we'll deal with the bad ones, I promise."

"What good men?" Shia sulked.


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"Trust me." With a hug, Aurian sent her out, taking the opposite
direction herself, toward the other cells.

A low, nervous murmur of voices betrayed the presence of the men
occupying the cell. "Who's within?" Aurian called softly, and the
sound ceased abruptly.

"Yazour, captain of the Khisal's guard. Who are_yo«?" The voice
was young, but firm and strong,-despite the fact that the owner
was imprisoned to await the dubious mercy of his cruel king.

"The Lady Aurian, the Khisal's sorceress," Aurian whispered back.
At her words, a frightened muttering broke out among the men in
the cell, and she heard Yazour hushing them hastily. "Lady, can
you release us? His Highness has dire need of our help."

Wasting no time, Aurian opened the door, struggling a little with
the heavy lock. She belatedly remembered that the men would be
unable to see in the dark passage, and spotting a burnt-out stump
of torch affixed to a bracket on the wall, she lighted it with a
careless wave of her hand.

"How did you . ^—.-iLady, that is forbidden," a stern voice
chided her. The captain of the guard, recognizable by his shoulder
insignia, stood before her, his brows knotted in a disapproving
frown.

"If you want to save the Khisal, this is no time to be
particular," Aurian said flatly, approving the way that he
accepted her words with a brusque nod. Taking the bunch of keys
from the lock, he sent one of his men along the passage to open
the other cells. A practical man, then. Like his Prince, he seemed
young for his responsibilities. There was no gray in the long
black hair that was tied neatly back from his face, but his stern
demeanor and the honest, level gaze of his dark eyes promised to
Aurian a fund of courage and common sense. She had no time to
register more, for at that moment a hulking figure thrust to the
front of the soldiers, elbowing them effortlessly aside.



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"Bohan! Thank the Gods you're all right!" Aurian reached up on
tiptoe to hug him, and saw his face break into an astonished but
delighted smile. Sword cuts on his body and bruises on his arms
and face showed that he had sold his freedom dearly, but his
strength seemed undiminished as he returned her hug with bone-
cracking force.

"Someone comes!" Shia's warning thought rang clearly in Aurian's
mind.

"Deal with him," she told the cat. "Quietly, if you can." "My
pleasure!"

There was the sound of a scuffle along the passage, then silence.
"What was that?7* Yazour demanded sharply.

"My friend the Demon from the Arena, dealing with one of Xiang's
guards. You had better warn your men that she's on our side!"

"By the Reaper!" Yazour muttered, his eyes very wide. The struggle
in the guardroom was bloody, but brief. Aurian sent Shia in first,
and the cat erupted into the room in a whirlwind of teeth and
claws, wreaking havoc among Xiang's horrified soldiers. Aurian
followed with Yazour and his men, the latter arming themselves
quickly from fallen bodies, or weapons stored within the room.
Then they began to work their way up through the corridors of the
palace, fanning out as they went to deal mercilessly with any
enemy that they encountered along the way. It was vital that no
one remained alive to carry
word to Xiang. At last they reached the main levels, and the long
hallway that led to the audience chamber, and discovered why they
had met with so little opposition thus far. The corridor was
bristling with guards. "Xiang must be within," Yazour whispered to
the Mage, after a quick glance around the corner.

"Now what? We'll never get through that lot without them raising
the alarm," Aurian said, groaning. Weary as she was, it was easy
to feel discouraged. She was sickened by the bloodshed that had
already occurred, and was finding the great curved scimitar with
which she had armed herself difficult and awkward to handle after


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being used to the straight, two-sided blades favored by her own
people. It was no easy matter to learn an entirely new technique
when your life was at stake.

Bohan tugged urgently at her arm, pointing back the way they had
come. Aurian frowned, trying to decipher his gestures. "You mean
there's another way in?" she asked him. The mute nodded
vigorously.

"Of course!" Yazour muttered. "The kitchens! A passage leads to
the back of the audience chamber, so that food can be brought
there easily."

Swiftly they made their plans. Aurian, with Bohan, Shia, and a
small group of soldiers, would take the back rout£ and storm the
chamber. Yazour and his men, when they heard her signal, would
mount a frontal attack on the guards at the doors. Aurian quickly
assembled her party and they slipped away, with Bohan leading.

In the kitchens, the terrified servants were being held by some
half-dozen of the Khisu's guards. If Aurian had expected any help
from them, she was quickly cured of the notion. As soon as the
fighting started, they took the opportunity to flee, keeping the
widest possible distance between themselves and the tall, flame-
haired warrior and her ferocious Demon. Occupied as she was with
two soldiers who were bent on hacking her to pieces, the Mage
could only hope they wouldn't flee toward the throne room and give
the game away. Panting, she backed toward the door, defending
herself as best she could with the clumsy scimitar. Then the
looming figure of Bohan appeared behind her assailants, and a
great hand closed around each of their necks. Shia moved in to
finish them, her claws ripping through flesh and gm&^'This is
fun!" she told Aurian.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Aurian replied faintly,
taking a much-needed minute to catch her breath. The place looked
like a charnel house, and the ridiculous, flimsy robe in which
Harihn had clad her was drenched with blood. The Mage made a quick
tally of corpses. Good. All the enemy dead—and two of their own,
she realized sadly. "Come on," she summoned her remaining men, and


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they followed Bohan through the low doorway that had been hidden
in the shadows of an alcove at the back of the kitchen.

There was no door at the far end of the passage—the flight of
steps up to the throne room ended in an archway, screened by a
hanging curtain. Carefully, Aurian moved it aside, just enough to
peer through a small crack. She was almost directly behind the
throne, and could see Harihn nearby, held firmly between two
guards and looking sick with fear. She need not have worried about
being noticed, for the eyes of everyone in the room were fixed on
the clear space at Xiang's feet. Anvar knelt there, bound, his
eyes tightly closed, his face bloodless with terror. Over him
stood a black-clad figure with an upraised sword, and—

"Now!" Aurian yelled. Shia sprang past her, reaching the Khisu in
a single leap and crushing him to the floor beneath her as her
powerful jaws closed around his throat.

"Drop your weapons! Nobody move, or the Khisu dies!" Aurian
shouted. She heard the sound of savage fighting outside as Yazour
and his men wejtf into action, and beckoned her own troops into
the room to pick up the fallen weapons of Xiang's guards. Though
she wanted to go to Anvar, she stepped up instead beside the
stunned Prince and bowed, catching sight as she did so of Yazour,
who appeared briefly in the main doorway to signal that all was
well. "Your Highness," Aurian said clearly. "Today you declined
the use of magic to win your throne. Now I offer it again—through
Mortal means. Only say the word, and you are Khisu."

Harihn stared at her for a moment, trying to take in the sudden
change in events. She nodded affirmation and the Prince, with a
sudden smile, walked across to his father. Aurian followed him.
Xiang's face was contorted with terror. All the cruelty of his
expression seemed to have transferred itself to the

face of his son, and the Mage was dismayed by what she had
wrought.

"Well, my father," Harihn said. "How does it feel to be the
victim? My mother would have enjoyed seeing you thus!"


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"My son, I beg you—" Xiang, in his terror, had lost control of his
bladder, and a dark stain began to spread across the floor.
"Please—"

It was plain to Aurian how much that word had cost him.

"Begging, Father?" Harihn's eyes glittered. "Oh, I like this. Beg
some more."

"My son .           . . Please—I'll do anything—"

Harihn turned away in disgust. "No!" It was as though the word had
been wrenched from the depths of his soul. Getting his voice under
control with an effort, he turned to face his watchers. "I do not
want the throne," he said flatly. "Today I have learned all too
well how power corrupts. The power of sorcery." His gaze flicked
coldly towards Aurian. "Royal power." He glanced scornfully at his
father, then across to Sara. "And the power of one man over
another." He looked down at the crumpled scroll of Anvar's
ownership that was crushed in his fist. "Father, you may keep your
throne and your life—if you swear that me and mine will be allowed
to leave this land in safety. You have no need to worry, I will
not be coming back —ever. Do you agree, and will you swear to
this?"

The Khisu nodded—too quickly, Aurian thought. She had seen the
flicker of contempt in his eyes. "You have my word," he said.

"Release him," Harihn ordered.

"Wait." Aurian, still staggered by Harihn's refusal of the throne,
placed herself within the Khisu's sight.

"Xiang," she said, "I have no confidence whatever that you will
keep your word." His gaze slid uneasily away from hers, and she
knew she had been right. Thinking quickly, the Mage assumed the
most menacing expression she could manage. "In order to guarantee
the Khisal's safety, I place my curse on you, and all the people
of your land." She heard gasps of horror from behind her.


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"What are you doing?" Harihn shrieked at her.

"Only this. While the Khisu keeps his vow, all shall be spared.
But if he shoulc}J>jeak it, then his entire kingdom will
be consumed in fire, and his people also. Crops will burn in the
fields. Eyes will shrivel, and flesh will melt. All shall perish
in agony. Do you hear me, Xiang?"

"I hear." His voice dripped hatred.

"Then mark them well—lest what I say should come to pass."

The Khisu nodded, glaring at her—but she knew that she had him
well and truly frightened now. "Oh, and another thing," she could
not resist adding. "I've decided that you must become a better
ruler in the future. There will be no more cruel games, Xiang. The
Arena will be closed at once, and all the slaves will be freed
immediately."

"What?" Xiang roared, forgetting, in his rage, the peril of his
position. At a nod from Aurian, Shia tightened her jaws a
fraction, snarling. The Khisu choked, and lapsed back into a
sullen silence.

"I'll be watching, Xiang," Aurian lied. "No matter how for away I
am. Remember, the curse is merely postponed. If you break your
vow, it will fall upon you! Let him up, Shia," she added aloud,
for the benefit of the watchers. "He has work to do. Get out,
Xiang, and take your soldiers with you. See them off the premises,
Shia."

"You mean I don't get to kill him?" Shia's thought was petulant.

"I'm afraid not."

"It's not fair!" The-cat loosened her jaws reluctantly, her
blazing eyes never leaving the Khisu's face. One of Xiang's
guards, though quaking at the proximity of the Black Demon and the
Outland Sorceress, went to help him rise from the wreckage of his


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chair. A brave man, Aurian thought.

Sara, who had remained silent while the conflict unfolded, rose to
follow him, shooting a glare of venomous hatred at Aurian. But
Bohan had freed Anvar from his bonds, and he waylaid her, his eyes
beseeching. "Sara, wait. You don't have to go with him. You're
free now. You can come with us . . ." His voice shook with the
strain of still hoping to find her innocent in the face of all he
had witnessed. Gods, can he not accept it now? Aurian thought
despairingly.

Sara turned on Anvar with a look of utter scorn. "You

fool," she said, sneering. "Do you really think I'd go with you, a
mere servant—a slave—when I can be a Queen?"

Anvar flinched as though she had struck him. "So," he said softly,
"I was right not to trust you! You were lying when you said you
still loved me!"

Sara's laugh rang out, loud and brittle, cruelly mocking. "And you
believed me, you dolt! I knew you would! I planned it that
way—because it was expedient, and to pay you back for abandoning
me to a butchering midwife and that toad of a merchant. Come with
you, indeed! You're pathetic, Anvar. Go and crawl behind the
skirts of your mistress—she appreciates you! As for me, I'll
despise you until the day I die!"

Anvar's eyes hardened to the chill ice-blue of a winter sky.
"Wait!" The word cracked out, harsh and commanding. Sara turned
slowly, unwillingly, gaping in astonishment.

"Bad mistake, Sara." Anvar's tone was coldly mocking. "In your
arrogance, you seem to have forgotten one important detail. Xiang
no longer has an heir—and he'll be looking to you to get him
another!"

Sara's fate blanched to a ghastly greenish-'white. All at once,
she began to tremble, seeming to shrink in on herself, her haughty
demeanor vanished. Suddenly she bit her lip, held out her hands


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beseechingly. "Anvar, I—"

"No, Sara, not this time. Not ever again. You got your wish, and
it's up to you to deal with it." Anvar's voice was like steel.
"Get out, Sara. Go to the King you wanted so much. Start thinking
of a way to dupe him, as you duped Vannor and I— only you had
better hurry!"

Sara's face turned ugly with rage. Drawing back like a snake, she
spat into his face, then turned, in a swirl of golden skirts, to
follow Xiang. As she scurried out, Anvar sank to his knees, his
face a mask of grief. Aurian had been both baffled and amazed by
his exchange with the girl—but she knew that now was not the time
to ask. Instead, she hurried to comfort him, her heart wrenched by
the bleak emptiness in his eyes. Anvar tore himself away from her
touch. "Please," he said wretchedly, "leave me alone." He turned
away from her, hiding his face in his hands. Aurian retreated,
respecting his mood. When he had repudiated Sara, she had almost
burst with pride for him—but she knew how much it had cost him.
She sat

•'«

I
down beside him on the floor, feeling drained by all that had

happened.

The Mage felt a hand on her shoulder. "Aurian!" Harihn stood over
her, his expression matching the chill in his voice.

"What?" she sighed, and got to her feet feeling grievously ill-
used. Considering that she had just saved his life, he seemed
scarcely overcome with gratitude!

Harihn's fists were clenched, his face scarlet with rage. "Lying
bitch! Thanks to your machinations, I've lost a throne today!" he
stormed. "You ungrateful snake! How dare you deceive me into
thinking this lowly slave was your husband?"



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Aurian gasped. How had he found out?

"By the Reaper, you'll suffer for this!" Harihn reached out to
seize her, one hand uplifted to strike.

"Leave her alone!" Anvar stepped between them. "She did not lie to
you, Your Highness. I am her husband."

"What!" Harihn choked. "You mean . . . You mean it's

truer

Aurian's astonishment was no less acute. In wondering gratitude,
she sought Anvar's eyes. He put a possessive arm round her
shoulders.

"Of course it's true," Anvar told the Prince. "Sara lied to
everyone. Did you expect her to tell Xiang she had betrayed him?
Furthermore, Aurian did not lose you the throne—she offered it to
you, and you turned it down! I think you owe my Lady an
apology—and"your thanks for saving your life."

The Prince looked utterly deflated. "I—I beg your pardon," he
muttered, his eyes downcast. "I should have known," he said at
last. "The mere fact that you can speak our language as she can .
. . Does this mean that you are also a sorcerer?" Aurian gasped.
So much had been happening, it had never occurred to her to
wonder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anvar turn pale.

"No," Anvar said hastily, "and I don't know why I can speak your
tongue. I think the Lady may have passed on the talent with the
spell that she used to bring me back from death . . . But what
will you do now, Highness? Aurian may have frightened your father
for the time being, but we can't expect it to last!"


Aurian gave him a questioning look, but he was studiously avoiding
her eye. She frowned. Why had he changed the subject so quickly?
Yet . . . Anvar was no Mage! Surely his explanation could be the
only possible one?


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Harihn was looking at her. "Will you really smite the Khazalim
with your curse, sorceress?" he blurted out, fear behind his
words. "I have relinquished the throne, but these are still my
people. If—if my father had refused to agree, would you really
have destroyed them?"

"Bless you, no!" Aurian said. "I wouldn't even know where to
start. But Xiang didn't know that." She gave him a wicked grin.

The Prince looked astonished, then relief flooded his face. He
burst out laughing. "Why, you . . . You are absolutely
outrageous!"

"That's what I'm always telling her," Anvar said with a shrug,
"but what can I do?"

"Take my advice, and beat her more often. She has a habit of
taking control of events that is most unbecoming in a mere woman!"

"That sounds like a good idea," Anvar growled, ignoring Aurian's
indignant glare. She was even more infuriated when the Prince took
him completely seriously.

"Very well," Harihn said. "I have much to attend to, if we are to
leave before nightfall. I believe I will travel north. My mother's
people may take me in—if we get through the land of the Skyfolk.
You will come with me, will you not? You will never get across the
desert alone."

"I think that suits us, don't you, dear?" Anvar turned to Aurian,
his eyes glinting, and she realized that he was paying her back
for the lie that she had told about him.

"Of course, dear," she replied sweetly, restraining an urge to
kick him. Inwardly, however, she was relieved. Now that she had
found Anvar and regained her powers, she could not afford to waste
more time in these lands. But she needed Harihn's help a little
longer, and was uncomfortably aware that her debt to him remained
unsettled.


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When Harihn had gone, Aurian turned to Anvar. "Thank you for
supporting me."

He shrugged. "Jt .was the least I could do. I suppose you
had your reasons for lying to the Prince?" There was an edge of
disapproval in his voice.

"Of course I did! Harihn decided to make me his concubine—that's
the law hereabouts for an unaccompanied woman. I was badly wounded
in the Arena, and he saved my life. I was helpless, without my
powers, and I needed Harihn's help to find you. I was forced to
lie. He left me no choice."

Anvar scowled. "You mean ... I can't believe it! Did he —did that
bastard . . ." He was almost choking with rage.

Aurian laid a hand on his arm. "No," she said gently. "He didn't
touch me, once I told him about you. I don't believe he likes it,
though!"

"Well, he had better get used to it—fast!" Aurian could not help
but smile at Anvar's fierce expression. "Thank you, Anvar," she
said, touched by his support. "But we must be careful. To get back
north, we need Harihn's help to cross the desert, but with his
soldiers to back him, we're very much outnumbered."

"Oh Gods, what a situation! But—" Suddenly Anvar looked sick.
"Does this mean that Sara was forced to—to . . ." Anvar, I'm
sorry, Aurian thought. But for his sake, she had to be brutally
frank. "You saw her today. You heard what she said. What Sara is
doing is her own choice. I used Harihn to find you. She could have
done that through Xiang, but she was too busy furthering her
ambition. And if she'd had her way today, you would be dead by
now. What sort of woman would do that to the man who loved her?"

Anvar shuddered, and his face                                  grew        stern         and       grim. "That's
what I thought," he said.

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ESCAPE        FROM          TAIBETH

s the afternoon progressed, the courtyard of Harihn's palace
turned into a scene of utter chaos. The entire household was
mobilizing, ready for departure. Barrels and waterskins were
hauled up from cellars and outbuildings and trundled down to the
river to be filled, for the Prince would need them in crossing the
desert. Light silken tents were rolled around their poles and
stacked in a corner, ready to be loaded onto the mules that had
been picketed in a long line down one side of the courtyard. Food
for traveling was being prepared, along with fodder for the horses
and pack animals. Soldiers of the Prince's guard milled about the
yard with their horses, adding to the general confusion.

Harihn had freed his slaves in accordance with Aurian's edict.
Some would be staying behind to search for long-lost friends and
families, but many had chosen to follow their Prince into exile.
He was moved by their loyalty, but the organization involved in
crossing the desert with so many folk was a nightmare. The Khisal
was constantly on the move, trying to be everywhere at once. All
around, farewells were being said, freed slaves were celebrating,
and people were sorting possessions, trying to make impossible
choices, for everyone must travel light. A horse broke loose,
panicked by the noise and confusion, and plunged across the
courtyard, scattering people and goods alike.

Anvar, entering the courtyard, covered his ears against the din.
This is ridiculous! he thought. To his annoyance, the Prince had
summoned Aurian from her chambers, cutting short her much-needed
rest, to help sort things out. She was talking to Harihn now, and
he could hear her straining to be heard above the general racket.
"Start ferrying the soldiers and horses across the river, and get
them assembled on the other side. That will clear a space, at
least. Then we'll get the rest sorted out." Harihn nodded
gratefully and went off to speak to the captain of his guard. It
took a while to get the fivescore troopers moving down to the
river, but Aurian was right—it did clear a space. After that it
wa* fasier to apportion tasks. The courtyard



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ft

was cleared of those who would not be joining the exodus, and the
mules were loaded and sent, one by one, down to the ferry. Now
that it was easier to count heads, Harihn looked worried. Anvar
strolled across with Bohan, to hear him talking again to

the Mage.

"There are some three dozen folk coming with us from my household,
and horses must be provided for them," the Prince said. "With
animals needed to carry the extra food and water, that leaves us
few spare mounts, and a very small margin of safety. We must get
through the desert before the food and water run out, yet we dare
not push too hard and risk losing

horses."

"Is there no water in the desert at all?" Aurian asked.

"There are twelve oases, and we will need them all," Harihn
replied. "It is a journey of many days, even if we keep to the
shortest route. We could not hope to carry enough water to last us
right to the other side."

Anvar approached them, shadowed by Bohan.                                        His iron collar had been
cut away and he walked taller now that it                                        had gone, though its
weight had been nothing compared with the                                        heaviness that lay on
his heart. The Prince turned to him. "And                                        how does it feel to be
free?" he asked.

Anvar heard the gibe in his voice, and knew that Harihn was
deliberately taunting him with the reminder of his previous, lowly
station. He looked at him coldly. "I find the change very
welcome," he said shortly, deliberately omitting Harihn's

title.

"Indeed, many things have changed in a short time," Harihn replied
smoothly, but Anvar was gratified to see his mocking smile


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replaced by a scowl. "In one day, you have ceased to be a slave,
and I have ceased to be a prince. She is a great leveler of men,
your Lady."

"At least she won't be forced to be your concubine now,"

Anvar snapped.

Harihn rounded on him, his face dark with rage. "How dare you
speak to me like that! Guards! Take this churl and

have him flogged!"

"No!" Aurian intervened quickly. "He meant no disrespect, Your
Highness. I'm sure he'll apologize." She glared warningly at
Anvar. Their eyes locked in a clash of wills, but


Anvar discovered a new, unexpected stubbornness within himself.
His mouth tightened in unconscious refusal. Aurian turned her head
slightly, out of the Prince's line of vision, and mouthed
"Please?" She looked tired and upset, and he was suddenly ashamed,
knowing that the last thing she needed today was more trouble.
Anvar sighed. "I'm sorry, Your Highness," he muttered.

"There, that's settled," Aurian said hurriedly. By the look on
Harihn's face, it was anything but settled, but luckily they were
interrupted by Yazour, who was escorting two people. The Mage's
face lit up with joy, as she ran to hug them. "Eliizar! Nereni!"

"Your Highness, these people have asked to see the sor— the Lady
Aurian," the captain reported.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" the Prince asked Eliizar, who
bowed low.

"I am—was—Swordmaster of the Arena, Your Highness," Eliizar said.
"Now the Khisu has ordered the Arena closed, and the city is
filled with rumor and unrest. We heard that Aur— that the Lady
Aurian is traveling north with you. Once she offered to take us


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with her, so we have come to pledge ourselves to her, if she still
wants us."

"Of course I do! My dear friends, I'm so pleased to see you again!
We can manage two more, surely, Harihn?" Aurian pleaded.

The Prince scowled. "You seem to be gathering a loyal entourage of
your own, Lady. First my eunuch and that dangerous animal, then
your mannerless husband, and now the Swordmaster of the Arena. If
you remain here much longer, you may end up as Khisihn yourself!"

"I'm not remaining here, and neither are you," Aurian retorted
sharply, "and you should be glad of an extra sword, Harihn. We're
glad to have you, Eliizar, Nereni. I have not forgotten your
kindness."

"I have something for you," Eliizar said. He handed over her
precious staff, which had been left behind at the Arena, and
forgotten during her illness and her subsequent worry over Anvar.

"By all the Gods!" Aurian exclaimed. "I really am grateful to have
this back, Eliizar^

The Swordmaster looked at Anvar. "I see you got your husband back,
too," he said.

Nereni's eyes twinkled mischievously. "He's far too precious to
her to be a mere husband!" She turned to Anvar. "You are a
fortunate man. Do you know, she fretted herself sick about you all
the time she was at the Arena? How glad I am that she

found you again."

Anvar was dumbstruck. Aurian had told these people that he was her
husband, too? She had actually been that worried about him? He
realized what it must have cost her, with Forral so recently dead.
"I'm glad she found me, too," Anvar said firmly, trying, without
success, to catch the Mage's eye. "And I agree with you—I am a
very fortunate man."



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"It is time we were leaving," Harihn said tightly. As he walked
stiffly away, Anvar took hold of Aurian's resisting elbow and drew
her into an embrasure in the courtyard wall that overlooked the
stunning view of the river, the city, and the dramatic cliffs
opposite,

Aurian, scarlet with embarrassment, looked as though she wished
the ground would swallow her up. "Anvar, I'm sorry," she said
hastily, looking anywhere but at him.

"No need. Lady, I'm grateful—and very honored." She looked at him
sharply. "Then you understand?" "Lady Aurian, the Khisal says that
we must leave now. He seems rather annoyed." Eliizar bowed his
head in apology for

interrupting them.

"All right," Aurian sighed. "Bohan has horses for us Anvar wished
he could have had a little more time alone with her, but there was
no help for it, not now.

The Prince's party were the last to be ferried across the river to
join the soldiers and other members of his household. It looked
like—as indeed it was—a small army, with Harihn s soldiers formed
up around his retainers and the baggage-train of mules, whose
burden consisted mostly of water. Of necessity, they would eat
light during the desert crossing. Yazour, a veteran of desert
travel, rode forward, acknowledging Aurian with a smile as he
addressed his Prince. "Your Highness, we must go L now, while
daylight remains. The cliff road is perilous in the 1 dark."


They rode up from the river crossing, past the scattering of white
houses that edged the city of Taibeth. There was no one else in
sight. All the inhabitants, hearing the incredible rumors that
were spreading like wildfire, had gone into the city itself to
find out what was happening. The land swelled in a gentle rise up
from the river. At the top the road divided, the right-hand fork
leading to the capital, the left climbing gradually upward toward
the looming cliffs. Soon the houses thinned; the deserted fields


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between them were tinged with red as the sun sank. Yazour looked
worried. Time was pressing.

When Aurian got her first glimpse of the cliff road, she gasped
with dismay. Looking hardly wide enough even for one rider, it
snaked perilously back and forth, literally carved into the
soaring curtains of red stone. It was so steep that it had been
cut in a series of shallow steps. In some places it actually
seemed to hang out over the dizzying drop, while in others it
vanished into the cliff, tunneling through the striated columns of
rock and emerging from the other side. Yazour had sent up the
first contingent of soldiers, and already they looked like
crawling ants against the vastness of this giant work of nature.
The captain rode up to Harihn. "If you will lead the way, Highness
. . ." "No,"

Yazour frowned, "But you must go up now, Sire, while there is
still some measure of daylight, If the Khisu should—" "Yazour,
there are women and children here. Should I go ahead in safety,
leaving them to pick'their way in darkness? These are my people.
Get them up first, and this lady. The Khisu will not try anything,
if he knows what's good for him." He glanced at Aurian.

"But Highness—" the captain protested. "Obey my orders, Yazour,
Now!"

Yazour rode off, dismay written all over his face. Since he had
fallen in with the sorceress, the Prince had grown ever more rash.
Had she enchanted him? But that was nonsense. In the brief time
they had fought together he had discovered respect for her. In
fact, Yazour admitted, he liked her. It was simply that at long
last, Harihn was acting like a prince and a man. It would take
some getting used to.

Aurian drew hep~horse close to Harihn's black mount,

"Well said, Highness—with one exception. I'm going to wait with
you."

"But Lady—"


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"Don't argue, Harihn." She looked up once more at the precipitous
road, her hands clammy on the reins of the bay horse that Harihn
had given her. The thought of climbing all the way up there made
her feel physically ill. "When I go up there, the last thing I
want to see is that bloody drop. In fact, I'm not sure I can do it
at all . . ." She made a wry face at her own irrational fear.

"Aurian!" the Prince protested.

"It'll be all right." The quiet, familiar voice at her shoulder
was full of understanding. "At least that's what you told me,"
Anvar went on. "Remember the beach?"

Aurian remembered Anvar's swimming lesson, and his terror of the
water. And her so angry with him that she could have cheerfully
drowned him on the spot.

"If I could do that, then you can do this," he assured her, "I'll
be close, if you need me."

Aurian's turn to begin the ascent came all too soon, it seemed to
her, although while they waited the sun had gone down and the
valley bottom was shrouded in deep purple shadow, and the red
rocks of the clifftop glowed crimson with sunset light. They
dismounted at the bottom of the narrow track and Yazour handed
each of them a torch to light their way. The Mage took her flaming
brand reluctantly. "One hand for the torch and one to fead the
horse," she moaned. "What on earth am I going to hold on with?"

"The path is wider than it looks, my Lady," Yazour told her. "Stay
away from the edge and all will be well."

Aurian gave him a sour look. "Fine," she said faintly.

"Don't worry, Lady," Anvar said. "Look—I'll go first, and you can
follow me. Just don't look down, and you'll be all right,"

Biting her lip, Aurian began her ascent. The path was fairly
smooth and the torches brought the dusk down around them so that


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the bottom of the abyss was lost in darkness. Nonetheless, she
kept her eyes resolutely averted from the drop, fixing them on the
ground at her feet and trying not to think of the plunge into
empty air that waited just to her left. The real

difficulty lay in turning the sharp corners where the path
zigzagged. Suddenly the hindquarters of Anvar's horse vanished
from sight around the bend, and there was nothing ahead of her but
the vast, dark gulf below. One slip going round there . . . She
stepped back, reeling, pressing her back against the comforting
solidity of the cliff face, unable to move. Her horse, impatient
to follow its vanished companion, nudged her with its nose,
pushing her nearer to the brink and almost making her drop the
torch. "Stop that!" Aurian, shaking with shock, her heart in her
mouth, smacked him hard on the nose, and the animal backed up a
step, his eyes wide with astonishment,

"What's happening up there? Why the delay?" Harihn's voice came
from farther down the path.

Aurian took a deep, steadying breath. "Don't be feeble," she
scolded herself. "If Anvar could overcome his fear of water,
surely you can manage this!" For certain, no one could come to her
aid. The path was blocked in front and behind with horses. "It's
all right," she called back, wishing it really was. Keeping her
back pressed firmly against the rock, she sidled, step by
shuffling step, around the corner, followed at a respectful
distance by the chastened horse. Once she was around, and the
solid, sloping path was before her once more, Aurian could have
collapsed with relief, but there was still a long climb ahead, and
she was holding up progress. Her dry mouth set in a grim line, e
lifted her torch and trudged on.

It was a grueling climb. All in all, there were nine of the
terrifying bends to negotiate, before they reached the top, and
the higher they climbed, the more tired and balky the horses
became. Aurian's back and legs began to ache until every step was
torture and she was gasping for breath. The drop switched from her
left side to her right, then back again as the trail twisted back
and forth, and the only time she gained a brief respite from her


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fear was when the road plunged into the cliff, creating blessed,
solid walls on either side. Twice during the ascent she heard a
bloodcurdling scream from above, and men and horses plummeted past
her, dangerously close. The dull, wet sound of their eventual
impacts left her sick and shaking,

"Aurian! Are you all right?"

The Mage looked dazedly around. There was level ground in front
and on either jide of her—she had reached the top!

Gently, Anvar pried her fingers away from the torch and the
horse's reins and handed both to Bohan. Then putting an arm around
her shoulders, he led her away from the edge. In the shadow of the
rocks that lined the clifftop trail she clung to him, flinging her
arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He held
her until her breathing steadied and her

trembling eased.

"There," Anvar said softly, his breath tickling her ear, "I

told you you could do it."

Aurian raised her head to look at him, and made a face.

Harihn stood at the brink of the cliff, looking down for the last
time at the land he would have ruled. They were celebrating in the
city. Fireworks were arcing into the air on comet-tails of silver
sparks, to blossom with a bang into giant flowers of red, gold,
and green in the night sky. Their light was echoed on the ground
by the flames from the burning slave markets.

"Regrets, Prince?" Aurian had come quietly up behind him, Anvar a
shadow at her heels. "If you want to return, I'm sure the people
would welcome you."

He shook his head. "I have no stomach for a revolution. Besides,
that place holds evil memories for me. My way lies onward now.
Xiang will get himself a new heir, no doubt." "Not with this


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queen, he won't." Harihn turned abruptly to face Anvar, "What do
you

mean?"

Anvar's eyes smoldered. "I mean, Highness, that Sara—the
Khisihn—is barren. She lied to your father as she lied to me. As
things stand, you're still the only royal heir. You can go back
one day—if you wish."

Harihn's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"                                           J

"Absolutely certain, Your Highness."

"Aurian, did you know of this?"

The Mage shook her head, equally stunned by Anvar's                                                      ;

news.

The Prince threw back his head and roared with laughter "Balls of
the Reaper!" he exclaimed in malicious delight,     i "What a joke
on my father! I wish I could be there when he f

finds out!"

Anvar's thoughts had obviously been moving along the «imr lines.
He looked sick, and Aurian finally understood the

significance of his rejection of Sara. When Xiang found out that
she was barren, she would be worthless to him—and her life might
well be in danger. Anvar, though he had seen through her at last,
felt guilty at leaving her to her fate. But does he still love
her? Aurian wondered. Then she wondered why the idea bothered her
so much.

The Prince's caravan reassembled itself for the long trek ahead,
and they set off once more. The track twisted and turned between
tall rock formations that had been eroded into weird, contorted
sculptures, like a frozen forest of stone. Holes of varying sizes


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had been worn right through some of them, and the light wind
whistled and hooted eerily through these like the wailing of
tortured souls, making the horses flinch and toss their heads
uneasily.

After about an hour, the track appeared to end abruptly, simply
dropping off into space between two tall stones, beyond which was
a steep, boulder-littered slope that seemed to glitter strangely
in the light of the rising moon. Below, the desert spread out.
Aurian, riding at the head of the column with Harihn, Yazour, and
Anvar, caught her breath in sheer disbelief. "Great Chathak!" she
exclaimed in a strangled voice. "Is— is that what I think it is?"

In the waxing moonlight, the desert glowed. The wind drifted
skeins of glittering sand in luminous streams of mixed and muted
color: red, blue, white, and green. The dune ridges caught the
light and sparkled piercingly like frost on a winter's dawn. Even
now, with the moon just rising, the Mage was forced to shade her
eyes with her hand.

"Indeed it is," Yazour replied to the question she had already
forgotten. "The entire desert is composed of gems and gem dust.
See how bright it is? That is why we must travel by night. In
sunlight, the glare would burn out your eyes. We must camp well
before daylight, for once the sun rises, everyone must be safely
under cover."

He showed Aurian and Anvar how to veil their eyes with the long
trailing ends of the desert headdresses they all wore, pulling the
gauzy veils across their faces and attaching them to the headband
at the other side, Aurian found that she could see quite clearly
through the thin stuff, but it cut out the already increasing
glare. The eyes of the horses and mules were bound
with scarves of the same material, but Shia refused to have
anything to do with such nonsense. She was still sulking at having
had to bring up the rear during the cliff ascent, lest she
frighten the horses. "I don't need that man-stuff," she told
Aurian disdainfully. "I'm a cat. My eyes adjust!"

They rode out into the glimmering sea of gems, looking like


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wandering ghosts in their pale, veiled headdresses and flowing
desert robes. The horses' feet flicked up clouds of fine gem dust,
leaving behind them a trail that glittered like cold fire, and
covering themselves and their riders with a cloak of scintillating
light. What gems were these, that could hold such dazzling
luminosity? Aurian felt a lump in her throat. Like the joyous
beauty of the leaping whales, the eerie beauty of this place was
almost heartbreaking in its intensity. But it was deadly as well
as beautiful, she learned from Yazour. In the proper season, great
sandstorms could blow up in minutes, and the sharp edges of the
windblown gems would strip a man's flesh from his bones just as
quickly. Furthermore, the sea of jewels was said to attract
dragons.

"Dragons!" Aurian gasped. "There are dragons here?"

"Only in legend," Yazour replied. "They were reputed to dwell in
the desert where they could easily sustain themselves. You know
that they fed on sunlight?"

"What a tale!" Anvar scoffed. "I'll believe it when I see it,
Yazour."

"Pray that you never get the chance," the young man told him
seriously. "Dragons aTfc said to be unsociable and chancy
creatures, easily angered, and best left alone."

They rode on through the night, too tired now to talk. Aurian was
relieved when at last Yazour, casting an eye over the seemingly
changeless horizon, advised that they should stop and camp. She
was weary beyond belief. Was it only yesterday morning that she
had found Anvar and brought him back from the clutches of death?
So much had happened since then, and seemingly without a moment's
respite. When she dismounted from her horse, she felt her knees
buckle beneath her, but thankfully there was nothing for her to
do. Bohan was instantly at her side to relieve her of her mount,
and Harihn's soldiers pitched the light, silken tents with great
speed and efficiency. Even the horses and mules were picketed in
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own, for no living creature could stay outside during the hours of
daylight.

In the bustle of setting up camp, Aurian lost track of her
friends, except for Shia, who stuck to her like a shadow.
Collecting their slender ration of food and water, she went in
search of Anvar. She found him sitting alone in the doorway of a
small tent, a waterskin by his side, his food lying untouched as
he stared blindly out at the torchlit camp. His mouth was turned
down at the corners, his brooding face lined with sorrow. Aurian
was about to creep away, unsure about intruding, but he turned
toward her, seeming once again to sense her presence. "You know,"
he said, without looking at her, "you've never once said 'I told
you so.' "

"I'd sooner cut my tongue out!" Aurian protested. "Why should I
want to add to your pain?"

Anvar sighed. "No, you wouldn't. You're too bloody fair! You
warned me about Sara, but instead of listening to you, I drove you
away. And look what happened!"

"Anvar, I should never have left you. Me and my stupid temper!
I'll never forgive myself."

"Then that makes two of us," Anvar said grimly. "Why did I not see
which of you could be trusted? I've done a lot of thinking, coming
across the desert. Of how you defied Miathan for me at the
Academy, and how kind you were when I was your servant. How you
went out in the snow on Solstice morn to get me a guitar. And what
did I do?" His voice rose in self-derision. "I said hurtful things
to you-T-drove you away—because I was defending Sara. And what did
you do then? You saved me from death in the slave camp. You
claimed me as your husband, while she only wanted me dead so that
she could be a queen! Gods, I'm such a fool, Aurian. A blind,
wretched fool!" He was shaking with anguish.

Aurian put an arm around him, comforting him as he had comforted
her on the clifftop. He leaned against her shoulder as she stroked
his fine, tawny-blond hair. "You know what I would do if we were


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back in Nexis?" she said softly. "I'd take you round every tavern
in the city and get you more drunk than you've ever been in your
life. Forral always said that that's the only medicine for a
broken heart."

The eastern horizon was beginning to lighten, and already

I

the rising glare was enough to force them back into the tent.
Aurian dropped the flap behind them, shutting out the dazzling
light. Anvar grinned at her sheepishly. "When next we reach a
city, I'll take up your offer with pleasure—but I must confess
that I'm not so much heartbroken as disappointed, humiliated, and
plain bloody furious with myself for being so gullible!" His mouth
twisted oddly. "I blame myself for letting you down . . ."

Aurian squeezed his hand. "Don't punish yourself for that,
Anvar—it's all over now! Sara was your childhood sweetheart— you
loved her! You didn't know how much she had changed! Why don't you
get some sleep now? Maybe things won't seem so bad once you've
rested."

He smiled ruefully. "Looking after me again, huh? I thought it was
supposed to be the other way around."

"Don't worry, you do your share. Now go to sleep—or else!"

"Or else you'll set that monster on me?" Anvar eyed Shia warily.
She looked awfully big in the cramped confines of the tent.

"Don't worry about Shia. She's a good friend. She'll look after us
both." Aurian stretched out a hand to stroke Shia's sleek head,
and was rewarded by drowsy purring. "I like him," the cat said.

"Do you?" Aurian was surprised. Shia had never volunteered such
information about anyone else, not even Bohan. "I like him, too,"
the Magrxonfided.

She turned back to Anvar, who was curled on the cushions, asleep


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already. Through the glittering dust that coated his face, he
looked drawn and vulnerable, weighed down with sorrow. On impulse,
Aurian put out her hand and gently touched his sleeping face. And
then, as it had done in the slave compound, her heart seemed to
turn over within her—a pattern shifted and clicked suddenly into
place. Aurian snatched her hand back as though she had been
burned, aware, in that instant, that the surge—whatever it had
been—was the same force that had unlocked the power of the
bracelets. She sat very still for a moment, cradling her hand and
waiting for her breathing to steady and her heart to stop trying
to fight its way out of her breast. "Did you feel that?" she asked
Shia experimentally.


"Feel what?" The cat's thoughts were drowsy.

"Never mind." Aurian tried to organize her shaky thoughts, but for
some reason, the only thing that would come into her mind was the
image of Forral's face, tender and glowing as it had been on the
day they had first made love. Grief and loneliness pierced her—a
pain so acute that she gave a stifled cry. Confused and wretched,
Aurian gave in to her tears for once, and cried herself to sleep.

Sometime during the long, bright day, Anvar tossed and moaned, in
the grip of some nightmare. Then his seeking hand found that of
the Mage, and in her sleep she clasped it tightly, and his
restlessness stilled. And that was how Harihn found them at
nightfall, lying close together, hand in hand. He looked at them
for a long moment, frowning, until Shia opened a sleepy eye. The
Prince ducked swiftly and silently away, dropping the flap of the
tent behind him. Since the man had gone without any attempt at
harming them, Shia forbore to mention his visit to Aurian.

pter                    £?

SEWER         RATS

he old bakery had changed so much that Anvar, had he been there,
\vou\A scarceYy Vvave iecogt\Vied V\\s> cVvvVd-hood home. After
Ria's death, Tori had lost heart. His thriving business in the


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Arcade had been destroyed with the fire that killed his wife, and
he had been forced to fall back on his older, smaller premises in
the poverty of the laborers' district. But without Ria to clean
up, and without Anvar's labor, things had gone steadily from bad
to worse. Despite Bern's efforts to save the business that he
would inherit, the bakery was in a shabby state, its plaster
crumbling and its roof sorely in need of repair. The inside was
cobwebbed and filthy, and badly in need of a new coat of
whitewash.

No wonder we've lost our customers, Bern thought disgustedly, as
he took tomorrow's loaves out of the oven. Tori, now a sullen,
bitter man, no longer bothered to get up early to bake a fresh
batch each day. In truth, it was scarcely worthwhile. Bern frowned
at the pile of stale loaves that lay on the table beneath the
window. Everyone in the district knew the conditions under which
Tori's once famous bread was now made —and no one would touch it.

Just then the object of Bern's gloomy thoughts came into the
bakery. The flames of the oven flared in the strong draft from the
doorway, and a-*wirling cloud of snow followed Tori indoors, the
flakes lit like sparks in the glow of his lantern. The new
Council, in the pay of the Magefolk, had decreed that no more
money should be wasted on lamplighters. Crime flourished in the
darkened streets, and people were now forced to carry their own
illumination.

"Rough night," Tori grunted. "Bloody winter!"

"Wipe your feet, Dad!" Bern knew before the words were out of his
mouth that it was hopeless.

Tori shrugged, as he always did, and began to load the stale
loaves into a sack that he had brought from the empty stable. "I'm
off to the tavern," he muttered. "Harkas wants these for his
pigs."

"Dad, not again!" Bern protested. "We can't go on like

this! If you brought home the money you get from Harkas, instead


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of drinking it, maybe we could afford to fix this place up so our
bread would be fit for people to eat! Besides, he can't be paying
you much. It's a long time since I've seen you come home tipsy,
let alone drunk!"

"You mind your own business, Bern!"

"Mind my own business? This business is all I—we—have, and you're
letting it go to wrack and ruin!"

Tori scowled. "What if I am? What's the point in working, while
those cursed Magefolk bleed the city dry! Tithes here, taxes there
... I'd sooner burn this place down than put another penny into
Magefolk coffers!"

Bern, thoroughly alarmed, strove to be conciliatory. "Look, Dad,
why don't I come with you tonight? I could use a beer myself, and
maybe together we could wheedle more money out of Harkas for the
bread. What do you say?"

"No!" The violence of his father's reply took Bern by surprise.
Tori's glance slid slyly away from that of his son. "Not tonight,
Bern, eh?" he gabbled. "It's filthy weather out there, and you've
worked hard today. Don't drag yourself through the mud and snow
just to keep me company. You have a nice rest. Come another night
instead." He was out of the door and away before his son could
blink.

"What the blazes is he up to?" Bern muttered. Pausing only to bank
the oven, he whisked his tattered cloak round his shoulders, lit a
lantern, and left the bakery, following the prints of his father's
footsteps on the snowy ^ground.

Tori was freezing. Carrying the sack in one hand and the lantern
in the other, he was unable to pull his cloak about him, and it
was flapping wildly in the icy wind. In trying to rescue it he
dropped the sack, and loaves fell out to roll across the ground,
so that he had to stop and pick them up. "Bloody Vannor," he
cursed. "Don't know why I do it, now he's run out of gold." In
truth, of course, he knew perfectly well. He was aiding Vannor's


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rebels out of pure hatred—to get back at the accursed Magefolk who
had destroyed his family, ruined his business, and wrecked his
life. With that in mind, a few stale loaves and a certain amount
of risk seemed a small price to pay.

Vannor had set up his headquarters within the city's intricate
sewer system, miseries of tunnels built above the level of
the major drains to take the runoff from heavy rains or snowmelt.
Cleaner than the actual sewers, they would remain fairly dry and
habitable until the thaw. The Magefolk had few supporters in th-s
northern part of the city, so food and other necessities were
smuggled down to the rebels by allies who lived above. The storm
drain beneath Tori's home was an ideal base. With his bitter
hatred of the Magefolk, he could be trusted. In addition, the
bakery oven was usually alight; a little of its warmth filtered
down through the earth to improve conditions in the freezing
drain. Karlek, formerly a siege engineer in the Garrison, had
broken a chimney through into the flue of the oven, so that they
could have a fire without its smoke being seen above, and of
course the baker provided them with a regular supply of bread.
Really, thought Tori, Vannor and his men were doing pretty well
out of him.

It wasn't far to go. Tori rounded the corner of the bakery and
branched off into the narrow alley that ran behind the high-walled
stable yard. He paused for a brief glance all around, but no one
ever came into this dead end. Putting down the sack, he bent with
a grunt to lift a grating that was set into the cobbles. Taking
bread and lantern with him, the baker lowered himself into the
drain, reaching up to pull the cover down behind him. He was
unaware that he was being watched.

Bern could hardly believe it when his father vanished into the
drain. He moved quickly from his hiding place in the shadows and
sped across to the grating—just in time to hear Tori's whisper
echoing out of the-btackness beneath it, "It's me, Tori, Look, I
need to talk with Vannor. I think my son is getting suspicious."

Bern stiffened. Vannor? Vannor had been declared an outlaw! There
were rumors all over the city that he was gathering an army


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against the Magefolk. It took seconds for Bern to reach the
obvious conclusion—and the solution to his problems. Tori would
die for treason and be out of the way for good—and there'd be a
reward, of course! He could build up the business again . . . Bern
scrambled to his feet, and ran. Should he go to the Academy? No,
the Garrison was closer. They could surprise the rebels and catch
Tori in the act. He'd make sure of the reward first, though. The
new Commander was a vile-tempered mercenary hired by the Magefolk,
the sort who'd sell his grand-

AURIAN          •       453

mother for a profit. Still, if he and his troops secured Bern's
inheritance, who cared? Heedless of the snow, Bern ran faster.

"She's alive, I tell you!" Miathan's bony fists hammered with
soundless violence on the thick quilt that covered his bed. His
face, below the bandage that concealed the ruin of his burnt-out
eyes, was twisted with frustrated rage.

Bragar stepped close to Eliseth, to whisper in her ear: "Are you
sure she didn't fry his brain as well as his eyes?"

"I heard that!" Miarhan turned toward the Fire-Mage with unerring
accuracy, and lifted his hand. A chill, misty vapor flowed rapidly
from his fingers and pooled round Bragar's feet, coalescing into
the form of a glimmering serpent that began to make its coiling
way up the Mage's legs. Bragar bit down on a scream, and tried,
too late, to make frantic warding gestures as the cruel head
reached the level of his face. The serpent hissed, showing ice-
pointed fangs that glittered with venom.

"Miathan, no!" Eliseth cried hastily. "He didn't mean it!"

"She's right, Archmage! I—I apologize!" Bragar's voice was no more
than a squeak. The serpent vanished.

Miathan cackled spitefully, a laugh cut off with shocking
suddenness in mid-breath. "So what are you going to do about it?"



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The Weather-Mage frowned, "About Bragar, Archmage?"

"No, you stupid woman! About Aurian! She's coming! Coming for me,
for all of us! She stalks my dreams—corning after us with death in
her eyes . . ",'

"Archmage, how can that be?" Bragar protested. "She drowned in
Eliseth's storm, We all felt it—"

"It wasn't strong enough!" the Archmage snapped. "Not like when
that ass Davorshan got himself killed." Eliseth gasped, and he
cackled again. "Oh, I knew all about you and Davorshan from the
start. I may be blind, but I don't miss much around here, let me
tell you."

Eliseth turned on him furiously. "That's beside the point," she
said flatly. "Aurian is dead. What difference does it make that we
barely felt her passing? It's not surprising, with the distance,
and the ocean between us, not to mention all the panic from her
attack on you—"

"Eliseth, you're aJo4>l," Miathan retorted, "Aurian is alive,
and a threat to us all. If we're to keep what we've gained, she
must be intercepted." His spidery hands clawed at the crystal
around his neck. "And what about that accursed Anvar? I know he
survived your blundering storm!"

"Who the blazes is Anvar?" Bragar interrupted.

Eliseth gave him a blank look. "I've no idea."

"He was Lady Aurian's servant." Elewin's respectful voice came
from the corner. The Chief Steward had been there so long,
devotedly nursing his master, that they had forgotten his
presence. "My Lord Archmage never liked poor Anvar," he continued,
"yet he was as diligent a lad as ever I—"

"Shut up!" Miathan spat. "Yes, he was her servant, against my
wishes. I want him dead, do you hear? His head on a spike! His
heart ripped from his living body! His corpse hacked to pieces and


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trampled into the ground! I want—"

"Hush now, Archmage," Eliseth murmured, handing him a cup of wine.
"Bragar and I will deal with Aurian and her servant, I promise."

"Not Aurian, you imbecile! I want her brought to me alive! I want
her—" Miathan licked his lips in an unsavory manner, and lapsed
into a crooning reverie.

Bragar opened his mouth to protest, but Eliseth waved him silent.
"Don't worry, Archmage," she said. "You may leave the matter
safely in our hands. Stay with him, Elewin." Taking Bragar's hand,
she hauled him firmly away from the bed.

Elewin bowed them^ respectfully out of the room. Then: "More wine,
Archmage?" He tugged the cup from Miathan's grasp. Slipping a
twist of paper from his pocket, he poured its contents, a greenish
powder, into the wine, and handed it back to Miathan. "Is that
better, Lord Archmage?"

Miathan drained the cup. "It's good. I don't recognize the
vintage, but it's very good . . ."He slumped back against the
pillows, snoring gently. Elewin took the cup from his hands and
straightened; his subservience vanished. Following the Mages, he
crept downstairs to Eliseth's door. Setting an ear to the panels,
the Steward composed himself to listen.

Eliseth's white-painted chamber was spacious and spartan, its
furnishings elegant but spare and uncomfortable. Bragar


squirmed uneasily on a hard wooden chair, wishing that she
wouldn't insist on presenting such a chilly front to the world. He
knew that the bedroom behind those doors at the far end of the
room was a den of luxury; a fur-carpeted, silk-hung, perfumed
temple dedicated to sensuality and lust. The thought reminded him
unpleasantly that since Eliseth had started taking an interest in
Davorshan, he, Bragar, had been pointedly denied access to that
inner sanctum. How glad he had been when that slimy youth had
died!


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"Wine?" Eliseth took goblets from a cabinet in the corner.

"Have you nothing stronger?"

The Magewoman raised her eyes to the ceiling. "You're drinking too
much, Bragar," she snapped. "How can I depend on you if your
brains are permanently pickled?"

"Shut up and give me a drink!" Bragar snarled. You wait, he
thought. Someday I'll make you pay for treating me like this. And
when I'm done, you'll be begging for mercy—or begging for more!
The thought, along with the glass of spirits that she grudgingly
handed him, was some comfort.

"Well, what do you think?" Eliseth's voice dissolved his fantasy.
"Not that there's any point in asking you," she said with a sneer,
settling herself in a chair near the fire, a glass of white wine
in her hand.

"What a shame you've no one else to ask," Bragar retorted,

le to resist needling her about Davorshan's death. He had
satisfaction of seeing her face twist with rage. "What can I say?"
he replied to her question. "Miath'an's brains have clearly been
addled by Aurian's attack. How could she not have perished?"

Eliseth frowned. "I'm not so sure," she said. "Remember how close
Aurian and the Archmage used to be? He should know whether she's
dead, if anyone does."

"Rubbish! The old fool is senile, and you know it. We should put
him out of his misery, and take power ourselves!'

"Bragar, you've the brains of an ox!" Eliseth snapped. "We need
the Archmage as a figurehead! He made sure of that when he spread
the tale that it was his power that destroyed the Nihilim! We were
able to bribe that toad Narvish onto the Council as the merchants'
representative, and Angos at the Garrison is nothing but &•
thickheaded mercenary who will do


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whatever we say for a price, but they won't last long if Miathan
is not seen to be behind them! It is only the Mortals' fear of his
power, and what will happen if he withdraws it, that keeps the
city in our hands.'"

"If he's only a figurehead, why do we have to jump whenever he
snaps his fingers?" Bragar sulked.

Eliseth took a sip of wine. "As a rule we don't—but if there is a
chance that Aurian survived, we cannot risk her returning. Miathan
may want her alive, but / do not! I've been giving it some
thought. We know she was at sea, and I know the strength and
direction of the storm I raised. If she is anywhere, it has to be
the Southern Lands."

"The South? But even if we had the people, we could not send a
force in sufficient numbers to find her," Bragar protested. "The
Southerners would take it as an invasion, and a war is the last
thing we need at present. Besides, they're supposed to be hostile
to the Magefolk. If that's where Aurian is, the problem will take
care of itself."

"Why rely on it, when we have other means at our disposal?"
Eliseth glanced at him slyly.

Bragar      knew she wanted him to ask what she meant, so she could
accuse      him of stupidity again. Refusing to play her game, he
gulped      the contents of his glass and went to refill it. "You
always      did have a high opinion of yourself," he said, sneering.

"How dare you!" Eliseth rose to the bait. "I'm the only Weather-
Mage in the world! If I deal with them, the Southerners will be
lucky to havejapy survivors, let alone that redheaded bitch! I've
seen the maps," she went on more calmly. "The Southern Lands have
huge mountain ranges and vast deserts, and even jungle, if you go
far enough south. With topography like that, it's easy to produce
violent weather. A sandstorm in the right place, or unseasonal
blizzards in the mountains, could solve our problem. It would also
soften up the Southern races for conquest," she added
persuasively.


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"Eliseth, you can't!" The bottle jerked in Bragar's hands,
splashing brandy on the white tiled floor. "You'll alter the
weather everywhere! It could take centuries to restore the
balance!"

Eliseth shrugged. "So what? Who cares if we lose a few thousand
Mortals to storms or famine? With their numbers

AURIAN - 457

reduced, they'll be easier to control. We need not suffer, now we
know Finbarr's preserving spell. We'll have Elewin stockpile food
in the catacombs, and keep it indefinitely. It's not as though we
had many mouths to feed nowadays."

Gods, she was ruthless! Bragar was both impressed and appalled.
Once he had been the instigator of their plots, but now that it
was time to act instead of talk, he was finding himself
increasingly out of his depth. It was one thing to talk about
Negative Magic, but having to deal with those things from the
Caldron had jarred his confidence badly. Bragar gulped his drink,
remembering the horror of the Wraiths, How could Eliseth be so
composed? Her slender form looked delicate and brittle as a spear
of ice, yet she throve on situations that turned his blood to
water. His vision of her, submissive and conquered, evaporated. He
was losing this game; he knew it now. His one hope lay in going
along with her—and waiting for her to overreach herself. Then, at
last, it would be his turn.

Bragar decided on a change of tactics. "Maybe you're right—" He
cut the words off, alerted by a warning prickle at the base of his
neck, by the merest hint of a sound outside. Overturning his
chair, he shot across the room and flung the door open.

"Bragar, what are you doing?"

The Fire-Mage peered at the empty stairway, then closed the door,
shaking his head in puzzlement. "I thought , , ."



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Elewin, pressed flat to the wall round the curve of the staircase,
let out the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. That had
been close! For a moment he considered returning, but there was no
sense in taking risks. He had heard enough, and the information
must be passed on. He hurried downstairs and let himself out of
the Tower.

Gods! Would spring never come? This accursed winter was lingering
forever. After several hours within Miathan's warm chambers,
Elewin shivered in the bitmgly cold air. A new sprinkling of snow
had fallen while he'd been tending the Archmage, but the night
skies were clear now, and the temperature had dropped sharply. The
snow, frozen to a hard, brittle crust, crunched loudly beneath his
boots as he crossed the courtyard, and Elewhrgianced nervously up
at the lighted win-
dow of Eliseth's room. If they should hear him, and look out . . .
He'd never be able to explain why he was going to the library,
especially at this time of night. Miathan had no need of books
nowadays, he thought wryly.

Since Finbarr's death, the library had lain dark and empty. The
preserving spells, which required frequent renewing, were already
decaying, and as Elewin pushed open the heavy door he heard a
rustling patter like wind-blown leaves as mice and cockroaches
scattered for cover. The Steward shook his head sadly. Finbarr
would have been appalled. The irreplaceable knowledge of
centuries, which he had tended with such care and skill, ending up
as rat's nests! I must get someone to see to this, Elewin thought,
hating the notion of Finbarr's precious volumes moldering beneath
a shroud of cobwebs and dust. It was disrespectful to the
Archivist's memory to let his life's work go to ruin—but in truth,
there was no one to tend them, Most of the servartts had fled in
terror on the Night of Death, as people in the city called it, and
few were willing now to come near the Academy. Elewin was hard-
pressed to maintain the basic necessities, let alone spare a
servant to dust books.

Not daring to venture a light, the Steward groped his way across
the long, musty room, cursing as he bruised himself on the corner
of a table, and fell over a displaced chair. If only there had


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been a moon, to cast some light through the tall windows. If only
he had Mages' sight! At last he reached the farther end,
recognizing Jtjy feel the recessed door that led down into the
catacombs. Smiling in the darkness, he slipped an intricate key
from his pocket. Eliseth and Bragar thought all the keys to the
archives were safe in their keeping, and it was small wonder they
wanted no one in the catacombs, considering what they had stored
down there! But they did not know that Finbarr had given Anvar his
own key. Elewin had found it among his scanty belongings, after he
fled. Entering the archives, the Steward carefully locked the door
again behind

him.

The walls of the corridor were icy to the touch, and Elewin had
trouble lighting the lantern. The flint kept slipping from his
frozen fingers, forcing him to kneel and grope on the floor,
cursing. How things had changed! Once he had thrashed any

AUR1AN          •       459

servant caught swearing in the Academy! But that was before he'd
become a spy and a traitor to the Magefolk. Their changes had
forced the change in him.

Having finally managed to light the lantern, Elewin relaxed a
little as its mellow glow banished the darkness, making the frigid
air of the corridor seem warmer. Thank the Gods! Being down here
in the dark with those Wraiths was more than he could bear! Though
they had been disabled, it was easy to imagine that he could hear
them stirring . . . Waking . . . Elewin shuddered as he began to
thread his cautious way through the maze of passages and stairways
beneath the Academy. When he passed the room where the Wraiths
were stored, he held his breath and hurried.

The blade came whistling out of the darkness, not half an inch
from his face. Elewin jumped back round the sharp bend in the
corridor, almost dropping the lantern in his fright. "It's me, you
fool!" he hissed. "What the blazes are you doing up here? You
nearly took my bloody nose off!"


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"Sorry." The small, wiry form of Parric the Cavalrymaster appeared
round the corner. He was grinning from ear to ear. "I must be
getting rusty. It was meant to be your head!"

Elewin was not amused. "Why didn't you wait in our usual place?
What if I'd been one of the Magefolk?"

Parric shrugged, "You were late," he complained, "I was freezing
my bollocks off down there, Elewin. I had to move about, to keep
warm!"

"Never mind," the Steward sighed, It was clear where he was
learning all his bad language nowadays. "I have news for you. Come
farther down where it's safer, and we'll talk,"

"I don't know why you're so worried," Parric grumbled. "Who in
their right mind would come down here on a night like this? I
swear there's icicles growing on the end of my—"

"Porricf"

The Cavalrymaster chuckled.

The ancient parts of the catacombs that Anvar had discovered were
little more than a series of natural caves, set low in the end of
the promontory. They had been stripped of their treasures now, and
the footfalls of the two men echoed loudly in the bare chambers.
Singe the ancient spells that guarded their
contents had been broken, damp had begun to seep in from the
nearby river. The dark walls were jeweled with ice crystals that
splintered the lamplight, and the floor was slick and treacherous
underfoot. Elewin gripped the lantern tightly to prevent it
slipping from his numb grasp, and wished that Finbarr still lived.
In the Archivist's day, these caverns had been lit by Magelight,
and kept warm and dry by means of his spells.

"See? I told you. Colder than a prostitute's heart down here."
Parric pulled the remains of a broken wooden chest out of a corner
and sat down, motioning for Elewin to join him. "I don't suppose


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you brought some food with you? Or a bottle?" he asked hopefully.

"Didn't get the chance. Sorry, Parric. I know there aren't many
comforts where you men are hiding out. Still, I have some news
that will warm your heart better than a bottle." Elewin grinned,
savoring the moment. "The Lady Aurian is said to be

alive!"

He hardly got the reaction he had expected. The leathery, hard-
bitten little Cavalrymaster stared at him, tears welling up in his
eyes and rolling unheeded down his cheeks. Then turning abruptly
away, Parric hid his face in his hands and began to

sob.

"Parric!" A very startled Elewin put the lantern down, and laid an
arm across the man's shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Parric choked. He wiped his face, looking
emBarrassed. "Not what"^ou'd expect of a tough old bastard like
me, is it?" He swallowed hard. "But by the Gods, I was so fond of
that lass! We all loved her—her and Forral. We thought they'd both
been killed—then Vannor told us she'd been carrying Forral's child
. . . Elewin, it's a miracle! A bloody miracle!" He clutched at
the Steward's arm. "Where is she? How is

she?"

Elewin hated to dampen the man's joy. "Don't get your hopes up,
Parric. It isn't certain. But Miathan insists she's still alive,
and that her servant is with her—"

"What, young Anvar? Well, I'm blowed! Forral always thought that
lad had some good stuff in him!"

"The bad news is that they think she's in the Southern Kingdoms,
if she's anywhere."




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"What? How the bloody blue blazes did she get down there?"

Elewin told Parric what he had overheard. "So you see how grave
the situation is," he finished. "If Eliseth tampers with the
weather, it would not only put Aurian in danger, but it could be
catastrophic for our own folk—worse than anything we've seen since
the Cataclysm."

Parric frowned. "This changes things. I'll discuss it with Vannor,
of course, but I think we'll be leaving the city now. We can't
stay where we are if it thaws, and we're too close to the Academy
to assemble an effective force. But when Aurian returns—"

"You think she'll come back?" Elewin was surprised. "Aurian? Of
course she will! It'd take more than an ocean to keep that lass
from Miathan, after he killed Forral, I'll wager she's on her way
back already—to settle with the Archmage, And when she does we'll
see a thing or two,"

"Parric! We're talking about the Magefolk!" Elewin protested. "It
won't be that easy!"

The Cavalrymaster sobered. "I know. That's why we need an army.
Aurian can't do it alone, just as we can't, without a Mage, But
together, maybe . . . Anyway, I must get back to Vannor with this
news." He hesitated, his expression thoughtful. "Elewin, why don't
you come with me? If we move elsewhere, you won't be needed here
as an informant, and it's dangerous for you to stay,"

Elewin shook his head, though he was sorely tempted. "I'd better
not. If I suddenly vanish, Elfseth and Bragar will get suspicious
and start searching for me, and that might put your people in
danger. And if you want to attack the Academy, you'll need someone
on the inside."

"But it could be ages before we can do that!" "It can't be helped,
I'll be all right. Besides, Miathan depends on me. To see him this
way—blind and crippled—oh, I know it's his own fault, but he seems
so helpless . . ."



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Parric clasped the other's arm, "Elewin, I know this is a trial
for your loyalties, and we're very grateful, but—"

"It's not just that! The balance of power is changing within the
Academy. Be warned, Parric. Eliseth is the one to beware of now,"

I

"I'll bear it in mind. Aurian always hated that bitch. Look, are
you sure you won't come?"

"I cannot."

Parric nodded. "All right. You're a brave man, Elewin—or daft.
Forral always said there wasn't much difference between the two.
Farewell, my friend. Our prayers go with you. Vannor will try to
get word to you from time to time."

"Vannor? What about you?"

"Me? Personally, I have a sudden hankering to head south. It's
warmer there!" The Cavalrymaster winked, and picking up his own
lantern, vanished into the shadows at the back of the cave,
leaving Elewin gaping in astonishment.

The sewers ran the length and breadth of the city, a democratic
highway connecting the grand and lofty Academy to even the meanest
of dwellings. Not the pleasantest of places to lie low, but there
was a certain satisfaction in being able to move around under the
very noses of the Magefolk, and it had been simplicity itself to
break through the thin stone barrier into the old part of the
Archives. The hole was hidden in a corner, where a spur of rock
formed a kink in the tunnel so that the opening was obscured by
the shadow of the jutting stone. Because of his slight stature,
Parric had been chosen as go-between. Holding his lantern out at
arm's length, he squeezed through the hole into the narrow drain
beyond. Luckily the current low population of the Academy, coupled
with the cold weather, had reduced the smell, but he still tried
to hold his breath. Given time, a man could get used to most
things, but there were limits!


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The cramped drain continued for some distance back beneath the
Academy's promontory before connecting with the main sewers. The
rusted stubs of an old inspection ladder protruded, sharp and
dangerous, from the wall, marking the junction. Parric hooked the
lantern to his belt and pulled on leather gauntlets to protect his
hands from the jagged iron, before he began, very carefully, to
climb. Any cuts or abrasions could be fatal down here—the chances
of infection were high. They had already lost two men; one to a
poisoned rat bite and the other to lockjaw.

AURIAN          •       463

The sewer was a tunnel of slick and rotting stone, with raised
walkways on either side of the stinking, sluggish channel. Parric
was glad that the water level was too low to reach the slanting
mouth of the drain. He had sometimes done this climb with all
manner of filth cascading down on him, and it was not an
experience he cared to repeat. Emerging from the mouth of the
drain, he made his way along the walkway to his makeshift raft.
Since the stream was low, he could use it to return. When the
torrent was in full spate, the journey had to be made via the
slimy, crumbling walkways, with the prospect of drowning in the
sewage-filled channel only a slip away. With the lantern that
swung from his belt providing the only light, Parric picked up the
paddle and began to make his way back through the network of
tunnels that led to the rebels' hideout,

Parric had almost reached his destination when he heard the first
harsh sounds of fighting. His heart lurched. Great Chathak, no! He
steered his raft into the side, his soldier's brain already
working out the odds. Who had betrayed them? No, that was for
later. How long since the attack had started? How many of the
enemy? They had the advantage of surprise, but they didn't know
these tunnels like Parric did! Once on the walkway, he
extinguished his lamp. While his eyes to adjusted to the darkness
he checked his throwing knives—one up each sleeve—and pulled a
long dagger from his boot. He left his sword sheathed. This was
knife work. With a grimace, he slipped over the side and began to
wade, thigh deep, up the stinking channel, gripping the edge "of


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the walkway to keep from slipping on the sludge that coated the
bottom.

Had Parric not wanted information, the guard would have died
instantly. As it was, she only had time to feel a hand come out of
nowhere to grip her ankle, before a quick jerk pitched her
headlong into the channel. Before the choking, panic-stricken
warrior could flounder to her feet, Parric was on her. He hauled
her up roughly, his knife against her throat. "How many of you?"
he growled, "Answer me!" He felt her stiffen against him.

"Great Chathak—I know that voice!" she exclaimed. "Parric—is it
really you?"

"Bloody right itjs! Now answer my question!"

I

I

"Parric, it's me—Sangra! Gods forgive us, they said you were dead!
Put that stupid knife away, so I can hug you."

The emotion in her voice was too intense to be feigned, and Parric
felt a surge of joy. Sangra was an old, old friend—a big, rowdy,
rawboned girl with assets that no fighting vest could contain. Ah,
the tumbles they had had in happier days! Grinning, Parric lowered
the knife, and managed to get in a quick grope before she turned
to face him.

"Now I bloody know it's you!" There were tears and laughter in her
voice as her arms went around him with a force that made his ribs
creak as they hugged, oblivious to the filth that coated them
both.

"Sangra, what's going on?" Parric disengaged himself reluctantly.

"The baker's son betrayed you—or Vannor, at least. We had no idea
that you were down here. Parric, are any of the others with you?"



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"Yes. Quite a few."

"Gods! I've got to warn our folk! We won't fight our own!"

"That's my girl! Come on—quick!"

The troops from the Garrison had Vannor's little force penned into
a cul-de-sac, and the fighting was fierce. The soldiers had
brought torches, but most had been extinguished in the battle, and
in the half darkness it was difficult to tell friend from foe.
Sangra knew, however. She and Parric joined the melee from the
rear and plunged into the fray. Parric, with his small stature,
found itrcasy to worm his way through the press of fighters. His
methods were straightforward. Anyone he recognized, he spared. Any
stranger felt the bite of his knife. Sangra, in the meantime, was
circulating, pausing to whisper to any of Forral's old troops that
she came across. The change in them was immediate. Relief and joy
shining on their faces, they turned their weapons on Angos's
vicious mercenaries.

It was over very quickly. Vannor's rebels, freed from the pressure
of the fight, were able to take the offensive, and the mercenaries
found themselves under attack from both sides. Parric managed to
break through to the merchant, to explain what had happened, and
before very long, joyous reunions were taking place between the
members of Forral's old band, over the bodies of the mercenary
dead.

AURIAN          •       465

If Vannor looked bewildered to discover that his little force had
doubled to some fifty-odd troops, he took it in stride, and when
Parric introduced Sangra, he greeted her with the utmost courtesy,
manfully ignoring the fact that she and the Cavalrymaster were in
an appalling state after their immersion in the sewer.

"If we'd known you were all down here," Sangra apologized, "we
would have joined you. We've had an awful time up there since
Angos brought his mercenaries in to augment our forces. But we
felt we had to stay. We thought Forral would expect it, because of


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our Oath of Loyalty to the city, and because we wanted to protect
the people from the worst deprada-tions of Angos and the
Magefolk." She looked at Parric. "What do we do now? Angos is
waiting with more soldiers at the mouth of the drain, and now he
knows you're here, we daren't stay."

"Go north," a decisive voice broke in. "It shouldn't be difficult
to get out of the city—Angos can't be watching all the drains. The
Nightrunners will take us in."

Vannor grimaced. "Dulsina, will you never stop organizing?"

The tall, dark-haired woman grinned at him. "Not while there's
breath in my body," she said cheerfully. "Besides, Zanna has been
missing you, despite the messages we managed to send. It's about
time you saw your daughter again."

"Wait a minute!" Parric interrupted. "You know the Nightrunners?
Enough to leave your,<daughter with them?" The Cavalrymaster
raised his eyes imploringly. "May the Gods give me strength . . .
Those bloody smugglers were a constant thorn in Forral's side. He
drove us all to distraction trying to discover where they were
hiding, and you knew all the time!"

Vannor winked. "How do you think I managed to make my fortune?"

Parric burst out laughing. "You villain! You were using them to
trade with the Southerners, for gems and silks and stuff, weren't
you?"

"A man has to get ahead somehow." The merchant shrugged. "Besides,
my criminal past is proving useful now. Come on, let's get going."

There were few casualties among the rebels. But as they
left the storm drains, Parric discovered the body of Tori,
floating facedown in the sewer with a knife in his back. He
sighed. Miserable as the old man had been, he'd been a good friend
to the rebels. Still, it was better this way. At least he would
never know that his own son had betrayed him. Or would he? On
closer inspection, Parric saw that the knife was not a soldier's


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dagger, but a long, saw-edged domestic blade—the sort that a baker
might use.

The rebels decided to use the sewers to make their way across the
city, then travel downriver to Norberth, following Aurian's route.
Once there, they could contact one of Yanis's agents, who would
arrange a ship to take them to the smugglers' hideout. It was a
nightmare journey. Vannor's band were used to negotiating the
slick walkways, but the new additions had a difficult time of it.
Every few minutes, there would be a splash followed by curses, as
someone fell into the channel, and had to be rescued. Though the
troopers made light of it, Parric was concerned. He knew all too
well the chances of losing some of their band to the diseases that
proliferated in this place.

As they passed the drain that connected with the Academy
catacombs, Parric heaved a sigh of relief. Not much farther now to
the outfall and blessed fresh air. He was getting twitchy,
bringing up the rear as he was. His instincts, developed over many
years, were telling him that he was being followed. Nonsense, he
told himself. Angos couldn't track us through that maze of
tunnels! But it was no good. Unable to stand it any longer, he
dropped back.

"Got you!" The cloaked figure, though tall, was slimly built, and
no warrior. Parric had no trouble subduing him, and at least the
fellow seemed to be alone. Then to his astonishment, a series of
shrieks came from the muffled figure. Without a doubt, his captive
was a woman! He was about to rip the hood aside when he heard the
sound of footsteps hurrying too fast for safety on the slimy
walkway, and Elewin appeared, carrying a lantern. His face broke
into a smile of pure relief at the sight of Parric's captive.

"Thank the Gods you've found her!" Elewin exclaimed.

"Found who?" In the light of the lantern, Parric removed the
woman's hood—and gasped. "Lady Meiriel!"

AURIAN          '       467



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The Magewoman spat in his face. "Take your hands off me!"

"What's going on?" Vannor, accompanied by Sangra and Dulsina, came
hurrying up. "Parric! We thought we'd lost you—" His eyes widened
at the sight of Meiriel. "What's she doing here?"

"Mind your own business, Mortal!"

"She escaped from the Academy." The Mage and Elewin spoke
simultaneously, then turned to glare at one another.

"You say she escaped?" Vannor's eyes flicked from Elewin to
Meiriel. "Would someone care to explain?"

"It's simple," the Healer said coldly. "I couldn't Heal Miathan's
eyes, so that bitch Eliseth locked me up—"

Parric pounced on her words. "Couldn't—or wouldn't?"

Meiriel spared him a haughty glance. "His eyes were utterly
destroyed. But even if I could have Healed him, I would not have
done it. Not after his creatures murdered my Finbarr!" Her voice
was thick with hate. "Anyway, I managed to escape tonight. I
followed Elewin, and heard what he told you, about Aurian being
alive. I must find her—"

"She's a/ive? Why the blazes didn't you tell me?" Vannor turned on
Parric.

"There wasn't time," he protested, "with the fight—"

"Fight?" Now it was Elewin's turn to interrupt.

Vannor nodded. "We've been betrayed," he explained.

"You two must come with us," Parric put in. "You can't stay here
now, Elewin, and it isn't safe to leave her behind."

"Just a minute." Vannor confronted Meiriel. "Why do you have to
find Aurian?"


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"She needs my help," the Magewoman replied. "Miathan put a curse
on the child. She's carrying a monster—"

"What!" Parric exploded. "The bastard! I'll kill him!"

"Steady, Parric." It took all of Vannor's strength to restrain his
friend from starting back up the tunnel. "This is not the time. We
need to get away to safety before we can deal with this."

They set off to join the other rebels at the sewer outfall, Sangra
leading the way with Parric, who was still beside himself with
rage and grief. Dulsina took Meiriel into her charge. As they
walked, Elewjjxjdrew Vannor back, out of earshot of the

others. "Listen," he said, "Lady Meiriel may be telling the truth,
but I'd caution you to take care. She may seem lucid now —but
since Finbarr's death she has been completely deranged. You're
dealing with a madwoman, Vannor. Whatever you do, don't trust
her."

Lxhapter              3o

RAVEN

he Prince and his followers broke camp at sundown, pausing only
for a quick bite of food before setting off again across the
desert. Though the moon had not yet risen, there was plenty of
light. The gem sands burned and twinkled in a multiplicity of
crystal hues, holding the sunset glow long after it had left the
sky. Wisps of sand, drifted gently across the ground by the errant
night breeze, crossed their path like roaming wildfire beneath the
stars. Aurian was strangely silent and preoccupied, and Anvar,
riding by her side, was marveling at the surety with which Yazour
seemed to find his way in this featureless land. Moved by boredom
and curiosity, he rode forward to ask him how it was done.

Anvar caught the flash of Yazour's smile beneath his veils. "Ah,"
he said. "It is the magic of my people. The desert is bred into
our blood, over endless generations ..." He laughed. "My friend,


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I'm teasing. There are ways, to be sure—the lie of the land, the
drift of the dunes in the prevailing wind—but mostly I navigate by
the stars!"

Anvar grimaced. "I never thought of that! I suppose it's because
the stars are so different here."

Yazour's eyebrows rose. "The stars are different? How strange!
Tell me, Anvar, are all things different in your northern home?
What is it like there?"

Anvar smiled, liking this young man, and wondered where to start.
But he never got to reply, for at that moment, his horse gave a
scream of pain and lurched over, stumbling and floundering in the
soft gem dust. Anvar was thrown abruptly forward, struggling to
keep his balance and his hold on the reins. Yazour cursed
viciously and grabbed at his bridle, steadying the plunging mare
and bringing her to a halt as Anvar slid down. The animal was
trembling, the tip of one hind hoof barely touching the ground.

"Blood of the Reaper! It's lame!" Yazour was examining the
flinching hoof. The horror on his face went far beyond the
exingencies of the situation.

"What's wrong?" Harihn's voice came harshly from above their heads
as he pulled up his stallion beside them.

Yazour looked grim. "Anvar's mount has been hurt."

Harihn shrugged. "A pity," he said coolly. "You know what to do,
in that case."

"But Your Highness—"

"See to it, Yazour!"

The warrior sighed. "My sorrow, Anvar," he said softly. "If there
were only some other way—"

"What do you mean?" Anvar was alarmed by the way Yazour was


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looking at him. As though he were already dead . . .

"It is the Desert Law." Harihn's voice was cold and remorseless.
"We have no spare horses—the last went to those friends your
Aurian insisted on bringing. Because we carry so little water, we
cannot allow you to delay our progress to the next oasis. The
Desert Law states that you must be left behind."

"What did you say?" No one had seen Aurian approach. Her hand was
on the hilt of her sword. She pushed back her veils, and her eyes
glinted with a fey, steely light as she advanced on Harihn. "If
you think I'll let you leave Anvar here to die, then think again,
Prince."

"Lady, stay out of this. There can be no exceptions to the Law!"
Harihn beckoned, and a ring of soldiers materialized around the
Mage, their crossbows cocked and poised. "Will you fight my entire
army for the sake of one man?" the Prince asked softly. Aurian's
cold eyes blazed. "Don't make the mistake of threatening me," she
growled. Shia, at her side, punctuated her words with a menacing
snarl. The Mage pointed a finger at the Prince. "I could strike
you down before those bolts had time to reach me. Would you care
to reconsider?"

"Lower those weapons!" Yazour snapped. The troops, schooled to a
man, obeyed their captain instantly.

"How dare you!" Harihn spat.

"He has more sense than you," Aurian said, dismounting.

"I'm sure we can solve this problem without violence, Harihn.
Anvar, let me see your horse."

Anvar held the horse while the Mage, frowning with concentration,
knelt to examine the injured hoof. "Hmm," she murmured softly,
"nothing to see—but what's this?"


As Anvar watched, her hands began to glow with a faint, violet-


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blue nimbus that extended over the foot of his mare. The Mage's
concentration was so intense that it seemed to spread outward,
affecting all the watchers. No one stirred, or made the slightest
sound. Just as the tension reached unbearable proportions, there
was a grating sound and something slid out of the soft, sensitive
sole of the hoof and into the Mage's hand. "There," Aurian crooned
to the mare. "That's better. Now to fix the damage . . ." The aura
flared, then vanished. Aurian straightened, mopping her brow, as
the horse set its hoof to the ground, lightly at first, then with
increasing confidence.

A murmur went through the assembled soldiers. Aurian was examining
something in her hand, her face suffused with rage. She held it
out for Yazour's inspection. On her palm lay a small sliver of
metal. "The point of a dagger, if I'm not mistaken," she said
grimly. "It had been driven into the hoof, and every time the
horse stepped on it—The poor creature must have been in agony!
Whoever did it knew that with his horse disabled, Anvar would be
left here to die. This was no accident —it was attempted murder!"

Yazour's face was livid. "My apologies, Anvar, that this was
allowed to happen. I swear the culprit will be found—and punished.
Are you all right, Lady?"

"I'm fine." Aurian was swaying on her feet.

"Let me help you." Yazour assisted the Mage back onto her horse,
and she turned to Anvar, her expression troubled.

"Stay close," she told him. "Until we know who did this, we can't
take any chances. I'll get Bohan to act as bodyguard." She whirled
her horse expertly on its hind legs, throwing up a luminous cloud
of the scintillating dust, and was gone, calling for the eunuch as
she went.

Harihn laughed scornfully. "Bodyguard, indeed! You need a wet
nurse, Anvar. You should have remained a slave—or a eunuch! No man
spends his life hiding behind a woman's skirts!"

"Why, you . . ." Anvar leapt toward Harihn, ready to tear him from


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the saddle and rearrange his too handsome face. He was brought up
short by Yazour hauling on his arm.

"No, Anvar!" Yaaeur said urgently. "He wants you to at-
tack him! If you threaten the Prince, his soldiers will seize you,
and not even your Lady herself could help you then."

Anvar forced himself to breathe deeply, though he was trembling
with rage. He looked Harihn straight in the eye. "Another time,"
he growled. Then turning his back on the Prince, he mounted his
horse.

Harihn's comments rankled. Anvar rode beside Bohan, isolated
behind a barrier of rage. As his horse's stride ate up the miles,
so his anger fed upon itself. It was too much. It was too bloody
much! Would he never be master of his own fate? First a servant,
then a slave, and now, it seemed, less than nothing! And because
he had finally acknowledged his debt to Aurian, it was humiliating
that he should be forced to depend on her so much. For the Gods'
sake, he had promised Vannor that he would look after her\ What a
joke that had turned out to be! His furious thoughts chased in
circles, as he rode through the night.

"Anvar?"

So preoccupied was he that Anvar had missed Yazour's call to halt
for the day. He looked up to see Aurian, slumped in the saddle,
pulling back her veil from a face that was chalk-white, He knew
that, due to her pregnancy, her magic was taking a greater and
greater toll on her strength, and her weariness was due to the
Healing of his horse. Gray guilt joined the red haze of anger in
his mind. "Lady, let me help you." Dismounting quickly, he went to
her side. At least I can fulfill a servant's tasks, he thought
bitterly.

"It's all right." Aurian slid to the ground, ignoring his
outstretched hand.

Anvar gritted his teeth and seized her horse's reins. "I'll take
care of this. You go and rest."


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"I can manage." She tried to take the reins, but he snatched them
angrily away.

"I said I'll do it!"

"What on earth's the matter?" The Mage had taken a step backward,
her eyes wide with astonishment.

"Nothing! I'm the bloody servant, aren't I? So I'll take care of
the horse! It's all that people seem to think I'm fit for."

The Mage stared at him, her lips set in a^thin line, and
beckoned Bohan across. "Bohan, would you see to the horses,
please? I need to talk to Anvar."

The eunuch led the animals away. Aurian walked off with Shia at
her heels, plainly expecting Anvar to follow. For some reason,
that infuriated him even more.

Harihn's men had just finished setting up their tent. Aurian led
Anvar inside. "Now," she said. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Anvar exploded. "Where shall I start?"

"Why not start with what made you so angry?" Her calm manner only
made things worse, when he wanted a good blazing fight to work off
his anger. "All right!" he yelled. "If you want to know, I'm sick
of being rescued by you! I'm not stupid, or feeble, or
incompetent. I'm a man as good as any other, but you make me less
than a man."

"But Anvar," Aurian protested, "what could I do? I couldn't let
you die in the slave camp. I had to use my powers again today to
stop Harihn abandoning you. Would you rather—"

"That's just it!" Anvar jumped on her words. "Your powers! Your
accursed Magefolk powers! Well, let me tell you. Lady —/ had
powers, too! There's Mage blood in my veins, but Miathan stole my
powers and turned me into a servant!"


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Anvar was so carried away by his wrath that he didn't see Aurian's
stunned expression. He failed to notice that for the first time,
Miathan's silencing spell had failed. At the thought of the
Archmage, the rage and resentment that he had been forced to
suppress for so long erupted beyond controlling. All Anvar could
see was Miathan—Miathan, smug and gloating—and around his wrinkled
neck hung the crystal that contained his powers, while he groveled
on the floor in agony. It was so real—so real!

Dear Gods—it was real! Anvar's vision streaked and blurred, as
though he were standing still while the world flashed past, too
fast for his eyes to register. From far away, he seemed to hear
Aurian's voice. "Anvar, no!" Then the world whirled and settled,
and he found himself in a dimly lit room— with Miathan before him,
asleep in bed, his eyes bound with a white cloth, and around his
neck, twinkling softly in the lamplight, the crystal. Unable to
help himself, Anvar reached out for the beautiful thing f .*,

. . And there was a blinding flash of multicolored brilliance—a
fierce, hot joyful force engulfed his body—he was in the
crystal—the crystal was in him—the crystal was him!

Miathan gave a shriek of rage—of pain—of tearing lose. Anvar fled;
the world flashed past him again in a blur of dizzy color; but the
Archmage, not old, not blind now but powerful and strong, was
pursuing like a great, black dragon formed from men's deepest
terrors. The force of his rage was hot on Anvar's heels as he
fled—where? How could he find his way back? Miathan drew nearer .
. . nearer . . . Then suddenly a great glowing force like a spear
of light shot past Anvar. It ploughed into the Archmage, knocking
him back, down, away . . .

"Follow!" Anvar heard Aurian's voice and followed her gleaming
light with relief, until, with a soundless explosion and a
wrenching jolt, he found himself sprawled on the floor of the
tent.

Aurian lay nearby. Her eyes flicked open—and skewered him to the
spot. Anvar braced himself to meet her gaze. Anger he found there,


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and confusion, and worst of all, a sick, sinking fear for his
safety that was entwined with the memory of an older, greater
grief. It was as though her eyes were forest pools, and he could
see her thoughts moving like elusive fish beneath the surface.

"What have you done?" Aurian whispered. "How could you do it?"

Anvar could not repi^s. He felt oddly elsewhere, as though a
fathomless space surrounded him in place of the close silken walls
of the tent. A space into which he might so easily fall

. The floor seemed to ripple and melt beneath him, and he seized
the Mage's hand in panic.

Aurian sat up, peering at him intently. "Close your eyes," she
said, her tones suddenly crisp and businesslike. "Concentrate on
your body. You came back too quickly, and you aren't quite with
yourself. Feel your body, Anvar. Feel your heart beating, the
solid ground beneath you, the heat of the tent on your skin ..."
She leaned forward until her face was close to his own.

Anvar looked into the green depths of her eyes, saw the long,
curling sweep of her lashes, the clean arch of her brows,

the proud, chiseled sculpting of her high cheekbones and jutting
nose. Gem dust glittered like a starfall in the slumbering fire of
her hair, and he had a sudden, vivid memory of her standing on the
Tower stairs on a long-ago Solstice morn, her head crowned with
snowflake diamonds.

"Think of your body—not mine!" Aurian said tartly.

Anvar blushed. He had not considered that she might see his
thoughts as clearly as he could see hers. "It's all right, I feel
better now." He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Good," she snapped, "because you've some explaining to do."

Just then Bohan entered, his eyes screwed up against the growing
glare outside. He carried their food and water, his expression


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reproaching them for their forgetfulness.

"Bohan, what would we do without you?" Aurian said. The eunuch's
face was alight with pleasure as he left.

"Eat," Aurian urged Anvar. "Traveling out of your body uses a lot
of energy,"

Anvar found he was trembling, and took a hasty bite out of a strip
of dried meat. "Is that what I did?"

Aurian sighed. "Yes, Anvar," she said with labored patience. "That
is what you did. Now in the name of all the Gods, will you please
tell me what's going on?"

At the reminder of his narrow escape from the Archmage, Anvar
froze, "He—he couldn't follow us, could he?"

"No." Aurian spoke reassuringly. "I hit him too hard. It'll take
him a while to find his body again. I wish I could have finished
him, but when we are out of our bodies, we're on another level of
reality. A Mage can be trapped there if his body is destroyed in
his absence, but he can't be killed. Anyway, forget Miathan. Let's
talk about you."

In a voice that shook                     with emotion, Anvar told her of Ria's death,
which had resulted in                     the discovery of his powers. He went on to
describe what Miathan                     had done to him, and ended with his escape
from the kitchens and                     his meeting with Aurian at the Garrison.

The Mage was staring at him openmouthed. "That's monstrous!"
Aurian struck the floor with her fist. She looked utterly shaken.
"How could Miathan have done such a thing! If only I'd known. If
only yov*-c«uld have told me!"

Anvar shrugged. "I probably wouldn't have. I didn't trust you
then. I thought you were like the others, and in league with
Miathan. I know better now." He swallowed hard.

"I'd like to know how you broke Miathan's spell." Aurian was


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suddenly all practicality again. "And also, what happened when
you—went off like that!"

"I can answer the second part." And he told her what he had done.

"You took your powers back?" Aurian looked thundecj struck. "No
wonder Miathan was furious!" She snapped fingers. "Furious! Of
course! Anvar, I've just worked out hoi you did it. In order for a
spell like the one that Miathan laid you to work, you had to
believe you would suffer if you said anything. Today you were so
angry that it blinded you to the consequences—and your rage gave
you the impetus you needed to break free!"

Anvar was appalled. "Do you mean," he said slowly, "that I brought
that suffering on myself all those years?"

"Of course not. Your acceptance was only part of the spell. If you
had still been within Miathan's vicinity, I doubt you would ever
have won free. But he is far away, and his power must have been
weakened by my attack on him. That and your anger gave you the
opening, and your powers drew you back to them." She fell silent,
staring at him as though he were a stranger. "I still can't
believe it, Anvar. You, a Mage."

"Does it make that much difference?" It came out sharper than he'd
intended—and Anvar realized that he was afraid, mortally afraid,
that she would react as Miathan had done, and see him as some kind
of monster.

"No!" Aurian's denial was swift and indignant—then she looked
away. "Yes," she sighed. "I—I can't believe it, Anvar— you . . .
His son . . ."

"Don't ever say that!" Anvar snarled. "I'm not Miathan's son, and
never will be! My mother was one of the Mortals he despised. You
know what he did to me—to you and Forral. Do you think I could
ever be like him?"

Aurian glanced away from him, shamefaced. "Fool that I am!" she
said at last. "You're right—oh Gods, you're right! You could never


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be capable of Miathan's evil. You were as much a

victim as Forral and I." She held out her hand to him. Can you
ever forgive me, Anvar?"

Weak with relief, Anvar                       took her proffered hand. "My own dear
Lady! I don't ever want                       to become a Mage like Miathan, but I'm not
afraid to become a Mage                       like you. On the contrary, I hope I will.
That is, if you'd teach                       me?"

"Me?" Her eyes sparkled with delight.

"Well, I must admit, I'm a bit stuck for choice . . ."

"Why, you-—" Aurian burst out indignantly—and Anvar grinned.
Aurian broke into peals of mirth. "Wretch!" she jrowled. "I can
see that this will take some getting used to. I fwould be proud to
teach you, my friend, if you're sure you really want me."

"Of course I do. Of all the Magefolk, you're the only one I'd ever
choose."

After that momentous day, their journey settled into a regular
pattern. Anvar and Aurian continued to share a tent through the
daylight hours with Shia, who guarded their privacy while the Mage
began to teach Anvar how to use and control his power. Now that
Aurian's pregnancy was well into its fourth month, they knew their
time was short. There would be a limit to the theory she could
teach him when she could not demonstrate it herself. Their first
task was determining where Anvar's talents lay, and Aurian was
amazed to discover that he too had powers that crossed the whole
spectrum of magic, though his strengths and weaknesses-seemed to
lie in different areas from her own. While her dominant talents
lay in the domains of Fire and Earth—not surprising, with her
parentage —Anvar found these harder to master. But he excelled at
Air-magic, and Aurian suspected that when they had more water
available for manipulation, he would be adept at Water-magic, too.
Since these two domains naturally combined to produce Weather-
magic, it seemed that Eliseth might eventually find herself with
some competition. But that was for the future. Anvar was a raw


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beginner, and he had a long way to go.

Each day, through the daylight hours when the rest of the camp
slept, Aurian would drill him mercilessly until they were both
exhausted. During her time at the Garrison, Parric had taught the
Mage thejjj^k of snatching valuable sleep whilst on
horseback, and this too she taught to Anvar. They spent their
nightly journeys riding in a light doze, secure in the knowledge
that the horses would remain with their companions. It earned them
a good deal of teasing from Yazour, Eliizar, and particularly
Nereni, but they soon learned to play up to the ribald
speculations about their activities during the rest periods. It
was safer than letting out the secret of Anvar's newfound powers.

One by one, the glittering nights and dazzling days ticked by,
like bright beads strung on a thread of travel. Yazour, to his
frustration, had come no nearer to finding the would-be assassin,
but, perhaps due to his increased vigilance, there were no further
attempts on Anvar's life. They saw little of Hanhn. As the miles
increased between the Prince and his kingdom, he grew more aloof
and shorter of temper, and most of his people were content to give
him a wide berth. But at least he left Aurian and Anvar alone, and
they were glad, though Aurian often wished that she could talk
with him, and perhaps ease his mind. She knew how it felt to be
exiled, and understood that he must be regretting his decision to
relinquish his throne. She often found herself wondering what the
future held for him.

Anvar, however, had his own ideas about the cause of the Khisal's
fey mood. From certain veiled comments that Harihn had made, and
from the way his eyes tended to linger specula-tively on Aurian,
and coldly on himself, Anvar began to suspect that his news about
Sara's barrenness had caused a change of heart in the Prince. In
short—he was thinking of returning to claim his throne, and he
needed Aurian's help to win it. Unaccustomed to thinking of women
as having free will, he saw Anvar as the main obstacle to his
plan. Though he had no actual proof, Anvar began to have a fair
suspicion that Harihn had been the one who had lamed his horse.
Who else could have passed Yazour's guards unchallenged? The two
Magefolk were heavily outnumbered, however, and still in need of


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the Khisal's help to survive the desert crossing. Anvar kept his
thoughts to himself, but as the journey continued, he remained
constantly on his guard, well aware that the farther they went,
the more likely Harihn was to make another attempt on his life.

Yazour guided them well, steering an unerring course along the
ancient route that crossed the desert from oasis to

oasis. Every two or three nights, a ragged outcrop of rocks would
be seen in the distance, emerging from the mantle of gem dust, and
the horses and mules would snort eagerly, picking up their pace as
they scented water ahead. The Prince and his followers would camp
beside a stony basin that cradled a sweet pool formed by springs
originating deep within the ridge that stretched, according to
Yazour, right across the desert like a knobbly spine, most of
which was buried beneath the jeweled sands. Each life-giving
source of water had a name, and he taught the Mages to recite them
in order, something that his people learned in infancy. They
encountered the first, Abala, on the third night of their trek,
and this was followed by Ciphala, Biabeh, Tuvar, Yezbeh, and
Ecchith, which would approximately mark the halfway point of their
journey. Fair Dhiam-mara followed, then Varizh, Efchar, Zorbeh,
Orbah—and finally, Aramizal.

"Wait until we reach Dhiammara!" Yazour smiled at the Mages.
"That, to my mind, is the most spectacular sight in the desert,
and well worth this hard journey to see."

"Romantic nonsense!" scoffed Eliizar, who had traveled the desert
regularly in his youth. "The fairest oasis in this waste is Aram
izal—because you begin the final step of the journey, and can see
the mountains of the Winged Folk rising in the distance to mark
the end of the desert."

"Winged Folk, indeed!" Yazour scoffed. "And you call me romantic!
You might as well expect to see a dragon!"

"Nonetheless," Eliizar insisted, "they exist. Their citadel is
high in the inaccessible peaks, where men cannot climb."



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"How do you know it's there, then?" Yazour countered.

"It is there," Aurian interrupted, surprising them both. "I have
it on the best authority." She smiled, remembering her friend the
Leviathan, and looked dreamily away to the north, as though trying
to see across the intervening miles to the soaring lands of the
Skyfolk.

Aerillia, the city of the Winged Folk, was carved out of the
highest peak of the northern mountain range. The palace, an airy
confection of hanging turrets and terraces, was situated on, and
within, the topmost pinnacle, and Raven's tower room commanded a
breathtaking view over the entire city. She was
looking out of the window now, gazing over the snowy crags below
at the lights that twinkled sharply in the clear icy air. Her
shoulders were slumped in dejection, causing her great wings to
droop, their glossy, iridescent black tips trailing unheeded on
the floor.

"Raven?"

The Princess spun round, scowling. "Go away, Mother! I refuse to
marry the High Priest, and that is my final word on the matter."

"It is not!" Grief and strain had etched new lines on Flamewing's
face, but the Queen's voice still carried its customary ring of
authority. She paced the small circular room, her red-gold wings
rustling, her expression defensive and angry. "You will do as
you're bid," she told her daughter. "You are a Princess of the
Blood Royal, Raven, daughter of a Queen. You were brought up to
recognize that you have responsibilities to your people and to the
throne—one of them being that you must marry to advantage—"

"Whose advantage?" Raven cried. "Mine? Yours? If I marry that
corrupt old monster, who will really benefit? He will, and that's
all! He can do nothing to help us, Mother. He's deceiving you, and
all our people. He has no influence with the Sky God. Have his
sacrifices made any difference? All those lives—the lives of our
people, which we swore to protect— wasted, and still this dread
and untimely winter is upon us. And now his price for our


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salvation is my hand. Which coinci-dentally will put him up an
unassailable position of power. GUI you not see that he's a fraud?
How can you be so dense?"

"How dare you!" The sound of the blow seemed to echo in the
silence that followed.

Raven staggered, horrified, her hand pressed to her fact and tears
in her great, dark eyes. Never before had Flamewing raised her
hand to her beloved daughter. "Mother, please." Her voice was
little more than a whisper. "You know the way of our people. We
mate for life. If I wed Blacktalon, I will spend the rest of my
days in misery with someone I fear and loathe. Though princesses
must marry suitably, never has one been asked to submit to this. I
beg you, do not force me to marry him. He is evil, I know it."

Flamewing sighed. "Child, never in our history since the

AURIAN          '       481

Cataclysm have we suffered peril like this. Never has there been
such sudden and intense cold. Nothing will grow on our terraces.
All the animals are dead, or have left for warmer climes. This
winter kills everything it touches. Blacktalon's intercession is
our only hope. Our people are dying, Raven! I am more sorry than I
can ever say, but I have no choice. Tomorrow you will wed
Blacktalon, and that's an end to it. Now—he wishes to speak with
you, and you will be civil to him. Your people need you, Raven.
You were brought up as a Princess—now you must act like one!" She
swept quickly out of the room, as though the sight of her daughter
together with the High Priest was more than she could bear.

Blacktalon's head was bald, and painted all over with arcane
designs and magical symbols. His face was haggard and cruel, with
its hooked nose and burning, fanatic's eyes. His wing feathers
were a dull and dusty black, and his robes matched their color
exactly. His arrogance in the presence of a royal princess was so
obnoxious that Raven wanted to strike him. "I have come to make my
felicitations to my bride on the eve of her wedding," he said,
leering. "How lovely you look, my dear. I can hardly wait." He


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reached out greedy hands to touch her.

Raven backed away hastily, drawing her dagger. "Get away from me!"
she spat. "I'd rather die than marry you, you filthy old vulture!"

„ The High Priest smiled, but there was no humor in his face.
"Lovely," he said. "Such a little spitfire! How glad I am that you
feel this way. It will make your conquest all the more enjoyable."

"Don't count on it," Raven retorted through gritted teeth.

"Oh, but I do, my dear. Once you are mine, a few sound thrashings
will soon take the edge off your temper!"

Raven gasped. "You would never dare!"

"I would hardly dare offer violence to the Princess, no."
Blacktalon shrugged. "How I chastise my mate, however, is my own
affair—as you will discover. Pleasant dreams, my little bride.
Sleep well—while you have the chance!"

After Blacktalon had left, Raven wasted few minutes in weeping.
Time had suddenly become too precious for that, for she knew now
that her only hope lay in escape. It took her
about an hour of pacing back and forth behind her locked door to
formulate her plans. She knew it would never occur to them that
she might run away. The Winged Folk were prohibited by an ancient
law from leaving their mountain kingdom. Raven had often wondered
why, but no one seemed able, or willing, to tell her the answer.
But if anyone should leave, they were automatically condemned to
death should they ever try to return, and the prohibition was so
ingrained that no one from the winged race would normally even
consider the notion. The very thought of what she was about to do
set Raven's hands shaking so much that her preparations took twice
as long as they should have done.

"I have no alternative," Raven told herself firmly, as she put
bread and meat from her uneaten supper into a small bag which tied
to her belt, and fished her crossbow out from its hiding place
under the bed. She braided her unruly cloud of fine, dark hair and


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dressed in her flying clothes—a black leather kilted tunic that
left her limbs free for easy movement and leather sandals with
thongs that cross-tied to her knees. She decided not to bother
with anything else. Raven's race was impervious to normal cold,
and she hoped to move quickly away from the chill of this
unnatural winter. Thrusting her dagger into her belt, she went to
the window. Launching herself from the sill would cause her no
problems. She had been doing it since childhood, when she had
first discovered the lure of unauthorized flights. For once, she
was glad that her mother had insisted that she .lake her share of
the tedious burden of palace administration. She knew the position
of every sentry in the city and, more important, how they might be
avoided.

Another of the unpredictable blizzards had blown up, and Raven
flinched at the violence of the storm outside. But though it was
folly, she would have to set out now, or not at all. If she should
be caught, the consequences did not bear thinking about. As she
climbed onto the windowsill Raven hesitated, overcome by the
magnitude of the step she was about to take. If her mother had
been right after all, she was betraying her entire race.
Furthermore, if she left the mountains her life would be forfeit.
There could be no returning. Thoughtfully, she touched the side of
her face, where the imprint of her mother's hand still burned, and
remembered the cruelty in Blacktalon's eyes. That

AUR1AN          '       483

was enough. Taking a deep breath, Raven leapt from the sill and
spread her great dark wings, catching the air beneath them to halt
her plummeting fall. Swooping round the shadowed side of the
pinnacle-palace like a hunting bat, she launched herself away from
her home and the lands of her people.

Flying in the teeth of the blizzard was even worse than she had
imagined. Visibility was poor to nonexistent in the whirling white
cloud. The strong wind gusted and eddied, buffeting her
mercilessly, and on several occasions, almost hurling her
violently against the walls of the city's delicately wrought
towers. If she'd had time to spare for thinking, Raven might have


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comforted herself with the thought that her escape must certainly
go undetected, but it was taking every scrap of her concentration
merely to stay airborne and to avoid crashing into obstacles. Her
sense of direction was hopelessly confused, and she could only
pray that she was keeping a level line of flight and, more
important, not going round in a circle that would eventually
return her to the city—and Blacktalon,

Raven was chilled to the bone. It was an unfamiliar sensation and
decidedly unpleasant, as well as frightening. Her ears and teeth
ached from the wind's bite, and her wings felt stiff and slow to
respond. Even her mind was becoming sluggish and confused. How
long had she been flying? Why was she all alone in this lethal
storm? Where had she come from, and where was she going? How much
longer could her aching wings keep her aloft?

Suddenly Raven's left foot hit something hard and jagged, It was
caught and wrenched, throwing her forward, off balance. She rolled
helplessly head over heels in a tangle of flailing limbs and
thrashing wings, bruising herself on icy rocks as she slithered to
an undignified halt, upside down in a snowdrift. Too battered and
shaken to do anything else, she burst into tears.

Hours later, Raven opened her eyes. For a moment fear obscured her
thoughts, but she was not the daughter of a Queen for nothing. She
breathed deeply, forcing herself to be calm, and took stock of her
surroundings. There was little to see. Her aching body was crammed
into a narrow crevice between some rocks, and a barrier of drifted
snow obscured the opening. Gradually her mind returned to the
previous night, and she shuddered at her narrow escape from death.
She had crashed

right into the mountain. Hesitantly she uncurled herself to
examine her injured foot, afraid of what she might find. It was
bad enough. The lacings of her sandal cut into the swollen flesh,
and it was badly bruised and torn. Gritting her teeth against
the pain, she melted snow in her hands to clean the abrasions.
Snow might reduce the swelling too, and she would not be
helpless as long as she could fly ...



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Raven gasped, remembering her fell among the rocks as she had
landed. Her wings . . . There was no room to move them in the
crevice. With frantic haste she began to dig her way out, scooping
great chunks of deep-piled snow aside with her arms. Dimly now,
she remembered crawling into the niche, instinctively seeking
shelter from the storm. The way out seemed farther than she
recalled, but at last the final inches of the snow wall collapsed
beneath her determined assault, and she burst into the open.

Using the rocks for support Raven hauled herself up, wincing as
her injured foot touched the ground. It would be of little use for
a while, but her wings were her chief concern. Leaning on the
rocks for balance, she extended the once glossy black spans. They
were stiff, but there was no pain and seemingly little damage.
She'd lost some feathers, her plumage was battered and bedraggled
now, but the snow had broken the worst of her fall. "Well, there
is only one way to find out!" Taking a deep breath she launched
herself upward as best she could with one leg injured. She
overbalanced and almost went sprawling, but to her relief, her
wings took her weight and she began to beat steadily upward. Now
that her main worry had been quelled, she would need to look
around her and decide what to

do next.

The sky was an absolute joy after looking so long at nothing but
gray clouds. Raven reveled in the soft rose, the delicate green,
the translucent blues and dazzling gold of the sunset. For a time
she was too captivated by its beauty to look down, but when at
last the colors faded from the sky, she was astounded to find them
echoed on the earth beneath! For a moment her head whirled with
disorientation, but when she looked directly below her, she could
see the plateau from which she had taken off. Why, she had landed
on the very last of the mountains. As its slopes descended, the
snow cover thinned and eventually van-

AURIAN          •       485

ished, leaving dark tumbled rocks stretching down to a dark and
sinister forest below. Beyond, the rippling sea of sunset hues


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extended as far as she could see. Raven caught her breath. She'd
come south, then, and this was the legendary jeweled desert!

The winged girl returned to the plateau to rest. She tired easily
after the night's exertions, and she needed to think—and eat.
Having no experience of journeying, she attacked the contents of
her bag voraciously, with no thought of where her next meal might
come from. As she ate, she considered her next step. Raven had
left the palace with no idea of where she might go, or how she was
to live.

For the first time, Raven was truly afraid. What if the folk out
here were like Blacktalon or worse? But the thought of the High
Priest and the fate that awaited her was enough to steel her
resolve. She would have to find help, however. Raven was a
pampered Princess, and she had sense enough to realize that she
had no notion of how to survive alone. Besides, she told herself,
if they threaten me, I can always fly away again. The question of
where to go was easily decided. She could not return north. They
would be hunting for her now. The thought of pursuit made her
shudder. It was essential that she go immediately. South, away
from the mountains of her birth. The sparkling sands seemed to
provide enough light for her to travel by night. Taking a deep
breath, Raven flexed her wings and launched into the air—heading
south, across the glowing desert,

CKapter             31

DHI AMM AR A

ehold, fair Dhiammara!"

____ "You're joking!" Aurian turned to Yazour in patent disbelief.
By the eighteenth night of the journey, the desert's beauty had
begun to pall. The gem dust got everywhere— in her hair, her
throat, even inside her clothes—and because the oases they had
visited were needed for vital drinking water, bathing had been
forbidden. The Mage felt unspeakably filthy, and she itched. Her
babe stole the nourishment from her slender rations, leaving her
constantly ravenous, even though Bohan and Anvar always forced


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some of their food upon her. The intensive teaching sessions with
Anvar had deprived them both of much-needed sleep and she felt
tired and short-tempered, her eyes gritty and stinging from the
dazzle of the sands. She was definitely not in the mood for jokes.

Aurian slowed her horse, lifting the veil from her eyes, and
squinted against the glare. Silhouetted against the moon-bright
sky, the solitary mountain loomed impossibly high. Its top was
oddly truncated, as if it had been lopped off by some gargantuan
sword, and the sheer sides gleamed with a mirror brightness, as
though polished. The structure showed no signs of weathering, and
that too, in this place of scouring sandstorms, was absolutely
impossible.

"That can't be a natural formation!" Aurian accused.

"I agree, though no one knows its history," Yazour replied. "Close
up, its scale is staggering. It may look enormous now, but
distance is deceptive in the desert."

He was right, Aurian discovered. It took several hours' hard
riding to reach the towering peak, and by the time they approached
its sheer walls the horizon was growing pale. The mountain was
immense, its size exaggerated further by the fact that the land
did not rise gradually toward it. The slender cone erupted cleanly
from the surrounding sands, like an island from the sea. For the
last miles of the ride it had been impossible to take in the
entire structure, and now they had reached its feet, all that
could be seen was a vertical wall of darkly gleaming rock that
stretched out of sight above them and for miles to

either side. Yazour turned aside, parallel to the polished wall,
and in a short time Aurian saw a darker shadow on the stone, a
narrow opening just high enough to admit a horse.

One by one the riders led their animals through the entrance and
into the cool darkness beyond, and torches, stacked to one side of
the opening, were kindled and set into brackets on the walls. As
the light grew, Aurian stared around her in disbelief. The cavern
was huge, its ceiling lost high in the shadows above. To her left,


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half of the floor space was taken up by two pools, the higher set
on a stony shelf, its waters trickling down in a small cascade to
the lower. A sloping stone ramp led to the upper pool, where the
horses and mules were being taken to drink. The floor of the
cavern was level rock, drifted in places with glowing gem sand
that had been blown inside by the wind. This, along with the
reflections from the glassy walls, served to augment the
torchlight.

"This place is incredible!" Anvar, at the Mage's side, was looking
around him with wide eyes.

"The lower pool is for bathing," Yazour said. "We keep a goodly
stock of food and fuel here, so we can replenish our supplies—and
today we'll feast, or so it will seem, after all this rationing.
We will rest here for two or three days before going on."

"Wonderful!" Aurian smiled at him, tacitly apologizing for her
recent moodiness. "I never thought I'd get tired of riding, but
right now I never want to see a horse again! I could kill for a
bath, a hot meal, and a long sleep."

"Then you shall have them." Anvar put his arm around her and led
her away to the right, where a series of small fires were being
kindled close to a vent in the rock that drew the smoke away out
of the cavern.

Since Anvar had regained his powers and started learning from the
Mage, their relationship had altered subtly. Everyone except Bohan
and Shia, who were party to the secret, accepted him as Aurian's
husband, but even when the two of them were alone, Anvar's old
subservience had dropped away, to the point where he had been very
firm about her taking extra food from himself and the eunuch.
Aurian, to her surprise, had found herself not minding Anvar's new
assertiveness. Since their escape from Nexis she had been forced
to be the strong one, to
shoulder the burden of their journey, and having someone share j
the responsibility had come as a relief. Although her occasional 1
lack of patience as a teacher, coupled with their mutual
exhaustion, had led to some sharp words between them—Anvar, it


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seemed, had Magefolk stubbornness to match her own—a close and
comforting friendship had developed between them that did much to
ease the loneliness that was their common bond. The Mages shared a
fire with Eliizar and Nereni. While they waited for supper to cook
they talked, glad of the opportunity after the enforced isolation
of the desert camps. Eliizar, free of the Arena and back with a
military company where he belonged, seemed to have shed years
during the journey. His one eye glowed with enthusiasm as he spoke
of the desert that he loved. Nereni, plump and smiling, was also
glad to have left the Arena, but was finding the journey a trial.
Aurian sympathized. If she, an expert horsewoman, was wearied by
the continuous riding, she hardly dared imagine what it must be
like for a beginner like Nereni.

Anvar, who'd had little opportunity to ride during his time at the
Academy except when Aurian had invented the occasional errand to
give him an outing, was also feeling the strain. "It's all right
for you," he teased Nereni, rolling an expressive eye at her
rounded backside. "At least you've got some padding between you
and the saddle!"

She threw a spoon at him, making him duck, and the four of them
collapsed in gales of mirth. Bohan, having cared for the horses,
joined them t<r*at, as did Shia, who had been exploring the cave.
"I don't like it," she told Aurian. "I see nothing, but it
feels—prickly."

The Mage, intent on Nereni's delicately spiced stew, was not
paying much attention. "Maybe you have sand in your coat," she
replied absently, and soon forgot the conversation. Now that she
was full of good food, she found that her eyes refused to stay
open any longer. The outline of the flames seemed to dance and
blur in her vision, and the quiet sounds of conversation receded.

"Here you are, sleepyhead. Do it properly." She blinked, brought
back to herself by Anvar's voice. He was holding out a blanket. "I
wanted to bathe—" she protested, but the words were swallowed in a
yawn.




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"Do it tomorrow. I don't mind sleeping with a dirty woman."

"You're just as dirty—" Aurian began indignantly—and fell silent
in dismay as she grasped the import of his words. Without the tent
to shelter them, they would have to play out the charade of their
marriage to the full. Why hadn't it occurred to her that this
awkward situation might arise?

"It's all right," Anvar said softly, and wrapping the blanket
snugly round her shoulders, he gathered her into his arms as they
lay down. The warmth of his body felt good after the cool air of
the cave, and soon she was relaxing against him drowsily. It had
been so long since she had felt comforting arms around her at
night ... As Aurian drifted into sleep, her heart ached with
longing for Forral.

The fragrance that teased her into wakefulness reminded Aurian so
strongly of the Arena that she opened her eyes expecting to see
the white walls of her old cell. Instead she saw Anvar, holding a
steaming cup. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "Your friend
Eliizar brought his own supply of—"

"Liafa." Aurian beamed, reaching greedily for the cup.

"Well! And I thought Eliizar was exaggerating when he told me how
much you loved that stuff. That's the first time I've seen you
smile this early in the day."

Aurian stuck her tongue out at him. "It's all right for some. You
look as though you've been up for ages."

Anvar grinned. "The men—being the earliest risers—had the first
turn at the.pool."

All traces of the sparkling dust had gone from his skin. His hair,
curled and darkened now by the water, had grown during his time in
slavery, and to keep the damp strands from his face he had copied
Yazour, tying the errant locks back with a thong at the nape of
his neck. It suited him, Aurian thought.



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"What are you staring at? Have I missed a bit?"

"Who, me? Nothing." Aurian floundered. "I'd forgotten what you
looked like under all that dust!"

"Well, it's the women's turn now, so you'd better hurry up if you
want to get rid of your own dust."

"Suits me." She put down the empty cup. "It's a pity, really. I
must be worth a fortune in gems right now."

Nereni was in the_pool, splashing and laughing with the

ft

ft ft
other women of Harihn's household. The Mage shed her dusty clothes
and stepped into the water. It was not as cold as she had
expected, and while it was shallow enough for standing, there was
enough depth to swim. The bottom was coated in a soft layer of gem
sand, doubtless shed by generations of dusty travelers. It gleamed
underfoot, reflecting the torchlight from the walls. Nereni waded
over and handed her a slab of rough soap. "Ah, I see you are
returned at last, from the country of dreams."

"Real soap! Nereni, you think of everything."

"But of course—and as well, for you warriors!" Her plump face
dimpled. "I must go to prepare the day meal, but I will fetch you
a cloth to dry yourself, and some clean robes."

When Nereni had gone, Aurian washed thoroughly, glad to get the
dust out of her hair. Mine is growing again, too, she thought.
Maybe I'll get Anvar to braid it for me soon. By the time she had
finished, the other women had left the pool, but she lingered for
a while, enjoying the peace and solitude. At last, prompted by
hunger, she went to rinse beneath the little waterfall before
getting out.

The Mage had no suspicion of danger—not until it was too late. As


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she placed her hand against the smooth wall where the waterfall
trickled down, a strident clamor tore the air like the shrieks of
a vast, unimaginable beast in torment. The rock seemed to come
alive beneath her fingers, trapping her hands, her arms—sucking
her body inexorably into its soft, clinging maw. Aurian, despite
her struggles, was snatched into the darkness beyond. Within
seconds the wall had closed behind her, blank and featureless once
more.

Anvar was racing toward the pool before the first heart-stopping
echoes could die away. Yazour and Eliizar were close behind, their
weapons drawn. By the time they reached the edge he was
floundering through the water, searching for any trace of the
Mage. They joined him, Yazour diving cleanly beneath the surface,
Eliizar breaststroking across the pool. Then the clamor ceased
abruptly, leaving only Anvar's anguished cries: "Aurian! Aurian!"

The atmosphere in the camp was tense with apprehension. The women
and children huddled together in the farthest corner away from the
sinister pool, guarded by armed warriors. A

squad of bowmen had their weapons trained on the still waters,
ready to shoot at the first sign of a ripple on the smooth
surface. A grim council had gathered by the Prince's fire, and
Harihn looked fearfully round at the faces of the small group.
"Some beast must have taken her," he insisted. "What else could
have done this?"

"Sire, the pool was empty," Yazour protested. "I had it searched
thoroughly, and there is no underwater access. There was no blood,
or any remains—"

"No!" Anvar cried. The cup of hot liafa that Nereni had forced
upon him spilled, soaking into the blanket that she had draped
around his shivering shoulders. Yazour glanced at him
apologetically, and Nereni took his hand, her tearstained face
filled with pity.

"There must have been a creature," Harihn insisted, with a nervous
glance at the pool. "What else could make such dreadful cries?


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What if it should return? Must others die to convince you?"

"There is no proof—"

"We could search again—" Eliizar and Yazour, wet and shivering in
their own blankets, spoke simultaneously, but Anvar heard the
doubt in their voices. Harihn shook his head and stood up. "It is
pointless. She is surely dead. Prepare to leave, Yazour. We dare
not linger in this place."

"You bastard!" Anvar flung his blanket aside, and leaping over the
fire, leveled a punch at the Prince. The blow, with the impetus of
his body behind it, knocked Harihn sprawling. Anvar landed on top
of him, hitting out at him blindly. "Coward!" he screamed. He was
aware of blows on his body, but his rage made him oblivious to the
pain. He felt strong arms pulling him, dragging him off the
Prince. Anvar fought the new assailants in a frenzy, resisting
their attempts to pin him down, until a drench of cold water hit
him hard in the face. The shock brought him sharply to his senses.
Eliizar and Yazour were holding him down. Nereni stood over him, a
dripping bowl in her hands.

Anvar blinked water and tears from his eyes. "I thought you were
my friends," he muttered.

"We are, Anvar," Yazour told him sadly, "but the Prince,
unfortunately, is right.^ He gestured to one side, pointing at

r
the small group of children who huddled together, weeping and
terrified. "Would you sacrifice them also?" the warrior asked
softly.

"I'm not leaving her!"

"You most certainly are not!" Harihn was scowling, and Anvar noted
with satisfaction that his face was beginning to bruise and swell.
The Prince kicked out viciously, catching him beneath the ribs,
and Anvar convulsed in pain.



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"Sire!" Yazour's voice rose sharply in disgust at the cowardly
attack. "He will die if you abandon him here!"

"You have your orders, Yazour. For attacking me, this churl
deserves to die! Anvar will be left behind."

"Your Highness, the man is distraught! You cannot hold him
responsible for his actions ai such a time."

"I'll have him executed now, if you'd prefer." Harihn wiped blood
from the corner of his mouth, glaring venomously at Anvar, who
smiled grimly.

"Any excuse, eh, Harihn?" Anvar said. "Well, at last you have what
you've wanted all along—but it's too late. You may get rid of me,
but you'll never have Aurian now!" Turning his head, he spat at
the Prince's feet.

Harihn's face was livid. "Silence, dog!" he roared. "Yazour _make
certain that all provisions are packed or destroyed! As you slowly
starve, Anvar, I will rejoice in the thought of your suffering."

"If Anvar is to be abandoned, he will not be alone." Eliizar's
voice rang outWI would rather stay with him, than travel another
mile with you!"

"And I!" Nereni strode bristling to her husband's side. Anvar
tried to protest, but he was astonished into silence by a voice
that seemed to come from within his own head. "I too will stay."
He stared in amazement as Shia's face appeared, her eyes blazing
into his own. Bohan joined her, nodding his own silent support.

Harihn shrugged. "Very well."

"At least leave them horses, sire, and some provisions," Yazour
protested.

"No! And if I hear another word from you on the subject, you will
die beside them!"



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The warrior blanched. "All this time I have served you," he

said tightly, "and I never knew what you were. I look into your
face, and I see your father." Turning his back on the Prince, he
walked away to assemble his men.

The friends were guarded by a ring of bowmen while the others made
their preparations for leaving. Though Anvar was desperate to
continue the search for Aurian, Harihn had left orders that they
were to be shot if one of them so much as stirred. While they
waited, he tried in vain to persuade his companions not to
sacrifice themselves, but Eliizar and Nereni were united in their
indignation at such an idea, and Bohan looked hurt at the mere
suggestion. Shia, though she did not speak again, snarled at him
so fiercely that Anvar would have backed away if he could. She
looked so savage that he wondered if he had imagined her voice in
his mind. As soon as night fell outside, the Prince's company
departed, and the cavern seemed eerily quiet after they had gone.
Anvar, without a word, got up and strode back to the pool. The
others fanned out to search the cave once again.

Anvar sat, lost in wretchedness, beside the cavern entrance, his
aching head buried in his hands. Reflected dawn light gleamed
through the opening. They had searched all night, and still found
no sign of Aurian, How long had it been now? He cast his mind back
over the hours since their arrival in accursed Dhiammara. They had
eaten first—their laughter during that feast seemed like a distant
dream now^-and slept in each other's arms through the remainder,
of the day and part of the following night, Then Aurian had gone
to bathe in the pool. Oh, Aurian! Why didn't I just let you sleep?
he thought. She had been lost for the rest of that night, the
following day, and another night of frantic, fruitless searching.
Surely there could be no hope now?

Someone touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Nereni. "Yazour
hid some supplies for us at the back of the cave. Come and eat,
Anvar. This does you no good."

"How can you expect me to eat?" Anvar wanted to shout at her to
leave him alone, but he knew that she was grieving too, and


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concerned for him.

She put a maternal arm round his shoulders. "I'm sorry," she
murmured. "I koqw how much you loved her."

"You don't!" he retorted bitterly. "I didn't know myself— not
until I lost her.''

Nereni went away sighing. Anvar wished that she and the others had
saved themselves, and gone with Harihn. For himself —he didn't
care. What a cruel irony. Until these last weeks, when his
discovery of magic had brought them so closely together, he had
never admitted the depth of his feelings for Aurian—and now it was
too late. It had all started long ago, ever since that wonderful
Solstice night when they had celebrated with Forral . . . But
Anvar had hidden the truth from

himself then.

I knew in my heart that she was not for me, and never could be, he
thought despairingly. But Aurian's love of Forral, my own hatred
of the Magefolk, then the return of Sara, all allowed me to run
away from the fact that I loved her. How could I have been so
blind? Self-protection, he thought ruefully, Aurian's love for
Forral was unswerving while he lived, and has remained that way
since his death. I knew she'd never want anyone else. And now I'll
never even see her again. Never again will I feel the comfort of
her friendship, the joy of her presence.

She's gone—

"She is not!" The voice was Shia's.

Anvar looked up through scalding tears. "What did you

say?"

"Frame your thoughts clearly, man. You're not very good at this.
But you are of the same kind as her, so I can talk to you —if I
choose to! Put asidcrfhis useless grief and. think! Aurian is my


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friend, and our minds are linked. If she were dead, I would surely
know. But if she lives, why can I nor reach her?"

"Great Gods, you're right!" Hope flared like a beacon in Anvar's
breast. "She told me that the Magefolk knew when one of their kind
died. So if she were—"

"Then you wovAd have known ako," Shia finished for him.

"But if she's beyond your reach, where the bloody blazes is

she?"

"Clear your mind, man. Listen." Shia sat, curling her tail neatly
around her paws. "When you two were in the tent, doing things—"

"We did not!"

"Not those things, stupid!"


"Oh .       . . You mean the magic."

"It always gives me a most unpleasant prickly feeling in my fur."
Her tail twitched. "I get it in this cave, too."

"Then it wasn't a beast? You think Aurian was trapped by magic?
But I've been all over that wretched pool, and never felt a
thing."

"If Aurian had felt it, would it have trapped her?" Shia asked
pointedly.

"So whatever it is, it must still be there!" He scrambled to his
feet and ran.

Anvar plunged into the pool. What exactly was he looking for? Some
hidden opening, perhaps? He paused, up to his waist in water,
looking around wildly. It couldn't be underwater— the pool had
been searched from end to end. Then it came to him. Where was the


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obvious place to put a door? In a wall, of course. His eyes went
automatically to the smooth flat surface where the waterfall
trickled down.

"Anvar! What are you doing?" The others had gathered on the brink
of the pool. Ignoring them, he waded across to the wall and began
feeling along it with both hands.

"I've found it!" Anvar's triumphant shout was drowned in the
strident shriek of the alarm. His jubilation became horror as the
stone began to melt beneath his hands, turning clinging and
viscous, sucking him in like quicksand, drawing his head and
shoulders inside. The stuff enveloped him—he couldn't breathe.
Anvar flailed in panic, then his fkce broke through into air,
though he could see nothing in the utter darkness beyond,

"Aurian?" he called. There was no reply. But his body was almost
through the constricting portal. He felt a glassy surface beneath
his fingers and clawed at it frantically, trying to haul himself
forward—then his feet were snatched in an iron grip. Something was
pulling him back! "No!" he howled. He was so dose—he had to go on!
But inch by inch he slid backward, until his cries were drowned
once more in the suffocating ooze of the portal. There was a jerk
on his ankles—and he shot out into the pool on top of Bohan, who
hauled him, struggling, to the water's edge.

"Imbecile!" Shia's claws were sheathed, but the swipe from her
massive paw knocked him flying.

r

Anvar sat up groggily. "Damn you!" he snarled at Bohan. "I was
almost through."

"We had no choice," Eliizar protested. "What good would it do, to
have you both trapped?"

"Think!" Shia's thought was a whiplash across Anvar's mind. "We
need a way to keep the portal from closing, so we can all get in,
and more important, out again."


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"Anvar, did you see her?" Nereni asked anxiously.

"I saw nothing—it was too dark. But I called, and she didn't
answer," he told her miserably.

Eliizar frowned. "But I examined that rock when I searched the
pool, and it was quite impervious."

Anvar stared at him. "So it only responds to Magefolk," he said
slowly.

"Sorcerers?" Eliizar gasped. He backed away hastily, making a sign
against evil. "But you are not—"

"I am, Eliizar—just like Aurian."

Nereni, though wide-eyed, was more practical than her husband. She
tugged urgently at Anvar's arm. "Can you use this sorcery to open
the way for us?"

Could he? Anvar had no idea how the magic of the portal worked. He
was still too much of a beginner at this kind of thing, and there
had been little time for Aurian to teach him much . . . Then the
solution came to him in a blinding flash. One of the first spells
that Aurian had taught him, with the terror of the Nihilim still
fresh in her mind. "Nereni, I think I can!"      -r

Anvar positioned himself before the featureless stone of the
portal. Bohan stood behind him, his massive arms locked round the
Mage's waist. Eliizar and Nereni waited on the brink of the pool,
not daring, to the Swordmaster's obvious shame, to approach any
closer.

"Are you ready, Bohan?" Anvar glanced back over his shoulder. The
eunuch nodded, tightening his grip. "Now!" Anvar muttered, and
placed his hand upon the stone.

Again, the shrieking clamor rang out. The rock became fluid and
clinging, clutching at Anvar's arm to draw him within. But this


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time, Bohan held him firmly, fighting the pull. Anvar concentrated
with all his might, trying to block out the shrill distraction of
the alarm. He had to get this right .


Sweat broke out on his brow. Extending his free hand, he carefully
constructed Finbarr's time spell—and toppled backward with Bohan
into the water as the force that pulled at them suddenly ceased.
Anvar struggled to his feet, spluttering and panting, and reached
out to the stone. Bohan forestalled him— and thrust his own fist
straight through, pulling it out again with ease.

"It worked!" Anvar yelled. "Eliizar, it worked! I've taken the
portal out of time! We can go through now!"

Shia bounded forward, needing no further urging, but Eliizar stood
back, white-faced. "I—I cannot!" he gasped. "Anvar, forgive me,
but sorcery ... I cannot!"

Anvar grasped his shoulder. "Don't worry, Eliizar, we all have our
fears." With a pang, he remembered saying the same thing to
Aurian, on top of the cliff ... "I must go." He turned back to the
portal, where Bohan and Shia waited, plainly anxious to be moving.
"You and Nereni stay here, and wait for us. We'll be as quick as
we can."

"Wait!" Nereni came running, splashing through the water in her
haste. "Here." She thrust a bundle into his hands, "Here is a
water bag, and food—the poor girl will be starving. And I put in a
robe for her, and her boots—and she might need these," She handed
him Aurian's sword and staff, "Hurry," she urged, and reached up
to kiss his cheek. "Hurry, Anvar, and come back safe."

It was difficult to force a way through the viscous rock without
the spell of the portal to draw them. Shia, bristling with
impatience, went first, with Anvar and Bohan helping her by
pushing from behind. Anvar followed, feeling the cat's massive
jaws grasp his collar to pull him through. It was pitch-dark
within, even to his Mage's night-vision. He turned and groped for
Bohan's hand, and Shia helped him haul the eunuch through. Bohan


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had brought a torch, but when he kindled it, the flame gave no
light.

"What on earth . . . ?" Anvar gasped. He could see it flickering
in midair like a pale, disembodied wraith, but that was all. It
illuminated absolutely nothing.

"Magic!" Shia spat disgustedly. "You make some light!"

Anvar sighed. Fire-magic was not his strong point, but ... By dint
of much^cpncentration, he managed to form a

rather wobbly ball of Magelight—and fell back, screaming, as the
interior chamber burst into eye-searing brilliance.

"Put it out!" Shia roared in agony. Anvar snuffed his flame, his
eyes watering and blinded with crimson and green spots of dazzle.
He picked himself up—only to be flattened again, as the entire
chamber lurched into motion with a grinding roar, rushing upward
with terrifying speed.

As Anvar's vision cleared, he saw that the chamber was now
illuminated by a soft glow that seemed to emanate from the walls.
His mind reeled dizzily as he realized he was within a hollowed-
out gem. All around him, the gleaming facets reflected myriad
images of himself, Shia, and Bohan. When he moved, the images
lurched and swooped, making him sick with disorientation. It was
as though he too were part of the reflections; as though his soul,
his very self were being sucked away into the walls. Beside him,
Shia whimpered unhappily. It was the first time he had ever heard
the great cat show the slightest sign of fear.

"It's all right," he said, trying to sound convincing. "Lie still
and close your eyes. We're being taken somewhere—maybe to the top
of the mountain. It's bound to stop when we reach

it."

"For their sake, I had better not find whoever created this
thing," Shia muttered wrathfully. Her words made Anvar wonder just


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who the creators were. This was far beyond the power of his own
Magefolk.

"Now, how do we~get out?" As Anvar had predicted, their strange
conveyance had eventually come to a juddering, spine-wrenching
halt. He looked around, confused by the images that curved into
infinity on all sides. Then he saw it—a pale, glimmering blue
patch of Magelight that marked the area of his preserving spell.
He got to his knees and thrust an experimental hand toward it. To
his relief, the spell was still in operation, and his hand passed
easily through the wall of the gem.

"Let me go first!" Shia shouldered past him. "If anyone is out
there, / want to deal with them!"

They emerged onto flat bare rock that was shadowed in the half
darkness of another cavern. Looking behind him, Anvar saw a
featureless wall of polished stone, with nothing but the telltale
glimmer of his spell to mark the point of their exit. He

AUR1AN          '       499

prayed that the spell would last. This was the first time he had
tried anything so complex without Aurian's help, and he was still
uncertain of his raw, untried powers. The roof of the small cavern
was low, like an inverted bowl, and the wall through which they
had come swept round in a broad semicircle, its ends marked by a
massive stone archway, through which the faint light came. From
beyond the arch, Bohan was beckoning. Anvar hurried to join him.

Beyond the archway was a broad apron of stone, a ledge over . . .
nothing. Anvar reeled back from the dizzy brink, swallowing hard.
As far as he could see, the chasm below was endless, its sheer
walls stretching away on either side and plunging down into a gut-
churning nothingness, in the midst of which glowed the faint and
sickly light that illuminated this massive maw in the body of the
mountain. Some hundred feet away, on the opposite brink, there was
another jutting tongue of rock like the one on which he stood,
with a similar archway behind it.



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His mouth gone suddenly dry, Anvar prayed that the ledge on which
he stood was more solid than its counterpart looked. Apart from
the sheer impossibility of scale, Aurian, with her terror of
heights, would never have managed to get across. Yet there was no
sign of her anywhere. Anvar refused to countenence the
obvious—that she might have plunged to her death over the
precipice. But if that was unthinkable, only one alternative
remained. Something must have taken her across. Furthermore—he
thought, recalling her terror on the cliff—she must have been very
much against her will. He glanced up at the low roof, where
stalactites hung like dripping fangs, hoping to find some means of
crossing: a rope, handholds cut into the stone—anything at all.
There was nothing.

A shrill, thin screeching, like metal grating against metal, sent
Anvar spinning in the direction from which the unnerving sound had
come. Framed in the opposite archway was a creature that turned
his blood to ice. Its bloated, spherical body was wider than a man
is tall, and it moved on a weird conglomeration of jointed,
angular legs—too many for Anvar to count in that frozen moment of
confrontation. And not all of its limbs were used for walking.
Others sprouted like hideous growths from its dully gleaming body,
some ending in cruel pincers,

others in deadly keen blades like curved knives, still others in
clumps of fingerlike manipulators that clenched and unclenched vn
ceaseless motion, grasping at the air. There was no head. Clusters
of brilliant lights, like eyes, were dotted at intervals around
its swollen body, mounted on the ends of writhing limbs. With
nightmare slowness, these twisted in the air, turning their
blinding beams unerringly in the direction of Anvar

and his friends.

"Dear Gods preserve us!" Anvar, in unthinking terror, began to
back slowly away toward the sheltering archway.

Beside him, Shia gave a bloodcurdling snarl. "Scatter!" she
snapped, as the hideous creature suddenly came scuttling toward
them—straight across the thin air of the chasm!


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The great cat leapt to one side and Anvar dived for the shelter of
the archway. The creature paused on the stony apron, its myriad
limbs clicking and rattling, its eyes swiveling, turning their
beams this way and that—to fix upon Bohan, who stood, utterly
paralyzed with fear, on the very brink of the precipice. Once
again, Anvar heard the tortured, metallic shrieking as the angular
legs stirred, and began to advance, step by step, toward the
eunuch.

"Get him!" Shia's thought seared into Anvar's mind as she launched
herself at the monstrosity, fastening her jaws around one of the
slender legs. The creature's eyes swiveled toward her and several
sets of limbs, their pincers clacking together, their blades
whistling through the air, snapped around—to meet on thin air as
Shia darted ottt of reach.

In its moment of distraction, Anvar dashed across to Bohan and
yanked him back from the edge. "Spread out," he yelled. "Surround
it! Keep it confused!"

Bohan, his paralysis vanished with the hope of a plan, drew his
sword and moved to one side, waving the bright blade to distract
the creature. As it lumbered toward him, Shia darted in again from
behind, fastening her teeth on one of the legs. The limb flipped
upward, hurling her against the side of the arch. Anvar had
snatched up Aurian's sword and ran in to chop at one of the
swiveling eye stalks. There was a shower of sparks and a jarring
backshock ran numbingly up his arm, as metal shrieked against
metal. Anvar gasped, more from surprise than pain. This was no
natural beast—it was a crafted thing!

AURIAN          •       Sol

The break in his attention almost cost him his life. Anvar looked
up in time to see one of the arced blades descending, aimed
straight at his head—but Bohan moved quickly in from the other
side, fastened his huge hands round one of the legs, and yanked,
his face crimson and contorted with exertion. Despite Bohan's
phenomenal strength, the creature did not budge, but the move was


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enough to deflect its blow at Anvar, who ducked back as the sharp
edge whistled harmlessly past his face. Shia bought the eunuch
time to escape by diving right beneath the curving belly of the
monstrosity, swiping at the metal legs in a whirlwind of claws. It
whirred and clicked, spinning violently round on the spot, but its
killing limbs could not reach beneath its body. Anvar watched,
horrified, as the cat deliberately began to inch toward the edge
of the precipice, the creature, reacting with mindless fury,
moving with her as it tried in vain to reach its tormentor. It
reached the brink—toppled— and suddenly was gone. Shia with it.

"Shia!" Heartsick, Anvar raced for the edge—and saw two sets of
claws, digging for dear life into the crumbling stone at the
brink.

"Help . . ."

He heard Shia's wailing cry, at the extreme of anguish— then Bohan
was there, grasping frantically at the black paws, heedless of the
yawning drop beneath. But even the eunuch's strength was not equal
to the weight of the cat's massive body. Slowly, he began to slip
forward, his feet sliding on the stone. Anvar flung himself down
at the edge of the chasm and reached down to Shia. With a bone-
cracking effort she dug the claws of her hind feet into the stone,
raising herself just enough for him to grasp two handfuls of loose
skin at the base of her neck. The struggle seemed to take hours.
Anvar pulled until he thought his arms would snap, sick with fear
that he might slide forward to his own death. But with the two men
supporting her weight, Shia was able to haul herself upward, inch
by painful inch— until at last, with a heave and a great sliding
rush she was up, safely back on the ledge.

Anvar rolled away from the brink and lay panting. His arms, freed
of their burden, were aching, their muscles locked. "What a stupid
thing to do!" he raged at Shia. He felt the cat's mental
equivalent of a shrug.

"It worked, didn't it?" But for all her bravado, she sounded
shaken.



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Anvar had to smile. "It did indeed—and it saved all our lives."

"As you humans saved mine. My thanks to you both."

"It's Bohan you should really be thanking." Anvar clapped the
eunuch on the shoulder, and the huge man grinned.

"It took all three of us to defeat the creature." Shia paused,
growling softly. "If Aurian met it alone ..."

"Oh Gods . . ." Anvar shuddered, thinking of her facing the
fearsome metallic beast, naked and unarmed as she had been. He
thrust the thought away, and got to his feet. "I'm not giving up.
We have to go on."

"I agree—but how?" Shia looked across the yawning gulf of the
cavern, her tail twitching unhappily.

"That thing managed . . ." Anvar forced himself back to the edge,
trying to work out how the beast had achieved the crossing. "There
must be some way that we can't see. Shia, come over here. See if
you can sense any magic at work."

"There is!" The cat backed away from the brink of the chasm, her
fur bristling.

Anvar knelt beside her, feeling along the edge. Though his eyes
told him nothing was there, his searching fingers encountered
smooth stone that continued, as far as he could reach, out across
the chasm. "There was a bridge here all the time. An invisible
bridge. We can cross!"

Bohan had gathered-ap their discarded bundle. Now he hesitated on
the lip of the precipice, frowning. Looking ques-tioningly at
Anvar, he gestured across the chasm and made vague passes in the
air with his hand.

Anvar understood all too well. His own stomach was churning at the
thought of crossing that dizzying drop with nothing, seemingly,
beneath him but thin air. "No, my friend," he said ruefully,


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"unfortunately I don't know how to make it visible. We're just
going to have to be very careful."

Bohan shuddered.

Anvar went first, crawling out onto the invisible stone on his
hands and knees. It took more courage than he had known he
possessed to make that first move out into nothingness. He fought
down the clutching panic that threatened to unman him

AURIAN          •       5o3

with thoughts of Aurian and forced himself to inch forward,
feeling for the limits of the span with hands that shook
violently. He tried to call back to the others, but only a
strangled squeak emerged. Anvar cleared his throat and tried
again. "Be careful, it's very narrow and there's no rail. Move
slowly—the surface is very smooth. We daren't rush this."

Time stretched out into an endless nightmare. Anvar tried at first
to keep his eyes on the opposite wall of the chasm, but it didn't
help. It seemed to grow no nearer, and he found himself wondering
if there was some evil magic in the bridge that kept his goal
receding, trapping him endlessly suspended over the abyss until
his strength gave out and he plummeted to his death. Anvar closed
his eyes—and immediately felt better. He realized that he had no
need of vision—the bridge was invisible anyway—and he could
progress much more easily if he shut out the sight of the
sickening drop beneath him. He crawled on with painful slowness,
feeling blindly for the edges of the span on either side with
sweating hands, the thunder of his heart loud in his ears.

"I'm across!" The feel of the stone had roughened beneath

Anvar's groping hands. He could no longer find the edges of

the bridge, and opened his eyes to find himself safely on the

ledge at the other side. He crawled out of the others' way and



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collapsed gratefully, his cheek pressed to the blessed, solid
rock.

, His body ached and trembled with tension and he was drenched

' in sweat, but he could have wept with relief. Bohan and Shia

joined him and all three rested for a while, too overcome even

to speak.

Finally Anvar forced them into motion once more, though the eunuch
looked exhausted, and even Shia's lithe stride was unsteady. Anvar
never paused to think of the emotions that drove him beyond
endurance, beyond even hope. He only knew that he had to find
Aurian, or perish in this mountain as she had done.

They had expected to see another curving blank wall beyond this
archway, but instead it opened out into a long narrow chamber with
a high vaulted ceiling. Once again the stone had a fused,
glasslike surface, as though it had been melted and recast into
its present form. A weird, reddish half-light washed the chamber,
seeming to come out of nowhere, and the air

prickled with a high-pitched, distant humming that produced an
irritating resonance in the bones of Anvar's jaw and skull. But
his attention was elsewhere. Arranged along the right-hand wall of
the chamber was a row of tall, oval-shaped gems that glistened
dully like frosted moonstones. They looked like nothing so much as
the cocoons of some sinister giant insect, and Anvar, looking at
them, felt disquiet stir in his breast. With Shia and Bohan
following, he went to examine the nearest.

He found a single clear facet in the front of the frosted gem,
like a window upon the interior. Anvar peered through— and jumped
backward with a strangled exclamation as the bony, grinning face
of a human skull leered at him—seeming, due to some trick of the
gem's internal structure, to leap out at him from its crystal
tomb.



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Shia pushed past Anvar, standing on her hind legs to look into the
clear facet. "This is what becomes of those who penetrate this
place," she growled. "Imprisoned in crystal by the metal
creature."

Anvar suppressed a shudder. "You don't think—" "I hope not! But
all the same, we must search." Shia t ted away to the next crystal
and stood upright to peer into u Anvar, sick at heart, followed
her.

One by one they investigated each cocoon in the row. Anvar had to
steel himself to look into each one, dreading what he might find.
All contained bones, mostly human, but some belonging to other
creatures. Some were intact, but others had been cruelly
crushed^and hacked by the metal beast's appendages. Some were
unrecognizable, but there was one skeleton of a great cat that
made Shia snarl savagely, and two of the crystals contained small,
human-seeming skeletons—with a fanlike tracery of bones springing
from each oddly jointed shoulder. Winged Folk! Anvar was
astounded. When they reached the last cocoon, he hesitated.

"Let me look," Shia said. She peered into the aperture, while
Anvar watched, dry-mouthed. At last she got down, her tail
twitching with emotion. "Aurian is in there."

32

THE     CITY        OF      THE

DR AGONFOLK

urian was suspended in the milky light within the gem,
inaccessible through the thick crystal that sealed her tomb. She
was frozen like a statue in alabaster, the only color about her
the brave flame of her hair. Her eyes were closed as though in
sleep, her pale lips slightly parted. Anvar saw that much before
tears misted his vision. "No!" he howled, the cry dragged up from
the raw depths of his despair. He was barely aware of Bohan
pulling him away from the crystal, and did not see Shia taking his
place at the pane. His knees gave way and he sank to the ground,


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overcome with anguish.

"Wait!" Shia's voice flashed into his mind. "She breathes!"

Anvar turned on her. "Don't be stupid," he shouted. "She's dead,
damn you! It's just a trick of the crystal. You saw the others—the
bones!"

Shia cuffed him hard, her eyes aflame with rage. "I saw her
breathe!" she roared. "Get her out, human!"

Slowly, Anvar picked himself up. "If you're wrong about this ..."

"Look for yourself. Look long and hard this time. See with your
head, not your heart."

The sight of Aurian's pale, lifeless, face was a knife through
Anvar's heart, but he steeled himself to look. A minute passed,
and another. He stiffened. Had he imagined it? Another minute. He
saw it again, the slightest lift of her breast, almost
imperceptible—but definitely there! "Dear Gods," he whispered.
"Shia, you're right! You're right!" Wild with joy, he hugged the
great cat.

"Of course," Shia told him smugly. "Cats are wise, Anvar. The
other remains were very old—perhaps they starved, or died from
their injuries. But, we still have a problem. How do we get her
out?"

How indeed? An hour later, Anvar was ready to scream with
frustration. They had hacked at the crystal, battered it with the
hilts of their_swords, and in Shia's case, thrown herself

on it with teeth and claws. It shrugged off their efforts,
remaining unscathed and utterly impervious. Anvar stepped back,
panting, and scowled at the unyielding gem. "This is no good," he
said. "It's absolutely unbreakable—yet the creature has put her
inside. It must open somehow. Shia, do you feel magic here?"

The cat had flopped to the ground, despondent. "I feel something,"


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she said, "but different—not like a spell." She scraped the smooth
stone floor with her claws, searching for the right words. "It
feels as though the crystal is magic, but it doesn't do magic, if
you can understand that."

Anvar couldn't—and he was afraid to try any of the spells from his
limited repertoire lest he trigger something in his ignorance that
might harm the Mage within. He ran his hands over the smooth walls
of the gem, racking his brains for a way out of their
difficulties—and pulled back with an oath as his fingers caught on
a sharp edge. "Bohan, did you manage to knock a piece out of
this?"

The eunuch shook his head emphatically. Sucking his bleeding
fingers, Anvar investigated the place. It was high up around the
side of the crystal, but he could see nothing to mar the flawless
surface. Then a smear of blood led his eyes to the spot. He felt
again, more carefully this time, and found a hollow. A place where
a single facet was missing, its absence concealed by the internal
reflections of the gem. Anvar frowned. "There's a perfect piece
missing. I wonder . . ." "A key?" Shia was"quick to follow his
thought. "If it is, we must find it, and quickly. Who knows how
long Aurian can stay alive in there?" Anvar froze as a dreadful
thought occurred to him. "What if the creature had it?"

"One way to find out. Stop fearing the worst—and search!" Shia was
away, quartering the chamber.

It was Bohan who finally found the missing piece, tucked behind
the crystal in a niche in the wall. Anvar snatched it from his
hand. It was bigger than his fist and pointed at its inner end,
its smooth broad facets catching the light along their edges.
Holding his breath, he reached up and pushed it into the hollow,
turning it to fit. It settled into place with a click—and Anvar
stepped hastily back as the gem flared with a dazzling white light
that sank slowly away to leave the crystal transpar-

AURIAN          •       5o7

ent, all traces of its former milkiness gone. Distorted, broken


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reflections of Aurian's body                            could be seen within—then a crack
snaked down the front of the                            gem. It opened down its length like a
hinged shell, unfolding into                            two hollowed segments with thick
walls. Anvar rushed to catch                            the Mage as she slid out of the space
within—and found he had hold                            of a demon.

The monster—the hideous spider creature—it had hold of her! Aurian
struggled wildly in the clutch of the horrid limbs. She fought
instinctively, striking out with fists and feet, as Maya had
taught her long ago. There was an oddly human-sounding grunt as
she connected, and the grip on her body fell away.

"Very nice! He goes to all this trouble to rescue you, and you hit
him!"

The voice in her head was reassuringly familiar. "Shia!" Aurian
rolled over and looked around dazedly, blinking in the weird red
light. She barely had time to recognize Shia and Bohan before
Anvar seized her, half lifting her in an embrace that took her
breath away.

"Oh Gods, Aurian, it's so good to see you alive!"

With her head buried in Anvar's shoulder, the Mage was unable to
see his face, but his voice sounded ragged and choked. Aurian
tried to answer, but her throat was too parched for speech. Anvar
took one arm from around her long enough to rummage in a bundle at
his side and come up with a waterskin. He supported her while she
drank, rationing her, much to her annoyance, to small sips. She
made a grab for the bag as he took it away.

"In a minute." His voice was firmer now. "You haven't drunk for
about three days. You'll make yourself sick."

"Days?" Aurian groped in vain to remember. It was hard to read
Anvar's face in the dim red light, but she thought she could see
the streak of a tear on his cheek. "Was I ill? Did I dream that
awful spider-thing?" She groaned. "I feel as though I've been on a
three-day drinking bout with Parric." Her mouth still felt dry,
her head was throbbing, her stomach burned, and she had the same


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unnerving gaps in her memory that were usually the result of too
much ale.

"I think you migbi^want this." Anvar fished her desert

r
robe out of his bundle. Aurian gasped, suddenly conscious of her
nudity—and the memories came flooding back of her swim, and what
had happened subsequently. Anvar helped her into the robe, and
gave her more water and a little flat cake of Nereni's bread,
cradling her in his arms as she ate. She nibbled it slowly,
feeling as though she might be sick at any minute, but once it was
down it stayed down, and she began to feel better, and ready for
more.

As she ate, the Mage pieced together her story. Having been
captured by the portal, she had made the same accidental discovery
as Anvar—that Magelight triggered the rising of the gemlike
conveyance. On reaching the top, however, she had spent a long
time trying to find a spell to make it descend, and return her to
the others. When her efforts met with no success, she had decided
to leave the crystal, hoping to find some other route down. "I got
out of it in much the same way as I got in," she went on. "It
sucked me out through its wall—and that was when I met the spider-
thing! You've no idea what it was like!"

"We do," Shia assured her grimly. "We met it, too!"

Aurian shuddered. "I couldn't fight it—did you know it was
impervious to magic?"

Anvar shook his head. "I never thought to try."

"Just as well. It seemed to have the ability to throw the spell
right back at the user—I very nearly fried myself before I found
that out! Anyway, it grabbed me ..." She swallowed hard, trying to
keep her voice under control. Anvar hugged her closer, and she
gave hin*-a grateful smile. "I was fighting . . . After that, I
don't remember. It only seemed to be a split second before Shia
was telling me I'd hit you," She raised her hand to a lurid bruise


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on Anvar's cheekbone. "I hurt you, Anvar. I'm sorry."

"That wasn't you. That was Harihn."

"Oh, Anvar, you haven't been fighting?" Aurian was dismayed.

"Wait until you hear the whole story." Assisted by Shia, and with
the occasional confirmatory nod from Bohan, Anvar told her what
had happened. Aurian interrupted with astonished delight when she
discovered that he and Shia could speak to one another, and again
to heap bloodcurdling curses on Harihn's head, when she heard how
the Prince had abandoned

her friends to die. When her rage had calmed enough to let her
hear the rest of the tale, she shuddered to hear of their fight
with the monster, and Shia's near loss in the depths of the abyss.

But when Anvar began to describe their crossing of the invisible
bridge, it was too much. "No! Don't tell me! I'd rather not hear
about that bit, if you don't mind," she apologized.

When Anvar had finished his tale, Aurian looked at the faces of
her companions, utterly moved by their courage and loyalty. "My
dearest friends, you've been so brave ... I don't know how to
thank you . . ." She ran out of words, and brushed away a tear.

"As long as you're all right," Anvar told her, "you and the
child."

Aurian looked at him fondly. "We seem to be unscathed, thanks to
you three. The question is, what do we do now? We've been trapped
here by that turd Harihn, If we don't find something within these
tunnels to help us, we'll starve. Besides, Anvar ..." Her eyes lit
up with excitement. "Don't you realize what this place must be?
The crystals, the metal creature immune to magic—it all points to
one thing. We've found the lost civilization of the Dragonfolk!
There must be artifacts here —knowledge, weapons, perhaps even the
Sword of Fire itself—that we could use against Miathan!"

Anvar shook his head in exasperation. "You never give up, do you?


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What if we find more of thosjr spider-monsters? What if there's
worse?"

"After my last experience, do you think I'm not worried about
spider-things?" Aurian shrugged. "But to be honest, Anvar, I don't
see any alternative. We certainly can't go back the way we came.
The only way out is through these tunnels."

Though they all longed for sleep, they decided to press on at
once. Food was in short supply, and though the passages of the
mountain fastness held little hope for their salvation, there was
nothing to be gained in lingering. The only other exit from the
long chamber was a huge arched doorway at the far end. A wide ramp
sloped in a curve up a broad tunnel whose roof, pointed like the
archway, was high above. Shia led the way; the Mages, by unspoken
cojisent, followed together, Bohan brought

sio • MAGGIE FURRY

up the rear, his sword drawn. Anvar had returned Aurian's gear to
her, and she was relieved to feel the familiar weight of the sword
at her hip once more.

The disquieting red light of the chamber had been replaced by a
soft amber glow that emanated from a network of shining veins that
webbed the smooth, seamless stone of the passageway. The air
whispered softly past their faces without moisture or mustiness,
and the walls and floor bore little trace of webs or dust. The
irritating hum had faded as they climbed. Aurian found herself
relaxing a little. She had not realized how much the high-pitched
buzz had bothered her, until it was gone. "You know," she said to
Anvar, "this is like a spiral staircase—only there are no steps. I
suppose dragons might have had difficulties with stairs. But if
this corridor was built to accommodate them, they must have been
even bigger than I thought."

He nodded glumly. "And more powerful than we thought, if they
could create this place, and the metal creature. We should be
careful."



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It was easy to lose track of time as the unchanging tunnel wound
on and on. After a while, rooms began to appear, leading off from
either side. To Aurian's frustration, some were sealed with great
doors of metal or crystal that would yield to neither force nor
magic. Other rooms were doorless or open, but whether large or
small, all were completely empty, their only illumination coming
from the dim stoneglow of the passage that shone through the wide
entrances, Shia reported no further signs of magic.

"What kind of ridiculous place is this?" Aurian complained, as
they explored yet another abandoned chamber. "What's the use of it
all?" She felt leaden with exhaustion, and her headache had
returned.

"How the blazes should I know?" Anvar snapped. He sagged against
her, grinding his knuckles into bloodshot eyes. The Mage glanced
sharply at his slumped form, noticing for the first time that
Bohan looked similarly weary. "How long is it since you've slept?"

He groaned. "Days—I don't remember. Not since you disappeared."

"Anvar!" Aurian scolded. "Why didn't you tell me?" Tak-

ing his arm, she led him to the rear of the small room and sat him
down, propped against the wall. "This place is about as defensible
as we can get. We'll rest here."

They each took a small sip of water                                  from the dwindling contents of
their sack, Anvar pouring some into                                  Aurian's cupped hands for Shia
to lap. The Mage insisted on taking                                  the first watch. "I was doing
nothing all the time you poor souls                                  were searching for me," she
told them. "It's only fair." No one                                  had the energy to argue.

"Wake me next," Shia told her. "We can share the watching. I need
less rest than you feeble two-legged folk."

Aurian left them asleep and sat to one side of the entrance, her
sword ready to her hand. She began to count time by tapping her
dagger on the palm of her hand to mark the seconds and switching
hands when each minute had passed, but soon gave it up. The


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counting lulled her, and she found herself beginning to nod.
Instead, she thought about her child. It must be about five months
now, though it was hard to work out the time exactly—Magewomen
were taught to suppress the monthly cycles that were such a bother
for Mortals, They usually became aware of their pregnancy after
the second month, and Aurian thought that was about right, She had
certainly felt the child's presence once it had been pointed out
to her. Not much longer before my powers vanish entirely, she
thought, and what will we do then? If we ever escape from here,
that is. What could have prompted Harihn to such treachery? Did I
really misjudge him so badly?

The Mage wondered what was happening in Nexis, Miathan would use
the powers of the Caldron to enslave the Mortals he despised, with
Eliseth, Bragar, and Davorshan as willing accomplices. What had
become of her friends? Had Vannor and Parric survived? What of
Maya and D'arvan, and her mother? While her powers were crippled
by the bracelets, she might have been unaware of any deaths among
the Magefolk! She shivered, despite the warm air of the chamber,
and longed for Portal's sturdy old cloak, which had been lost in
the shipwreck. Its familiar weight on her shoulders had always
been a comfort. But cloak and Forral were gone, and she was cold
and alone in this dark place,

Aurian, lost in sorrowful thoughts, was startled by a cold
black nose poking into her face. "Thought so," Shia said.
"You're almost asleep. Time I took over!"

The Mage was quick to agree. It would be a relief to escape for a
while into oblivion. She crossed the chamber to where her friends
slept, and lay down beside Anvar. As always he seemed to sense her
presence, and turned to put an arm around her, murmuring her name
in his sleep. Aurian snuggled close, and felt her burden lifting.
At least I have Shia and Bohan, she thought, and especially Anvar.

The next day, if day it was, they encountered the trap. After a
frugal breakfast that left them with slender rations, indeed, they
resumed their weary trudge, winding ever upward round the
featureless stone spiral with its empty rooms until their feet
dragged with exhaustion. Aurian was close to despair. Had she been


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wrong in her hope of finding the lost knowledge of the Dragonfolk?
Did it really matter? We're doomed to die here, she thought. This
bloody mountain will be our tomb, and that will be that.

Suddenly Shia, stalking ahead as usual, stopped. "Magic!" she
growled.

"You're right," Anvar said. "Aurian, do you see it?"

A few paces in front of them there was a silvery disturbance in
the air, like the illusory shimmer above a stone pavement on a hot
day. It stretched across the passage like a curtain, barring their
way.

Danger or not, Aurian was glad that something had occurred to
break the monotony of the trek. She walked forward cautiously,
staff in one hand, the other held up before her, palm foremost. As
she reached the roiling, silky distortion, two things happened.
The shimmer vanished—and all the light in the tunnel went out.
Taken by surprise, Aurian took another step forward, striking a
ball of Magelight above her head. As it flared, there was a low,
thunderous grinding from above, drawing her eyes upward. Her
breath caught in her throat as a huge, squared-off block of the
ceiling detached itself and came plummeting toward her.

To Aurian, everything happened in nightmare slow motion. The block
seemed to float downward as she plunged forward. One foot slipped
and she fell, twisting, facing back in the direction from which
she had come.


"Aurian!" Anvar was hurling himself forward, diving into the
narrowing gap between stone and floor. The massive block plunged
inexorably down, smashing Anvar into the floor with a jarring
crunch that shuddered the walls.

"Anvar!" Aurian's shriek tore her throat. Her Magelight went out,
plunging her into darkness. Her mind reeled with hideous,
unbearable visions . . . Anvar, pulverized beneath tons of stone .
. . She collapsed against the wall, retching, choking on sobs—


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And leapt about a yard into the air as a hand touched her
shoulder.

"It's me!" Anvar's strangled voice was almost lost in her squeak
of fright.

"You! You can't ... I saw . . ." Aurian found it impossible to get
the words past her chattering teeth.

Anvar, it seemed, was having similar difficulties as they clung
together, shaking. "Illusion," he gasped.

Illusion? Illusion! Aurian's Magelight rekindled, flaring fiery
red as anger boiled up within her. She drew back, staring at
Anvar's ashen face. "You fool! You bloody idiot! I thought you
were dead, damn you! How could you do such a stupid thing!" she
stormed. Tears of shock and rage ran down her face and she dashed
them angrily away.

Anvar grabbed her shoulders. "Because I'm not prepared to lose you
again! I'd rather die, don't you understand?" he yelled, his
fingers digging hard into her flesh.

Oh. Aurian felt her anger draining away. She understood— she had
felt the same way about Forral, She shook her head, unwilling to
accept the implications. "Anvar . . ."

He looked away from her, biting his lip. "Never mind. Forget it."

"If you two have quite finished!" Shia's mental voice was a
welcome distraction, but Aurian could tell from the steely tone
that the cat too was angry at the scare they had given her. She
was nowhere in sight; still hidden, presumably, behind the
illusory block of stone. "How you expect anyone to get their
thoughts through such a turmoil as you have been throwing up, I
have no idea!" Shia went on irritably, "But since you've finally
deigned to listen to me, have you anything constructive to sug-

8est?"                -.*


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Suddenly Aurian found herself giggling helplessly. That started
Anvar off too, and they laughed together until their ribs ached
and they were wheezing for breath. The little ball of Magelight,
bright gold now, flickered and bobbed above Aurian's head as
though it too were chuckling.

"WELL?" The             thunder of Shia's voice                          finally           sobere them.

"Sorry, Shia." Aurian grinned at Anvar, speaking her thoughts
aloud for Bohan's benefit. "I suggest you walk straight through.
The block is an illusion—as Anvar so conclusively proved!" She
gave him a mock-fierce scowl.

Stunned silence from Shia, then: "Could I only curse, like you
humans!" Though the words came from her mind, they sounded as if
they were spoken through clenched teeth. "We're coming through!"

"No, wait!" Aurian's cry was drowned in a grating rumble from
overhead. There was an anguished howl—and Bohan came hurtling
through the wall of stone, Shia a black projectile at his heels.
There was a deafening crash, and the Mages clutched each other as
the floor of the tunnel bucked and heaved beneath them. Clouds of
dust billowed up, and tiny fragments of stone stung their skin.

As the dust began to settle, Aurian was relieved to see Bohan and
Shia, safe. Coughing, she stretched out a hand to the block—and
touched solid stone.

"It really fell this time!" Anvar sounded shaken.

"I think I understand," Aurian murmured thoughtfully. "It's a time
trap, Anvar. What we saw, what we thought had hit you—" She groped
for words. "It wasn't an illusion. What we were seeing was the
future*."

"But why? Surely if it was a trap, it might as well have fallen in
the first place?"

"I'm not sure." Aurian frowned. "Presumably, the Dragons would


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recognize their own magic, so it would act as a warning to them
that the trap was there, and they should get through quickly. But
any strange Magefolk, like us, who came blundering in—Well, if I
hadn't taken that extra step forward, I would have seen the thing
falling and stepped back."

"And we would have eventually discovered the illusion," Anvar
finished for her, "gone through, and—"


"It would have got us anyway. What a bloody devious people!" She
was annoyed—and more than a little unnerved. "What kind of power
must they have had, to play tricks like that with time?"

Aurian turned to the others, and was surprised to see the much
rubbing his buttocks with one hand, and shaking an igry fist at
Shia with the other.

"Are you two all right? Bohan, what's wrong?"

Shia's voice was loaded with disgust. "This lumbering ox wasn't
moving fast enough—so I stuck my claws in his backside!"

A strangled squawk from Anvar proved that he too had heard the
cat's words. Aurian found herself spluttering helplessly. Bohan's
indignant expression and Shia's angry glare only made them worse.
The Mages leaned against each other, helpless with laughter.

"But how did you know the stone was really falling this time?"
Aurian asked Shia, when she had finally got her paroxysms under
control. Now that they could both speak to her, the Mages had
fallen into the habit of voicing their thoughts aloud. It made
things much easier.

Shia sat, primly licking a paw, though her twitching tail betrayed
that she too had been shaken by their near miss. "I didn't. But
cats never take chances!"

"Really, smart-paws?" Anvar retorted. "What about when you nearly
went over the cliff, fighting that spider-thing?"


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Shia glared at him. "That was different!"

"Oh?"

"Something has occurred to me." Aurian interrupted the impending
fight. "That awful howl we heard as you came through—was that you,
Bohan?"

The big man looked perplexed.

"Well, it certainly wasn't me," Shia declared.

"But that means you can speak!"

Bohan opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. Aurian could see his
face growing redder and redder with the exertion, and went to him
quickly. "Don't, Bohan. You'll hurt yourself. Obviously the
problem isn't physical, but I'm too weary to try mind-Healing just
now. I promise you, though, if we get out of this place, I'll help
you find your voice." He smiled at her, but
the longing, the hope in his eyes wrung Aurian's heart. She patted
his hand gently. "Let's rest now. I think we all need some time to
recover before we go on."

This time, folly though it might have proved, no one even thought
to suggest keeping watch. Careless in their weariness, unstrung by
the shocks of the past hour, they slept like the dead, huddled
close for comfort like lost children. When Bohan finally awakened
Aurian, light had returned to the passageway, and the stone had
lifted to open the tunnel behind them. The trap had been set once
more.

They swallowed the meager remnants of their food and water, but
their last meal was marred by a sense of unease. Had the stone
reset itself? Or, horrifying thought, had someone—or some
thing—crept up while they slept to renew the spell?

"Nonsense," Aurian argued. "If anyone had been here they'd have
let us know about it, you can be sure!" Nonetheless, there was a


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crawling between her shoulder blades that no amount of common
sense could shake off, and looking at the others' faces, she knew
they felt the same.

As they went on, the tunnel began to straighten, its gradient
growing steeper as they climbed. There were no more rooms now, and
soon the very light began to change, as gradually the glowing
amber veins in the stone were replaced by a constellation of many-
colored gems that shone, like those in the desert below, with
their own mysterious gleam. Soon the way was illuminated only by
the flickering gemlight that surrounded them on all sides, as
though they trod the starry paths of the Universe itself. "How
beautiful it is," Aurian murmured. "I'm glad we got the chance to
see this, even if—"

"Even if we die for the experience?" They were almost the first
words that Anvar had spoken since they had awakened. After his
outburst the previous day, a constraint had fallti between the
Mages, as if both were anxious to avoid what hi^ words had
revealed.

Aurian was suddenly sick of it all. Nothing's changed, sht told
herself. It's still Anvar. Words said in the heat of the
moment—what real difference does it make? If we die, it won't
matter anyway, and if we don't—well, it'll keep, and in the
meantime there's no sense in ruining a good friendship over it.
She took his hand. "Don't despair," she told him. "Think of all

the times we've almost perished since we left Nexis, yet we never
did. Something will turn up, you'll see. We're too tough a team to
kill, you and I."

Anvar squeezed her hand and met her eyes at last, suddenly looking
more cheerful. "You're right," he said, "and we'll go through a
lot more together, before we're done!"

"Light! Light ahead!" They turned simultaneously toward Shia's
cry.

Daylight! It filtered wanly past a sharp angle in the tunnel,


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dimming the star-glitter of the gems. Shia had stopped, bristling,
before the bend. "There's magic ahead," she warned, halting their
headlong rush.

Aurian took a step forward, but Anvar, who had not relinquished
her hand even as they ran, pulled her back toward him, "Oh, no you
don't," he growled. "This time we go together!"

They crept forward, peering anxiously round the corner of the
passage. "Chathak's bloody balls!" Aurian swore. The tunnel ahead
of them was blocked by a large gem, resembling the impervious
doorways that had defeated them lower down. The daylight twinkled
through its polished facets—so near, yet, unless they could find a
way to pass the obstacle, it might have been a million miles away.

"That noise is back," Anvar said suddenly. "Do you hear

it?"

Sure enough, the irritating, high-pitched hum was tickling the
base of Aurian's jawbone. "What is that?" she demanded crossly,
fighting back an urge to burst into tears of sheer frustration.

"I think it's coming from the other side. Shia! Get yourself round
here!"

"I hear you." The great cat slunk round the corner with a black
look for Anvar. "There's no need to shout!"

"Sorry. Gin you tell whether the magic is coming from the stone
itself, or is there another trap in front of us?"

"I don't think so. It's in the crystal itself."

"Right." Anvar pressed forward, but Aurian caught his arm.

"Hold on there," she told him. "You made the rules, remember?
Together, or not at all!"

Together they examined the crystal, running their hands


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over the smooth, hard surface. "Just the same as the others,"
Anvar said despondently. "Unlike the one that imprisoned you,
there's no key to these door crystals. It's a dead end."

"It can't be!" Aurian aimed a                             savage kick at the obstruction,
howling a curse as the toe of                             her boot hit the unyielding gem.
"That does it!" In unthinking                             rage she raised her staff,
unleashing a sizzling bolt at                             the crystal.

"Aurian, no!" Anvar, shielding his eyes, was thrown back hard
against the side of the passage. Smoke curled through the corridor
as the gem began to hiss and pulse with light.

"Stop!" Dimly, Aurian heard Shia's urgent cry. "You're making it
worse! The magic of the stone is growing!"

To her horror, the Mage realized that it was true. The gem was
acting as the bracelets had done, leeching her powers into it to
increase its own. The staff trembled in her outstretched hand as
energy surged through her body and along her arm, bleeding and
weakening her further by the second. No longer was she putting
forth her power—the stone was pulling it from her! Her guts
twisted in panic. "Help me," she cried. "I can't stop it!"

Something hard cannoned into her, knocking her breathless to the
ground. The staff was wrenched from her hand in a shower of
sparks, breaking the deadly bond of magic. Aurian, gasping like a
stranded fish, saw Bohan, fallen half on top of her, drop the
smoking staff with a grimace of pain. The glare from the crystal
dimmed, and the smoke began to clear.

"You and your blasTtd temper, Aurian!" Anvar was examining Bohan's
hand.

"I know. I'm sorry, Anvar. It was a stupid thing to do. Is Bohan
all right?"

"More or less." The eunuch echoed his words with a nod.

Anvar held out his hand to help her up. "Aurian, we have to stop


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scaring each other like this!"

"It's a bargain!" Aurian scrambled to her feet, turning back to
the crystal. "All the same, I have an idea . . ." She remembered
the bracelets sapping her power as she tried to help Anvar in the
slave compound.

"Be careful!" Anvar said hastily.

"I will. I've learned my lesson. No daft fireworks this time, I
promise." She pressed her hands, then the side of her face, flat

against the crystal, probing its interior with her Healer's
senses, feeling for the delicate lattice that was the framework
and life of the stone. Since her powers had been sapped by her
rash act, it took her a long time to find the weakness, the chink
in its defenses, that she sought. But it was there. At last, it
was there! Aurian probed with her will—and pulled . . .

Ah, now the tables were turned! The Mage felt her palms tingling
as power flooded back through the fault in the gem. She drew upon
the stone's energy until she felt ready to burst, unable to
contain so much magic. Aurian began to wonder if she had
overestimated her ability to handle the power woven into the
structure of the stone. Again she felt the chill clutch of fear.
If only she had taught this to Anvar, so that he could have helped
her! If only she had some way to store the surplus power! But . .
.

"Get back round the corner!" she yelled, straining to contain the
force until they were safely away. "Cover your eyes!" Flinging out
a hand, the Mage hurled a mighty flare of energy at the wall,
shielding herself quickly as she did so. It exploded as it hit,
the concussion impacting violently back against her shield, but
her defenses held. And as for the crystal—her job was done.
Without the energy that held it together, the gem collapsed with a
slithering whisper into a heap of fine powder at her feet. Aurian
let out her breath in a huge sigh of relief.

Anvar appeared round the corner, looking pale. "I thought we


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agreed not to frighten each other anymore?" He spoke quietly, but
there was a glint of anger in his eyes.

"Anvar, I'm sorry. I never thought ... I didn't realize that so
much energy would be involved." She brightened. "But it worked,
didn't it? And no harm done in the end."

"No harm?" Shia spat. "What about the harm to my nerves?"

Anvar sighed. "I have to admit—it worked. But if you ever do
anything like that again ..."

"All right," Aurian agreed. "I won't. I'll teach you instead, and
the next time, you can do it!"

Together they scrambled over the pile of fine crystal dust and
peered through the opening that Aurian had created. The Mage's
heart sank. "By all the Gods—if this isn't the absolute end! After
all that, it doesn't even lead outside." Throwing her

r
staff to the ground, she sat down on the mound of dust, her head
in her hands.

"Aurian, look at this!" Anvar sounded excited. "You look at it.
I've seen enough of this accursed place!" "Don't be silly." He
yanked her firmly to her feet. With a groan, Aurian picked up her
staff and followed him—and stepped back quickly with a sharp oath
as she saw the drop that yawned beneath her feet. They stood
inside a tower—a circular chamber that stretched up and up,
deceiving the eye. The walls were seamless, formed of translucent
white stone and pierced in a spiral all the way up by circular
windows of crystal that cast sword-thin shafts of daylight down to
the floor—except that there was no floor. They stood on a ribbon
of stone that clung to the walls of the tower, spiraling up into
the limitless heights above. Below them was a sparkling shaft, lit
by the focused beams from the windows, and at eye level, suspended
seemingly on thin air above the drop, a great spherical crystal
spun and scintillated, filling the air with the unnerving,
penetrating hum that they hac/ /iearc/ in the corridor, and in the


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red-lit chamber,

far below.

Anvar lay on his stomach, hanging over the edge of the shaft in a
way that made Aurian's stomach flip over. "This is amazing! Do you
want to bet that it goes right down into that chasm we crossed?"

Aurian groaned. "Anvar, come away from there!" "Yes, do," Shia
added, sounding far from happy. "This place is crawling with
magic!"

Anvar ignored them both. "Of course it is. Don't you see, this is
some kind of magical pump. That's why the air was so fresh on the
lower levels—this makes it circulate!"

"Very clever, Anvar." Aurian did her best, but failed to keep the
despair from her voice. "It is also, you may have noticed, a dead
end. We'll have to go back down."

Anvar scrambled up from the brink. "I don't think so. The path—"
he indicated the strip of stone on which they stood—" —this dragon
stairway, if you like—still goes upward. I think there'll be a way
out at the top!"

Aurian looked up at the path, which curved away ever higher from
where they stood, and down again, at the bottom-

AURIAN          •       521

less shaft. She swallowed hard and looked at Anvar. "I thought we
weren't going to frighten each other anymore?" He grinned. "You
already broke that promise." "This isn't funny!"

"I know. But it's our only way out. Look, it isn't all that
narrow. It was built for dragons, you know. Come on, Aurian. I'll
hold your hand. You must do it."

"All right." Aurian sighed. "But Anvar, if we get all the way to
the top and there's no way out, you're going straight down that


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shaft headfirst!"

Afterward, Aurian preferred not to recall that climb. It seemed to
go on forever as she sidled up the sloping ramp, Shia and Bohan
following her, her back pressed hard against the tower wall. They
climbed until their legs were trembling with weariness, but the
Mage refused to halt. "No," she pleaded. "Just get it over with."
But in the end, it was clear that in their famished and exhausted
state, they would never make it to the top without resting. Aurian
sat huddled as far away from the edge as she could, her eyes
tightly closed. After a time they went on, their muscles cramped
and their heads swimming, until even Aurian had forgotten the drop
beneath in her preoccupation with her aching limbs. It was with a
sense of disbelief that she finally saw the archway above her. She
staggered into the blessed daylight, and . . ,

"Be careful!" Anvar grabbed her arm, yanking her back against the
side of the doorway. Aurian, reeling, fell to the ground. "Anvar,"
she gasped, "I hate you. I absolutely hate you."

She was awakened by a gentle hand shaking her shoulder. Anvar"s
face was close to her own. "I'm sorry," he said. "I let you sleep
as long as I dared, but we must get moving while there's still
daylight. Do you still hate me?"

Aurian groaned, aching all over. "That depends. Did I really see
what I think I saw?" "I'm afraid so."

"In that case, yes." Moving very carefully, she peered over the
edge of the platform that topped the tower. The sky—ah, how good
it was to see the sky and the sun again after their nighttime
journey through the desert and the long days passed in the gloomy
halls hengath the mountain. And despite her
fear, the view was staggering. The tower stood at one end of an
oval plain that stretched about a league—a crater scooped into the
top of the mountain. The jagged walls of the peak were higher than
the roof on which she perched, and shielded the vale below from
the worst of the desert's blinding glare. And in the vale ... a
gleaming city. Aurian caught her breath. It could only be the lost
city of the Dragonfolk.


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It was arranged, not in lines and angles like a human city, but in
a series of interlapping circles joined like a spider's web, all
converging on a massive, conical structure like a great spire that
was higher even than the tower. The sun struck fire from its
pointed tip—and not surprisingly, for the edifice had been carved
from a single, massive green gem. When Aurian had finished gaping,
she discovered that all the buildings in the city were similarly
constructed, each from a colored jewel that blazed with
coruscating light. Most were rounded and single-storied with
broad, flat roofs where, the Mage supposed, the Dragonfolk would
have basked, absorbing the sun that was their lifeblood. There
were several towers, domes, and minarets, all intricately carved
and chased, but the highest buildings were the tower from which
she looked and the huge spire in the

center,

Anvar, it seemed, had seen the view while she slept, and was ready
to be practical. "I've seen a lot of birds down there. I suppose
this is their resting place when they cross the desert. If we can
find a way to trap them, we'll have food. And there must be water
down there , . , Surely even the Dragonfolk would

need that?"

"So we go down." Aurian had already noticed the spiral path, a
twin to the one on the inside of the tower, that wound down—and
down and down—to the city below. "Damn and blast them!" She struck
the stone with an impotent fist, and burst into tears. "Why
couldn't they have put railings on these bloody stairways?"

"I'm sorry, love." Anvar stroked her hair. "But—"

"I know, I know." Aurian sat up and sniffed, scrubbing at

her face with the sleeve of her robe—and caught Anvar's eye,

remembering an occasion long ago when he had chided her for



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doing just that. "Take no notice of me, Anvar. I'm being an ass.


Lead on, then—since you seem to be in charge where high places are
concerned!"

It was far worse going down. The path seemed to tilt crazily
beneath Aurian's feet, and there was nothing below her but thin
air. The others were having similar difficulties, and the sun had
long since dropped behind the high mountain walls when they neared
the bottom. With the path shrouded in gloom and their attention
fixed upon their feet, they barely noticed the shadow that plunged
across them. Anvar, in the lead, turned to Aurian. "What about
some li—" His face froze in horror. The Mage had no time to look
behind her. Something struck her hard, wrenching her from the
path. Wiry arms grasped at her—she caught a glint of steel. She
was falling, falling . . .

I

i

CKaptcr             33

THE         STAFF         OF      EARTH

urian!" Sick with dread, Anvar hurtled down the spiral «——_ path,
followed by Bohan and Shia. The ledge reached the ground on the
opposite side from which the Mage had fallen, and he raced around
the base of the tower, not daring to think of what he might find.
He almost ran right into the fighters. A small figure, its
identity obscured by the dusky shadows that flooded the bottom of
the crater, was struggling with the Mage. Aurian was alive!

"Stay back!" The voice was shrill. The stranger, cloaked in
deepest black, was using a handful of the Mage's hair to pull her
head back. A gleaming, naked blade lay across Aurian's

throat.



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There was no time to wonder how Aurian had survived the fall.
Anvar measured the distance between himself and the fighters,
weighing the chances of a surprise attack. Not good, he thought.
If I could see better . . . Magelight flashed between his fingers.
He heard a yelp of shock from the stranger— and Aurian took
advantage of her opponent's distraction. There was a scuffle and a
grunt of pain, and the positions of the assailants were suddenly
reversed. The dagger spun away, lost in the struggle, Bohan
chasing after it. Aurian had her foe down and was attacking with
both fists, spitting curses.

Anvar, rememberirrg the blind rage of his fight with                                                   Harihn,
rushed forward to grab Aurian's arm. "All right," he                                                   said,
panting. "You've won!" But when he tried to pull the                                                   Mage to her
feet, she fell with a cry of pain. "You're wounded?"                                                   Anvar dropped
down beside her.

Aurian was swearing furiously. "Wrenched my knee, landing," she
muttered. "That was how she got the advantage—and because I was
scared out of my wits!" She shook her head in puzzlement. "But why
did she break my fall?" "It's a she?"

"Bloody right!" She struck her own Magelight with an ease that
made Anvar sigh with envy. "You ever see a man fight like this?"
Her arms and face were bloodied with long, deep scratches. "Added
to that, I sacrificed a handful of hair to get

AURIAN - 525

out of the hold she had on me." Aurian snorted with disgust,
rubbing her scalp. Her face was gray in the Magelight, and Anvar
knew that her fall must have terrified her—as it had terrified
him.

"I don't know why she broke your fall, but I thank all the Gods
she did," he said shakily.

Aurian's composure was crumbling, and for a moment Anvar thought
she would fling herself into his arms, as she had done after their
terrible ascent of the cliffs of Taibeth. But instead she took a


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long, shuddering breath, making a visible effort to pull herself
together. "If I start thinking about it, I'll go into screaming
hysterics," she said firmly. "Let's take a look at our prisoner."

Stifling an insidious feeling of disappointment, Anvar turned
toward the girl, and Aurian moved her light to illuminate the
huddled, weeping figure. "Gods save us!" For the first time, Anvar
got a good look at what he had mistaken for a dark cloak. "She has
wings!" Sending Shia and Bohan off to make sure there were no
other Winged Folk lurking nearby, Anvar bent to examine the
strange captive.

She was very small and finely made—not much over half Anvar's
height, though each of the great black wings that sprang from her
back was longer than her body. The pinions were jointed, so that
their upper sections rose beyond her shoulders, higher than her
head, while the lower parts dropped to her feet in a graceful
tapering sweep.

As Anvar pulled her hands away from her bruised, tear-streaked
face, she glared at Aurian with eyes that were huge and dark. "She
hit me!"

The words were strangely accented, and Anvar guessed that his
Magefolk ability to communicate in all tongues was in operation
once more. "What did you expect?" he told her angrily. "You were
trying to cut her throat!"

The winged girl spat at Aurian's feet. "In my country she would
die for striking a Princess!"

Aurian groaned. "Not royalty again!"

Raven stared at /the tall, grim-faced woman who could fight like a
demon, and her stomach clenched into a tight, cold knot of fear.
Who werejhese horribly big, wingless beings? She

r

526 • MAGOIF,


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had never seen anything like them. What were they doing in this
deserted place? What would they do to her? The man with the
unnerving, sky-colored eyes grabbed her arm roughly. "Are there
any more of you about?" he demanded.

Raven's mind worked quickly. "Of course!" she snapped haughtily.
"Do you think a Princess would be unescorted? Let me go, ere I
call my guards to make an end of you!" "She's lying," the
redheaded woman said. "Tell us the truth!" The man's grip
tightened, making her squirm and gasp with pain.

Raven was inwardly raging, but that stern, ice-blue gaze made her
quail. "1 am alone," she confessed. She was unable to stop her
tears from com'mg. Yot au mstarvt, she thought she saw his
expression soften with pity, then he looked at the woman and his
face became grim once more. But it was a chance—if she could only
get him on her side . . . Raven gazed up at the man with
imploring eyes. "Please don't let her hurt me again!" The tall
woman snorted with disgust. "Listen, you can drop that terrified-
little-girl act. It's not fooling anyone. You're older than you
look, I'll wager, and I've the scars to prove that

you're a menace."

Raven was furious at the exposure of her ploy. "How dare you! I am
a Princess of the Blood Royal!"

"Not here, you're not," the woman growled. "You're our prisoner,
and in a lot of trouble. You attacked us first, remember. I still
owe you for pitching me off that tower."

Well, that was true enough, Raven admitted to herself. Yet despite
her attack on the woman, these people hadn't actually harmed her,
though they could have killed her at once if they'd wanted. And
she was so tired of being alone . . .

"Lady," she said at last, "I beg pardon for that. I—I saw you
coming, and I was afraid. I thought if I surprised



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you .       . ."

To her utter surprise, the woman grinned. "You didn't do too
badly, considering. Why did you slow my fall with your wings,
though? If you had dropped me from that height, you could have
killed me outright."

Raven shrugged, making her dark, glossy feathers rustic "I thought
if I had a hostage, the others might not hurt me,'

Just then a hulking figure emerged from the shadows.

AURIAN          •       527

Raven gasped. And she'd thought the others were big! Behind the
wingless man was a fearsome dark shape with flaming eyes. Raven
was all too familiar with the savage great cats, who lived on the
northern side of her own mountains, and waged a constant war with
her folk. She shrieked, and tried to run, but the man pulled her
back to his side.

"It's all right," Anvar reassured her. "Shia is a friend, and in
her own way, she can talk to us."

"She says that you really are alone, but she's found a camp of
sorts—with some food." The woman chuckled. "She's cross because
Bohan here wouldn't let her eat any of it. Seriously, though, is
it your camp? We're all dreadfully hungry."

"What I have, I will share with you," Raven offered, anxious to
make some gesture of friendship, "I caught some birds, but there
was nothing to make a fire. Besides, I was never taught to cook,"
she added frankly, "so my hunger is as great as yours."

The woman caught the man's eye and shrugged, "Lead on, and our
thanks to you," she said.

They walked through the empty city, the tall woman limping
slightly and leaning on the man's arm for support. Introductions
were made, although everyone was too concerned with the thought of


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food to say much more than that. Raven had set up her camp in a
building that consisted of a single large chamber with walls of
misty blue crystal. There was no door to close, and no furnishings
or signs that there had ever been any, though shelves and niches
had been carved into the walls and a pile of assorted gems had
been stacked along one side. The chamber's best asset was a small
spring-fed pool in one corner, which absorbed the attention of the
thirsty strangers for a considerable time.

Raven produced four good-size birds that she'd caught on the wing,
as she had often done at home for mere sport. The strangers took
charge of supper with a capability that she envied. The men—Anvar
and the huge Bohan—took the fowl outside to clean, while Aurian,
the tall woman, scrabbled around in the pile of gems. Raven was
mystified. What use would jewels be to her out here? Then all
became clear—and her eyes nearly popped out of her head with
astonishment. Aurian selected ajarge, flatfish piece of crystal
and set it
down in the middle of the floor. She sat down cross-legged and
held her hands over the stone, her eyes narrowed with
concentration. Within minutes, the gem was glowing hot and giving
off a warm light that set the walls of their shelter twinkling
cozily. Raven stared in utter disbelief, half afraid and almost
unable to believe her good fortune. "You are Magefolk?" she

whispered.

Aurian nodded briefly, still preoccupied with her task. Raven
clutched at her, the words spilling out before she could stop
them. She had never intended to go back, but . . . "Will you help
me? My people need you desperately!"

Aurian sighed. "Raven, I don't know if we can. We're trapped here
ourselves—but tell us about it while we eat. It must be serious if
it has driven you out here alone."

Anvar and Bohan returned with supper cleaned and plucked, and the
Mages contrived to spit the birds on sword blades and wedge them
in position over the fiery gem. "Can I help you heat that thing?"
Anvar asked Aurian. She shook her head. "I'm expending very little


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effort, but the crystal boosts my power. This Dragon-magic has its
uses."

While they ate, Raven told her story. Her people had lived in
their isolated mountain fastness for centuries, growing hardy
crops in terraced valleys and tending their flocks of hill goats
and ground birds. But in the last months, an unnatural, un-
seasonal winter had laid waste to their civilization. She told the
Mages of sudden, lethal snowstorms, of biting cold that had ruined
the land, and the-ascendancy of the evil, power-hungry High
Priest. Raven shuddered as she spoke of human sacrifices, of
atrocities committed in the name of salvation, of the helplessness
and desperation of her mother, the Queen. "Then Blacktalon
insisted on taking me as his bride," she said. "I knew he planned
to depose Flamewing and consolidate his hold over the Skyfolk,
ruling in my name."

She described her escape from Aerillia in the storm, and the
hardship and suffering of crossing the desert, flying by night
from oasis to oasis, exhausted and hungry, but driven onward by
fear and desperation. Tears stood in her eyes. "I didn't want to
run away. It was my only hope—I would not have survived
Blacktalon's cruelty for long—but it tore my heart to go. Even at
the risk of my life I would return, if I

thought I could do something. Could you help us? Please? My people
are dying!"

Aurian looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

Anvar both saw and sensed the Mage's distress, and knew what she
must be thinking. Eliseth. Who else could have brought down this
unnatural winter? The Winged Folk had fallen victim to the
Magefolk's pursuit of Aurian. An uneasy silence had fallen in the
chamber. Abruptly, Aurian thrust the remains of her supper aside.
Without a word she hoisted herself up with her staff, and limped
out of the chamber. Anvar followed her outside.

Aurian was sitting with her back against the wall of their
building, shivering a little in the cool desert night, her eyes


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fixed blankly on the sparkling heavens. "Go away," she said,
without turning.

"No." Anvar sat down beside her. "Stop blaming yourself."

"Who else should I blame?" There was a thin edge of anger in her
voice. "All this started because Forral and I—"

"Don't be stupid!" Anvar snapped. "Aurian, we've been through
this. It started because Miathan turned the Caldron to evil. It
started because of the blind, arrogant prejudice of the Magefolk
toward Mortals! You've suffered enough, without tearing yourself
up over the Winged Folk."

"How can you say that?" Aurian flared. "We're all responsible!"
Her eyes hardened. "Yes, even you, Anvar. You brought Forral,
raging, into Miathan's chamber that night, and forced the Archmage
to release the Wraiths!"

Anvar turned suddenly cold. "I've always wondered if you blamed me
for Forral's death," he said quietly.

Aurian remained silent, refusing to look at him. Not knowing what
else to say, he went back inside with bowed head and heavy steps.

Raven looked up as he entered. "Did I say something wrong?" she
asked him anxiously.

Anvar stared at her as though returning from a dream, and
collected his scattered thoughts. "No—nothing. She needs some time
to think."

Shia was not fooled. "Should I go?"

He shook his head, "She wants to be alone."

The light of the crystal was dying.                                  Anvar lay beside it, but its
residual heat did nothing to pierce                                  the bitter chill inside him.
Why now? he thought. Why, after all                                  this time, should she accuse
me? But she had every right. During                                  the months of their journey,


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he had thrust away the memory of his part in Forral's death, not
wanting to believe it and hoping against hope that Aurian did not.
Aurian . . . surely if she blamed him, she must hate him? Anvar
tossed restlessly, tormented by guilt and misery. It was hours
before he finally fell asleep, but the Mage did not return.

Aurian sat long into the night gazing blindly at the stars and
trying to come to terms with her guilt and confusion. Her angry,
unguarded outburst to Anvar had horrified her. She hadn't meant to
accuse him—the words had come from nowhere, as the thought had
come into her mind. Do I really blame him? she thought. Has this
been at the back of my mind all along? Suddenly she was startled
out of her thoughts by a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of
a stealthy movement in the darkness beyond her. The Mage reached
quickly for her sword—and caught her breath as a figure emerged
from the.

shadows.

"Forral!" The exclamation froze in Aurian's throat as he stepped
toward her. This pale wraith was not the lusty, living man she had
known and loved! His image wavered, oddly translucent and cloaked
in an eye-deceiving glimmer. His ghostly face was frowning and
s&d. Aurian felt herself redden with shame, as she heard his gruff
voice in her mind. "That wasn't very fair to Anvar, was it, love?
I taught you better than to waste time dealing out blame.
Miathan's evil is spreading, and that's no way to deal with it!"

"I know. I'm sorry," she whispered unhappily. The ghostly figure
smiled, his expression softening into a wistful, loving look.
Beckoning, he began to walk away from her. "Forral, wait!" Aurian
pulled herself up on her staff and limped hastily after him,
following him into the shadows of the abandoned

city.

She couldn't catch him. No matter how fast Aurian tried to hobble,
Portal's shade kept the same tantalizing distance between them,
though he never went out of her sight. At last



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he stopped, turning toward her, and she realized that they had
reached the mysterious cone-shaped edifice that was the center and
focus of Dhiammara. The humming power that emanated from the
structure seemed to vibrate within her very bones, but she kept
her eyes fixed on the beloved figure of Forral. She limped toward
him, her hand outstretched, longing to touch him once more.

"Don't!" The warning was sharp enough to halt her, though Forral's
voice had been gentle. He shook his head, his expression one of
deepest sorrow. "You can't touch me, lass. I'm breaking rules as
it is, coming to you like this." He smiled ruefully. "We were
never ones for rules, were we, you and I?"

"But I want to be with you!" Her voice caught on a sob.

"I know. Oh, my dearest love, how I've missed you! But I don't
begrudge you your life, and that of our child. Besides, you bear a
grave responsibility. The times ahead won't be easy, love, but I
know you'll manage." His face shone with pride for her. "You've
the courage and determination to succeed, you and young Anvar."

Forral's words grew gradually fainter as he spoke. His shade
seemed to be dissolving, drifting away from her like smoke on the
wind. "Don't leave me!" Aurian cried in anguish, as his image
faded.

"I'm being called back."

His voice was distant now. "Take care of our babe, love . . .
Remember ... I love you . . . But I'm gone . . ."

"No!" Aurian flung herself forward to the space where he had
stood. "I love you too, Forral," she whispered. Leaning her head
against the cool, tingling wall of the building, she gave way to
her heartache, her body shaking with sobs.

Aurian never knew how long she wept there. But it was not long. As
her tears fell on the smooth wall of green crystal, the humming
began to increase in volume and pitch. The Mage, her thoughts
filled with Forral, never noticed—until a door snapped open


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abruptly in the stone beneath her, pitching her headlong inside.

"Oh!" Aurian sat up, wiped her eyes, and looked around. She was in
a wide corridor that had been carved out of the gem. Its interior
glowed with a dim green light. The air was stale, and heavy with
an oddly spicy scent, but it was freshening
rapidly as the cold, thin air of the plateau whispered through the
open portal. Once again she felt the living mind within this
place, the sense of an alien power that tugged at her, urging her
farther within. The Mage resisted, wanting only to remain where
she was, to hug the precious memory of her meeting with Forral to
her as she might clutch at a dagger driven into her own breast.
But the power was persistent, and Forral had told her in no
uncertain terms that she had responsibilities.

"Oh, all right," Aurian muttered ungraciously, groping on the
ground for her staff. "But you'll have to wait until I fix this
wretched knee. Whatever you are, I want both legs under me when I
meet you!"

The Healing was surprisingly easy, and the Mage could have sworn
that the mysterious power was actively helping her. Whether it was
true or not, it reassured her. She stood up, and despite the
growing sense of awe that this strange place engendered, she crept
forward into the depths of the building.

Once again the corridor wound in an ever-climbing spiral. I'm
getting sick of this, Aurian thought. You'd think that once in a
while they might vary the design! Her smile at her own temerity
faded abruptly as the passage opened into an airy, circular
chamber: a dead end. The light was brighter now through the green
crystal walls, and she suspected that dawn must be breaking
outside. The floor of the empty hall glittered in the growing
illumination, and the Mage saw that it was inlaid with a delicate
mosaic of gold in an intricate whorled pattern that led both her
eyes and her feet to a great sunburst shape in the center of the
room. As Aurian stepped onto it there was a sharp, deafening
concussion like a clap of thunder. She recoiled, throwing up an
arm to shield her eyes as a blinding beam of sunlight, focused by
some hidden aperture in the domed ceiling, shot down to strike her


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in a blaze of gold.

"Aurian has gone!" Shia pawed roughly at Anvar, her eyes aflame.
"What happened between you last night, human?"

Anvar came abruptly awake. "Gods, we have to find her! After last
night, there's no telling what she'll do!"

Wan dawnlight shone through the crystal walls of their dwelling.
Bohan was packing up the remains of their supper

while Raven watched wide-eyed from a corner. "What is happening?"
she asked. "What has become of the Mage?"

Anvar almost choked on his resentment. If she hadn't decided to
saddle them with her problems . . . "Come on, you!" he said
harshly, yanking her to her feet. When they got outside, Shia was
already quartering the ground. "Cats don't usually hunt by scent,"
she told him, "but I think I can track her. It looks as though she
went into the city."

Gradually the dazzle faded from her vision. Aurian could see once
more—and could scarcely believe what her eyes were telling her.
The hall of the sunburst had vanished completely, and she stood in
a vast chamber that was formed entirely of gold: walls, floor, and
rounded ceiling. In the center was a towering, haphazard heap of
gold and gems, and on top of it— Aurian had to steel herself not
to run. Couched on the jeweled pile, lit by a single ray of
buttery sunlight that streamed through an opening in the apex of
the dome, was a huge golden dragon!

The Mage drew her sword and backed away, looking for a means of
escape. There was none. Apart from the aperture in the high
ceiling, the room had no exits at all. Aurian suffered a nasty
moment or two before she noticed that the dragon's eyes were
closed, and that it had not moved an inch since she'd first set
eyes on it. She remembered the devious time trap. The Dragonfolk
were famed for their cunning—could it be feigning sleep to lure
her closer?



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Nonsense, Aurian told herself firmly. Why, something that size
could catch you in seconds, if it wanted to take the trouble!
Squinting against the flaring golden light, she peered at the
motionless creature, reluctant to go any closer, and saw at last
the reason for its stillness. The bluish glimmer was difficult to
see against the gilded brightness of the dragon's scales, but it
was undoubtedly there. Someone had imprisoned it—taken it out of
time using the same spell that Finbarr had taught her so long ago!
Her Magefolk curiosity winning out, Aurian crept closer to the
slumbering monster.

It was difficult not to be afraid, though she knew that the dragon
was helpless. It was immense, easily big enough to fill the Great
Hall of the Academy, Aurian thought. But it was
beautiful, with the sun highlighting the elegant lines of its
sinuous body. It lay curled like a sleeping cat, its slender,
tapering tail draped across its fearsome jaws, its vast wings
stretched protectively over its treasure. Those wings! Aurian was
fascinated by them. They were ribbed like the wings of a bat, but
between the golden struts was stretched a fragile, translucent
membrane spangled with darkly gleaming scales in a silver network
of veining like the thin wire that bound the grip of her sword.
The Mage recalled both Yazour and Ithalasa saying that dragons fed
by absorbing the sun's energy directly through their wings. It
looked as though they had been right.

"Well, now what?" Her muttered words sounded obscenely loud in the
stillness of the chamber. Aurian fought the conviction that she
had been lured here by the mysterious power for a reason—to do the
most foolhardy thing that she had ever contemplated. She had been
deliberately led to this place, but whether it was for her
benefit, that was another matter! Yet when she looked at the
magnificent dragon, she found herself moved to unexpected
sympathy. Poor thing, she thought. How long have you been trapped
like that? Well, I only hope you're grateful . . . Backing away to
what she fervently hoped was a safe distance, Aurian took the
staff from her belt and began to unravel the spell.

As she did so, an intense feeling of Tightness washed over the
Mage—a confidence that suddenly vanished, leaving her weak-kneed,


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as the dragon raised its head. Huge faceted eyes of slumbering
fire pinned ""her to the spot with an unblinking stare. The dragon
opened its mouth, showing teeth like curved and gleaming
swords—and Aurian's fear turned to sheer delight as the air of the
chamber came alive with light and music. Whirls of pure, ever-
changing color flowed across the ceiling and walls. The air
flickered and flashed with shifting tatters of rainbow. The colors
danced and swirled to a music so pure, so utterly perfect that the
Mage's eyes filled with tears. Rounded and mellifluous but
strengthened with an underlying metallic edge, the fluent cascade
of notes was hard and mellow as gold. As Aurian stood, lost in
wonder, her powers were hard at work analyzing, remembering,
finding patterns. After a time, meaning began to emerge from the
breathtaking display of light and sound. This was the speech of
the Dragonfolk!


"I said, who awakens me?" There was an edge of irritation in the
fluid fall of notes, underlaid with a plangent yearning. "Why do
you not answer? Are you the One, come at last?"

After the dragon's music, Aurian's voice sounded dull and feeble
to her ears. "I don't know," she confessed. "Am I?"

The dragon seemed to have no trouble understanding her. Its
chuckle sent prisms of light bouncing through the chamber, making
the colors tremble and dance. "You have courage and honesty, at
any rate. If you passed the first test by unsealing the temple
door, there is hope, at least!" "/ opened that door?"

The creature snorted. "Of course! This temple has been sealed for
centuries, ever since the Dragonfolk quit Dhiammara! Our Wise Ones
decided that since we departed in sorrow, after the Cataclysm,
then sorrow would be the key for the One to unlock our ancient
wisdom once more. Your tears were the only thing that could open
that door, Wizard." The dragon cocked its massive head, looking at
her sidelong. "I take it they were your tears?

The Mage was taken aback. "Well, of course they were! I— I was
grieving for someone very dear to me, who died . . ."


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"Grief, eh? Most appropriate." There was smugness in the dragon's
tone.

Aurian clenched her fists, "I'm glad you think so!" she snapped.
"Personally, I don't find it particularly clever to make use of
another's suffering!"

"Who are you to question the wisdom pf the Dragonfolk,''" Aurian
was flattened by the dragon's roar. The colored lights of its
speech exploded into jagged shards of white lightning that seared
into her vision. The Mage picked herself up and glared at him, so
angered by his bullying arrogance that she forgot to be afraid.
"Who am I?" she cried. "I am Aurian, daughter of Geraint, Fire-
Mage. My father died trying to unlock the secrets of the
Dragonfolk's so-called wisdom, so don't expect me to be impressed
with your powers! Spare me your games, dragon. I have no time for
them! The Magefolk—Wizards, you used to call them—have turned to
evil. The Caldron has been found, and the Nihilim let loose into
the world. What, in your infinite wisdom, do you suggest I do
about that?"

The dragon's eyes flared bright crimson. "Then the ancient
prophecies have come true! You must be the One!"

"The one? Which one?" Aurian realized that she was shouting. "I
don't understand!"

"I see that the centuries have done little to moderate the
infamous Wizardly temper," the dragon snapped. It rattled its
wings in irritation, sending a small avalanche of gold and gems
cascading musically down its sloping treasure pile. "I speak of
the Sword, you imbecile! Chierannath, Sword of Flame, whose making
was preordained by the greatest of our Seers, to combat the misuse
of the other Great Weapons! You dare speak to me of loss and
grief? I, who have been sundered from my people, from my friends
and loved ones, to wait here, frozen in time, until the Sword
should be needed! My task, ignorant one, is to identify the One
for whom it was forged. And now you have come, disturbing my
slumber with your questions and your


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puny rage!"

Aurian spoke with the calm of deep shock. "Are you saying that the
Sword—the mightiest of the Great Weapons—was crafted centuries
before my birth specifically for m?"

"That remains to be seen." The dragon sounded skeptical. "I admit
that when I imagined the One, I had more of a ... heroic figure in
mind."

"So you'd be happier if I were some hulking, muscle-bound warrior,
would you? Well, hard luck!"

The creature's eyes flashed with a dangerous light. "Watch your
words. I will take nr*abuse from a puny, two-legged Wizard!"

Aurian swallowed hard, remembering the last fix in which her
temper had landed her. The dragon had no right to complain about
people being quick to anger! "Very well," she said. "Assuming I am
the One—what happens now?"

"Assuming that you are—you will complete the third test, which is
to re-create the lost Staff of Earth."

Aurian was speechless. Re-create the Staff? Impossible! Doubt slid
insidiously into her mind, and disappointment swamped her. He's
right—I can't be the One of whom he speaks, she thought miserably.
But she took a firm grip on her staff and straightened her spine,
knowing that if she gave up without trying, she would never be
able to live with herself.


The dragon was watching her intently, its curious eyes unblinking.
"Well? Do you intend to stand there gaping forever?"

Damn you, Aurian thought. "Am I allowed to ask questions?"

He laughed. "Very good! I may answer three questions— but not the
obvious one. Make them count, Wizard!"


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The Mage remembered what she had heard of the history of the
Staff. "I was told the Staff had been lost during the Cataclysm,"
she ventured. "Was it destroyed, then?"

"Yes." That was all he said.

Don't do me any favors, Aurian thought sourly. "But," she went on,
"you said re-create—so the powers of the Staff must still exist .
. ." In a flash of inspiration she remembered Anvar regaining his
powers, and how the Archmage had stolen them in the first place.
She thought of the crystal door underground that had sapped her
powers, and the bracelets of Harihn's folk . . .

"Was that a question?" The dragon broke into her train of
thought—deliberately, Aurian was sure.

"No," she said hastily, trusting her intuition. "This is my second
question: is the crystal that holds the power of the Staff within
this room?"

Starbursts of light filled the chamber. "Yes!" the dragon sang.
"And now you must locate it."

Aurian swore a bloodcurdling oath. Now she knew why the dragon had
such an uncomfortable bed. It was a decoy and another test.
Somewhere in that pile, indistinguishable from all the other gems,
lay the crystal that she sought. The Mage was horrified. It'll
take years to search through that lot, she thought. Think, Aurian!
There must be a better way! And there was, she realized. Because,
by her nature, she had always been drawn to her father's Fire-
magic, she had a tendency to neglect Eilin's side of her heritage.
Now, at last, it would come into its own.

Grounding the heel of her staff firmly, the Mage gripped it in
both hands and summoned the powers of Earth: the slow, heavy lives
of the mountains and stones, the soil's fecund womb, the exuberant
springing of growing things, and the bright, brief lives of
cj£%tures that crawled or ran, spawning in



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f
the endless cycle of life, death, and ultimate decay from which
new life would spring. By all these and more, which were the
essence of its very creation, Aurian called upon the powers of the
Staff of Earth.

And the powers answered! Aurian's staff almost jerked from her
hands, to point at the heart of the dragon's couch. The serpent-
carved wood began to hum and vibrate, and to blossom with a thick
emerald light. The dragon gave a startled squawk —the most
unmusical sound she had heard it make—and scrambled aside wich a
speed that beJied its massive size as its bed began to shift and
shudder, spilling in a glittering cascade f across the chamber.
From the center of the pile an answering ray of green shot upward.
Aurian dropped, protecting her head, as a mighty explosion of gems
and gold shot violently outward to rattle against the walls.

In the silence that followed, the Mage discovered, to her relief,
that she had kept a firm hold on her tugging staff. She stood up
shakily, bruised all over from the hard-flung treasure, to find
the chamber flooded with a rich green light. The dragon's head
snaked out from beneath a protecting wing and she heard the rasp
of air in its throat as it sucked in a huge breath. "Upon my
word," it said, sounding awed, "you do nothing by halves, Wizard!"

The staff pointed unerringly to the center of the room. There, in
the space that it had cleared so vigorously for itself, a glowing
green gem, about~fhe size of Aurian's circled finger and thumb,
sat in solitary splendor. The Mage approached it cautiously,
narrowing her eyes against the intense emerald radiance of the
stone. She halted an arm's length away, prevented from going
closer by the energy that pulsed from it like a wall of green
fire. Not until she had remade the Staff would that power be tamed
and contained so that a Mage could wield it and survive. But how
could it be done? Aurian ran her hands down her own staff, feeling
Anvar's skilled and lively carvings beneath her fingers. The twin
serpents that coiled around it were so lifelike that she could
almost feel them move . . . That gave her an idea . , .

There was, however, one last thing to settle. Aurian turned to the


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dragon. "I want to ask my third question."


The creature seemed surprised. "Ask, then. But I warn you, I
cannot tell you how to accomplish your task."

"That's all right. What I want to know is, If I re-create the
Staff, do I get to keep it?"

The dragon threw back its head and roared—but with laughter, not
the rage she had expected. "Temeritous Wizard! No one ever beat
your race for sheer gall! Yes, you may keep the Staff, for you
will have earned it. But be warned—always be aware of the forces
at your command, and the destruction you might wreak. Never make
the mistake that the users of the Caldron have made!"

Approaching the stone as closely as she dared, Aurian concentrated
her powers, not on the gem itself, but upon her own staff. She
passed her hands over the familiar surface, her fingers tingling
and bathed in light as she strove, using the magic of the living
Earth, to breathe life into the wood. Beneath her fingers, the
serpents stirred, their carved eyes winking into sparkling
awareness. Forked tongues flicking in and out, they raised their
scaly heads from the Staff. Aurian bent her will upon them,
instructing, commanding. Holding her staff by its iron-shod heel,
she held it out to touch the crystal. The serpents reached forth
and took the stone, grasping it tightly between them in their
fanged jaws.

An overwhelming surge of force ran up the staff, almost knocking
the Mage off her feet. She swayed, holding on tightly > ablaze
with the power of the stone. She felt her form expanding to
embrace the room, the city, the desert . . . She encompassed the
entire world—each stone, each blade of grass, every creature that
drew breath. She was all of them, and they were her, and she
gloried with them in the miracle of their creation! Aurian's cry
of triumph rang to the very stars as she raised aloft the newly
created Staff of Earth . . .

Shia had lost the Mage's trail. Leading the anxious companions


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through the city, she had brought them at last to the foot of the
towering green cone—and there Aurian's scent had disappeared. "I
don't understand," she told Anvar. "It reaches this place—then
stops."

Anvar cursed. "Don't be ridiculous! It must be there somewhere,
for goodness' sake U She can't have vanished!"

Shia glared at him. "Would you like to try?" she said

pointedly.

Anvar sighed. "I'm sorry, Shia. I don't know what to do, either.
We've been all around this thing, and there isn't an entrance
anywhere." He gazed up at the steep, glassy sides. "And she
couldn't have climbed—"

His words were drowned by the deafening roar of an explosion. The
cone blazed with a piercing viridian light, the entire edifice
rocked right down to its foundations. Anvar and the others were
thrown down as the earth cracked and lurched beneath their feet. A
great wind seemed to come from nowhere, howling and shrieking
between the city's buildings and whipping up choking clouds of
dust and debris.

Anvar struggled unsuccessfully to rise. "She is in there!" he
cried, above the noise of the sudden storm. "She must be! Great
Gods, what has she done this time?"

34

EARTHQUAKE!

nvar pressed his body flat to the ground as the earth shuddered
and heaved. Nearby he could see the others, all similarly
flattened by the force of the tearing gale and the quaking surface
beneath them. He choked on the wind-borne dust, and rubbed his
streaming eyes to see Raven nearby. The winged girl, unable to fly
in the storm, was whey-faced and weeping with terror. Even as he
watched, a gust caught her beneath her wings and half lifted her


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from the ground, rolling her over and over. Bohan grabbed her
wrist as she slid past, his weight providing an anchor for the
winged girl who caught at his clothes with her free hand and clung
to him, her face contorted in a silent shriek.

A hideous grating sound from above his head drew Anvar's attention
upward. Before his horrified eyes, a network of gaping cracks
snaked up the tower's green sides. "We have to get away from
here!" he screamed, trying to scramble to his feet only to be
thrown down again by the keening wind that snatched his words
away.

Shia, because of their mental link, was the only one who heard
him. "How?" The one word was harsh with fear.

The cracks were widening, and to his dismay, Anvar saw that nearby
buildings were suffering the same fate. The circle of destruction
was spreading out from the tower to engulf not only the entire
city, but the tortured bones of the mountain itself. He flung
himself to one side, as the ground tore apart beneath him in a
widening fissure. Too late! Anvar screamed as the earth crumbled
beneath him, pitching him headfirst into the yawning chasm whose
edges were already closing back together.

Pain shot up his leg as a strong grip closed around his ankle.
Anvar lurched to a halt, dangling upside down over the closing
gap. Faint as he was with terror, he hardly felt his other ankle
being seized, knowing only that he was being pulled to safety as
the jagged lip of the chasm gouged painfully into his stomach and
ribs, ripping his thin desert robe. The grinding edges of rock
snapped ^shut, missing his trailing fingers by
inches. He felt himself being hauled roughly to his feet—and came
face-to-face with Aurian.

"Get inside!" She shoved him toward a doorway—an aperture in the
face of the green tower that had not been there before. Shia was
crouched inside, her face creased in a snarl. Bohan, fighting the
gale with all his strength, was tugging the winged girl toward
the entrance. Anvar felt Aurian's arm around him, forcing his
faltering steps up the spiral corridor that wound into the heart


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of the disintegrating building. With a quick glance back to see
that the others were following, she dragged him forward. Choking
showers of green dust fell from the crazed ceiling above, blinding
them. Anvar's feet slid and stumbled as chunks of emerald erupted
from the cracking floor. Aurian suddenly halted, cursing, and he
saw that the way was blocked by a cave-in. Before Anvar could
blink, the Mage had raised her free hand, holding something that
blazed with a dazzling green light. There was a blinding flash, an
explosion of magic that knocked him clean off his feet, and the
passage was clear once more. Aurian wrenched him upright, almost
pulling his arm from its socket, but Anvar pulled back, frightened
by the unbelievable intensity of the power he had just witnessed.
"What was that?" he shrieked.

"Staff of Earth," Aurian replied brusquely, as if it were the most
normal thing in the world, "Come on!"

The Mage hauled the astounded Anvar along until they entered a
circular charnjjer where a golden mosaic glinted through the
fallen dust on the floor. Pulling him across the chamber at a half
run, she pushed him against the far wall. His heart lurched as he
felt himself falling—he put out his arms to save himself—and his
hands passed straight through the stone as his body was gripped by
the viscous substance of a portal like

the one in the oasis.

Once he had passed through into the darkness beyond, familiarity
gave Anvar the presence of mind to scramble out of the way of the
entrance, so as not to impede the others. Shia was next—he could
feel her coat, gritty with dust as she brushed past him, spitting
and snarling—followed by an hysterical Raven. The winged girl was
shrieking at the top of her voice and striking out blindly in
terror. A flailing wingtip caught Anvar in the face as she
struggled, but though he wanted to


reassure her, he was wheezing helplessly, unable to catch his
breath, and crippled by a stitch in his side. He felt a warm,
sticky trickle of blood down his ribs and belly where the skin had


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been torn         on the edge of the chasm. Like all flesh wounds, the
abrasions         stung furiously, exacerbated by the sweat that drenched
his body.         Though he was stunned by Aurian's revelation, all he
could see         was the jaws of the chasm closing . . . closing . . .

Raven's struggles had ceased. Bohan was comforting her with his
silent, solid presence. The chamber was becoming cramped with a
further pressure of bodies as Aurian joined them. "Cover your
eyes!" Her voice rang through the darkness. The flash of Magelight
was visible even through Anvar's closed eyelids and shielding
hands, but for a dreadful moment nothing happened. He fought a
stifling panic, imagining himself trapped and crushed within the
collapsing tower. Suddenly, after what seemed an eternity, his
stomach leapt into his throat as the chamber began to lurch
unsteadily downward in a series of shuddering jerks. "Thank
goodness! I thought we'd left it too late, for a minute." Aurian's
matter-of-fact voice was like balm. With a sigh of relief, Anvar
let himself slip into oblivion.

"There, my friend—does that feel better?" It did. The damp cloth
was soft and cool against Anvar's face, washing away the gritty
dust that clogged his eyes and mouth. He opened his eyes, and saw
the plump, comforting face of Eliizar's wife. "Aurian, he wakes,"
she called.

Anvar was reassured by the cheerful ring in her voice— until he
saw the Mage. Aurian had changed\ She filled the whole of his
consciousness, looking taller, fiercer, more vibrant and more
beautiful than he had ever seen her, glowing from within with an
awesome power that surrounded her like a cloak of light, Anvar
swallowed hard. This was a Goddess—some mighty Queen out of
legend! This was not his Aurian!

"What—what happened to you?" He got the words out with difficulty,
awed by her presence and fighting an urge to shrink away from her.
"You're different*."

Aurian shook her head. "It's the same old me, I'm afraid. Do I
look so dreadful?" Her smile was replaced by a fleeting frown. __



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"No. Not dreadful." Somehow, her uncertainty was reassuring to
Anvar. "Magnificent!"

The Mage grimaced. "And that's given everyone such a shock?
Eliizar nearly fainted away at the sight of me."

Anvar knew she was evading his question. "What happened to you?"
he persisted.

"Don't you remember? I found it, Anvar! The Staff of Earth!" From
a fold in her robe, where its dazzling light had been concealed,
Aurian produced the Staff—and Anvar quailed ' from the power that
pulsed through its slender, glowing length. This was the source of
the fire that imbued the Mage. But . . . Anvar frowned. Those were
his carvings—he'd know them anywhere. It was Aurian's old
staff—but changed. At the top, where there had been no
ornamentation, the twin heads of the serpents reared up, holding
between them, in their open jaws, a green gem whose incandescence
could outshine the very sun. Anvar shielded his eyes, unable to
look directly at the

brilliant stone.

Aurian tucked the Staff back into her robe, shielding its light.
"When I learn to control it properly . . ." She spoke calmly, but
her eyes blazed with a savage excitement. "At last we'll have a
weapon against Miathan!"

Anvar shuddered, suddenly afraid, thinking of the earthquake that
had almost killed them all, and remembering what the Archmage had
done with the Caldron. Would Aurian create such ruin in her
pursuit of revenge?

Anvar noticed that Aurian's face was taut with strain. She was
struggling to keep her voice light and calm as she continued,
speaking too quickly to give him a chance to interrupt. "I Healed
those scrapes of yours—they were full of dirt from the edge of
that chasm—so you're bound to feel drained for a while. Nereni
will get us something to eat, and I'm going to awaken Raven now.
She was so hysterical that I put her to sleep for a while. Before


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she wakes I want to try to do something about language. She can
understand us, but now we're back with the others, there'll be
problems. If I can fix it for her to understand the speech of the
Khazalim, we'll all be able to communicate." "Can you do that?"
Anvar was surprised. "Well—I've never heard of such a thing being
tried before, but I think I could manage. Remember, her people
were Magefolk before

they lost their powers. The understanding of languages should lie
within her—if only I can free it." But before he could speak
again, Aurian was gone.

"Are you well?" Nereni sounded anxious. Anvar had forgotten she
was there. "Just tired," he told her.

Nereni nodded. "No wonder you were shaken," she said. "Down here,
we thought the mountain was about to collapse!" With a worried
frown, she glanced across at Eliizar, who was tending Shia and
Bohan. Though they seemed little the worse for their experiences,
the Swordmaster's face was ashen.

"Anvar." Nereni hesitated. "What did happen up there? What caused
the earthquake? Aurian has changed—enough to frighten Eliizar out
of his wits when you came through the wall at the back of the
cavern."

So that was where they had come out! Anvar had been wondering how
Aurian had brought them back. "Weren't you afraid of her?" he
asked, avoiding her questions.

Nereni shrugged. "I hardly know—I was so relieved to see you all,
I never thought ..." She smiled confidingly. "Sometimes, I think
women are more practical than men—but never let Eliizar hear that
I said so! Anyway, you must eat. I will prepare us some food, then
perhaps you will tell me how you found that one!" She gestured at
Raven, who was awake now, and conversing quietly with Aurian in,
Anvar noted with surprise, the language of the Khazalim. I would
never have believed she could do it, he thought, and shuddered
inwardly, wondering what other powers might now be at the Mage's
disposal.


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After a time Aurian persuaded Raven to meet the others around the
fire, and Anvar was relieved to see the winged girl responding
gratefully to Nereni's mothering. While they ate, night fell
across the desert outside. Aurian looked across at Anvar. "I think
the time has come to tell our friends what brought us to the
South."

With that, she began to give the others a brief history of
Miathan's perfidy, which had brought herself and Anvar to the
Southern Lands. Anvar noted that she had omitted all mention of
Forral, and the fact that the two Mages were not wedded as they
claimed, and wondered. But perhaps she was right. It did

546 • MAGGIE FuRty                            •

no harm, and given the customs of these people, surely it was more
convenient to keep up the charade for a little longer? Without
giving anyone time to speak, she plunged on into what had happened
within the mountain, and how she had come to possess the Staff of
Earth.

Anvar was certain that Aurian was leaving things out of this part
of her tale. They had become so close after she had saved his life
in the slave camp that he instinctively knew when she was hiding
something. He felt a growing sense of unease. Why had Aurian left
out what had happened after they'd parted that night? What had
drawn her to the emerald tower? She claimed that the door had
opened when she had leaned on it. A complete fabrication—he knew
as much from trying the same thing himself. Anvar struggled with
his suspicion. What was she trying to conceal?

"Then the dragon said I had proved that the Sword was crafted for
me." Aurian's words brought Anvar abruptly out of his worried
thoughts. "You have the Sword?"

The Mage shook her head. "It was sent into hiding. The Dragonfolk
gave it to the Phaerie to take beyond the world. If the Seers were
correct, they'll return it when word of this new evil reaches
them. The dragon told me I must find it, and circumvent the traps


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set to guard it. He said that the Phaerie have an incentive to
fulfill their side of the bargain, and when the Sword is returned
to the world, its presence should draw me to it sooner or later."
^

Silence followed het words. All eyes were riveted on the Mage.
Anvar tried to meet her eyes, but she bit her lip and looked away.
"What about the missing parts of the story?" he demanded. "How did
you get into that tower? How did you know to go there in the first
place? If this dragon exists, where is he now? And, more to the
point, what did you do to cause the destruction of the city?"

"Are you calling me a liar?" Aurian's voice was dangerously quiet.
Anvar saw hurt and disappointment on the Mage's face, and knew
that he was being hard on her, and unfair perhaps. But he had to
know the truth. The Staff was to powerful to risk her becoming
corrupted, as Miathan had been with the Caldron. Thinking of that,
he became uncomfortably aware of the others listening to his
words. Eliizar's face was

rigid with fear and mistrust at all this talk of sorcery, and
suddenly Anvar understood the age-old Magefolk compulsion to keep
their business to themselves. This was between himself and Aurian.
"We need to talk," he told her in a low voice, using their own
language—but his words were drowned by the staccato ring of hooves
on stone. Anvar turned to see the veiled and shadowy figure of a
lone horseman riding through the cavern entrance, ducking low to
avoid the lintel, the draft of his passage making the torches
flicker and smoke. Eliizar let out a whoop of joy. "Yazour!"

They crowded round the young captain, all talking at once, other
considerations forgotten for the moment. Yazour loosed the string
of horses he had been leading, and the thirsty beasts, used to the
ways of Dhiammara, made their way up the ramp to the upper pool,
taking their burdens with them. Nereni persuaded everyone to stop
crowding the tired man long enough for him to sit by the fire,
where they all crowded around him again, their faces expectant.

Yazour took a grateful swig from the water sack and rubbed a hand
over his dusty and unshaven face, looking round at them all. "All


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here—including our missing Lady! I see you found the supplies,
then—And who is this?" He looked won-deringly at Raven, who smiled
back shyly.

Eliizar grinned, plainly much more at ease now that another
warrior had returned. "I win our wager," he told Yazour, "You
see—the Winged Folk da exist!'1

"Indeed they do—and if you had told me they were so pretty,
Eliizar, I would have been climbing those very mountains even now,
in search of them!"

Raven blushed crimson, and Anvar, despite his troubles, had to
smile.

"I wish I had come sooner," Yazour was saying, "but I had my oath
of loyalty . . ."He shook his head sadly, "It was a difficult
decision to make, but I was so sickened by what the Khisal had
done— Well, in the end I could stand it no longer. I knew I had to
come back for you. I persuaded the guard to turn a blind eye while
I slipped away—I knocked the man out, to spare him Harihn's wrath
when my escape was discovered—and traveled back as quic4*ljft as I
could."

"There's no chance of the Prince following you?" Aurian's voice
was sharp with concern.

Yazour shook his head, his face gone suddenly bleak. "Even Harihn
is not that stupid—he'll save his own hide. You see, we are in
grave danger, my Lady. The weather has changed out of season, and
we must leave first thing tomorrow night and cross the desert as
quickly as we can. It will be a difficult crossing— we are ill
equipped with what little I could bring—but we must make all
haste, for our lives' sake. The sandstorms will be upon us at any
time, and if we cannot reach safety before they

arrive . .            ."

This had to be Eliseth's work! Anvar clenched his fists. The
Magefolk had absolutely no concern for the innocent lives that


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might be—had already been—lost in the process of Aurian's
destruction! And it only served to heighten his concern over
Aurian. What would she be capable of, now that she wielded this
new power? He glanced at her as she sat, intently discussing plans
with Yazour. What had happened to the trust they shared? Why had
she lied?

There was no opportunity, in the excitement of Yazour's return,
for Anvar to speak to the Mage, but at last, after dawn had
broken, everyone lay down to rest in preparation for the journey
ahead. Aurian had been avoiding him all night, and now she chose
to lie down on the other side of their group beside Shia. Anvar
found himself missing her presence by his side, and cursed himself
Jfor a fool. But though he wanted to stay awake in order to tackle
her in private about the discrepancies in her story, his eyes
refused to stay open, and before long

he was fast asleep.

Some inner prompting awakened Anvar. Some vague, unconnected
feeling of distress drew him out of sleep while the bright midday
sunlight still reflected through the mouth of the cave. He opened
his eyes and sat up, and saw that Aurian was missing. The Mage was
not far away. Anvar found her seated alone by the pool, wracked
with sobbing, the knuckles of one hand pressed to her mouth as she
wept with the brokenhearted abandon of a hurt child. Concern and
pity overwhelmed him, and in that moment Anvar knew that whatever
she had become, whatever she might do with her new and awesome
power, he could not help but love her.

AURIAN -549

Aurian, lost in her misery, barely reacted to Anvar's presence as
he sat beside her. "Don't cry," he murmured, not knowing how to
comfort her. "It's all right—I'm here."

"What if you are—you think I'm a liar!"

Anvar recoiled from the venom in Aurian's voice. Aware of her raw
emotions, he forced himself to sound calm. "It wouldn't be the


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first time I've been wrong about you. You've been proving me wrong
ever since we met, I'm glad to say." She looked at him then, a
pleading look that went to his heart like a dagger. He tried to
gather her into his arms, but she pushed him away.

"The dragon," she began shakily, all in a rush, without looking at
him, "you wanted to know about the dragon. Well, he's dead. I
killed him—as I destroyed the city." Anvar forced himself to
remain silent, knowing better than to interrupt her now that she
had started to speak.

Aurian was struggling to keep her voice under control. "The city,
Anvar, it wasn't there at all. What we saw—what we experienced—was
the distant past. When the Dragonfolk left Dhiammara they
destroyed it, but locked it in time, in the instant of its
destruction—until the wielder of the Sword should come. Once that
happened, the spell was freed and the city began to collapse." Her
voice choked on a sob. "I wanted to help the dragon. I wanted to
take him out of time again, but he wouldn't let me. He said he had
chosen to stay behind, and now that I had come, his task was
done." A tear rolled down her cheek. "He wasn't lovable, Anvar, he
was arrogant and sly and ill-tempered, but . . . Oh, he was
beautiful and clever—and he spoke in music and light! He had
waited so long, and for all we know, he could have been the last
of his kind, and it was my fault . . ." Aurian began to cry again,
hiding her face in her hands. "I never even asked him his name . .
."

"Hush, silly." Anvar stroked the Mage's hair. He was grieved by
her grief but at the same time he felt almost lightheaded with
relief. How could this woman, who could mourn the death of beauty
and courage and self-sacrifice, turn to evil? "It wasn't your
fault," he comforted her. "You didn't choose to be the one he was
waiting for. This path was set out for you, for all of us. The
drago^ was right, Aurian. He died centuries

before our time. What you saw was a ghost, if you like—in a

city of ghosts."



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With a half-articulated curse Aurian turned to stare at him, her
eyes wild and wide, one hand held up before her mouth. "How did
you know about that?"

"Whatever it is, I don't. Do you want to tell me?"

"I don't want to! You'll think I'm lying again!"

"Look, I was wrong—"

Aurian hushed him with a brusque motion of her hand. "This power
we're dealing with—well, you were right to be concerned. The
temptation to fall into evil as Miathan did is great, and we must
guard each other constantly. That's why I should have told you
everything. It's just that—I couldn't, before. It hurt too much.
But . . ." In a low, shaking voice, she told him of her meeting
with the specter of Forral, and how it led her to the green tower.

Anvar was speechless with dismay. Portal's ghost, haunting
them—watching them. He shuddered, not wanting to accept this, not
wanting to believe . . . Somehow he found his voice. "Aurian,
forgive me, but are you sure you didn't imagine this?" "How could
I, you ass? Forral led me to the tower! How else could I have
found it so quickly? I knew you wouldn't

believe me!"

"I do believe you—and I'm sorry I doubted you before." He
swallowed hard. "I wish I hadn't made you tell me, that's all. It
scares me, Aurian."

"After what I said to yt»u the night I saw Forral—" Aurian looked
away from him, twisting at the corner of the blanket.

"That has nothing to do with it—"

"Anvar," she interrupted him determinedly, "I owe you an apology
for that. We all played our parts in that terrible business—you,
me, Forral himself—though it hurts to admit it. But I truly don't
hold you responsible for his death, and neither does he—I know


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that now. What else could you have done? You couldn't have fought
the Archmage on your own! The way Forral reacted—and Miathan—that
wasn't your fault! You were

trying to help!"

Anvar sighed. "I only wish I could so easily exonerate myself for
what I did that night."

"Is that why you came with me? Guilt?" Her voice was

sharp. Anvar ran his ringers distractedly through his hair, not
wanting to continue, but somehow compelled to answer her question.
"At first it was—guilt and fear, to be frank. Later, after you
saved me in the slave camp, I told myself it was loyalty and
gratitude." He looked into the Mage's eyes. "But I was wrong. Now
I want nothing else but to be with you, to take care of you and
the child."

"The child?" The two words contained a world of questions.

"I care about the child because I owe Forral a debt, but also
because—well, I feel there's a bond between us. It's like me, the
offspring of a Mage and a Mortal, not quite one thing or the
other. I know how that feels, Aurian, and though it can't be the
child of my body, it is the child of my heart—not least because of
what I feel for its mother."

Aurian looked at him wonderingly. "I never knew. Somehow I never
thought of it like that."

"You don't mind?" Anvar held his breath.

She shook her head. "How could I mind? Besides, with my powers due
to leave me . . . well, I'm not ashamed to admit that I need you,
Anvar, we both do." At long last she smiled, and Anvar had to
steel himself not to ruin their fragile bond by kissing her then
and there. Instead he hugged her and ruffled her hair, trying to
mask the tenderness in his voice with briskness. "Well, now we've
settled that, I suggest we get some sleep. It'll be time to leave


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soon."

Anvar awoke at dusk, with Aurian asleep in his arms. In her
unguarded slumber the glory of the Staff had dimmed, and she
looked worn and vulnerable, and all too human. Beneath the thin
blanket, the slight bulge of her pregnancy could now be seen, and
he felt awash with tenderness for the Mage and her unborn child.
Wayward tendrils of her hair, which she had never been able to
control since she'd cut it, straggled across her face, moving
gently with the rhythm of her breathing. Anvar smiled, thinking of
her hair when it had hung past her waist in a cascade of fiery
crimson, and how he had combed it for her the night that Forral
had died. How wonderful its silken weight had felt, running
through his fingers! I loved her then, he thought. I loved her,
and couldn't admit it to myself. How could I, as nothing bu*4wr
servant? How dare I admit it now?

- She'll never love me, he thought sadly, not with all that stands
between us—the memory of the past, and the ghost of Forral
shadowing our lives. If I had not gone to him that night, he might
still be alive now. No matter how Aurian excuses it, how could I
ever expect her to love me after that? In that moment, as he
looked down at the sleeping Mage, Anvar's decision crystallized. I
still owe her a debt, he thought. A debt of blood, for Forral's
life. Even if it costs me my own life, that debt must be
repaid—and one day, I'll find a way to do it.

Anvar reached out, as though touching her would seal his vow, and
gently brushed the wayward curls from the Mage's face. To his
dismay she stirred, opening her eyes, and he snatched his hand
back as though he had been burned as the raw power of the Staff of
Earth blazed into life within her once more. But already she was
learning to control it. Even as he watched, the glory dimmed as
she strove to contain it within

herself.

Aurian sighed. "Morning already?" she murmured sleepily. Anvar
glanced toward the mouth of the cavern, wishing that they need not
always be so driven, longing for some time alone with her. But


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such a luxury seemed as unattainable as the moon. "Nightfall, I
think," he told her. "We had better wake the others. It's time to
go."

The remainder of the journey across the desert took a score of
days, some of the worst days that Aurian could remember. Ever wary
of the imminetite of the storms, Yazour pushed them hard, driving
the companions and their horses to the limits of their endurance.
Aurian found herself envying Raven, who had flown on ahead,
following the string of oases to reach safety at the desert's edge
as fast as she could. Since Yazour had been unable to bring any
tents for them, the companions were forced to spend the broiling
hours of daylight in the open, shaded by makeshift shelters of
blankets and with their eyes, and those of the horses, bound in
layers of cloth to filter the blinding glare. They had no pack
animals, so food and water were tightly rationed and everyone
suffered badly from hunger and thirst.

Worst of all, there was the unrelenting heat. During the earlier
part of their journey, there had always been the restless night
breeze to cool them as they traveled, but this had ceased

with the weather's unseasonal change, turning the desert into a
suffocating oven. Each night the day's stored heat rose in a wave
from the desert floor to engulf the riders, leaving the air turgid
and stifling. The encrusted coats of the horses were dark and
soaked with sweat, and their breathing, clogged by clouds of gem
dust, came thick and wheezing from their laboring chests. The
riders were drenched in sweat that ran stingingly into their eyes
beneath their cloying veils, sweat that left their desert robes
clinging clammily to their bodies as the life-giving moisture was
lost to the dry desert air.

Shia, with the thick furred coat of a mountain dweller, suffered
badly. At least the others were able to ride, but she was forced
to lope along behind the horses on her own legs. Built for short
bursts of speed, she was finding the grueling race across the
burning sands almost beyond her endurance. In addition to her
dreadful weariness and thirst, her paws became raw and blistered
from the friction of the hot gem dust, and before long, she was


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leaving a track of bloody prints behind her as she ran.

Only her love of the Mage kept her going. And each day, when
Aurian should have been resting to conserve her own energy, she
spent herself in Healing the exhausted and suffering cat, trying
to lend Shia enough of her own faltering strength to continue.
Anvar, who was looking increasingly worried as time went on, did
his best to help, but he was no Healer, and his efforts were of
little practical use except that they loaned the Mage an increment
of strength to keep her going from day to day.

As time went on, Aurian became more and more frantic. The crossing
of the desert was a race against time, and she knew she was
losing. Her body was beginning to grow ungainly now with her
advancing pregnancy, and already she was finding riding more
uncomfortable. Even with the Staff of Earth, she knew that she was
overtaxing her own fading powers, and because of this, they were
failing rapidly. Soon they would vanish completely, and—Whenever
she thought of it, she was overwhelmed by a wave of choking panic.
How could she help Shia then? How could she safeguard herself and
her child, and defend her friends from the evil of the Archmage
and his cohort Eliseth?   —*

The worst of it was, that under the Law of the Desert, Shia ought
to be abandoned. On the worst days, the cat even begged them to do
it, gazing pitifully up at the two Mages with eyes that were
distant and glazed, and pleading with them to leave her, or put
her out of her misery. Aurian would grit her teeth, forbidding
Anvar with her steely glare to tell the others what Shia had said.
But they were already thinking it—she could see it in Nereni's
frequent tears, and in the guilty way that Eliizar and Yazour were
avoiding her eyes. Even Bohan, her loyal tower of strength, was
beginning to look uncomfortable, and eventually, she knew, she
would have Anvar to contend with. Although he had so far refused
to press her on the subject, knowing how much Shia meant to her,
she knew that his concern for herself and the child were pushing
him toward the unthinkable option. All that Aurian could do was to
expend herself mercilessly, forcing herself with the entire
strength of her indomitable will to defy them all, to keep Shia
going somehow until the end of the journey.


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They were still a few days from the desert edge when the worst
happened, and Aurian finally succumbed to the heat and her own
exhaustion. The others, having always lived in this hot climate,
had been able to endure the broiling temperatures, and Anvar had
built up a certain amount of resistance from his grueling
captivity in the slave camp. Aurian, however, had been cossetted;
first as one of the Arena's chosen, and then in the cool comfort
of Harihn's palac?. Even so, she might have managed— except that
she was driving herself beyond the ends of endurance. Each day her
suffering grew worse, until at last she was overcome by what
Yazour called the heat sickness.

Though her robes clung stickily to her body, Aurian was

wracked by shivers. Her head pounded, and she was dizzy and

nauseated, unable to keep down any food and too weak and

fevered to heal herself. All she could do was cling desperately to

the pommel of her saddle, and try to stay on her horse. By the

time they reached the last oasis, Anvar had to lift her down, and

she was barely aware that he did so. But as he laid her gently on

the ground, the Mage was prevented from sinking into wel

come oblivion by a cry that echoed in her mind—a faint, pitiful

rrv for help. Aurian tried to sit up, brushing feebly at Anvar's
restraining hands, ignoring the pain that lanced through her head.
"Shia!" she gasped. "Where's Shia?"

It took a great deal of determination on Anvar's part to persuade
Yazour to go back and find Shia, but Aurian became so frantic that
finally the warrior relented. It was an hour before he returned,
with the great cat slung limply across the shoulders of his
faltering and terrified horse. In the meantime, Nereni had been


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sponging the Mage's fevered body with cool water from the oasis,
while Bohan brought her water—as much as she could keep down.
Anvar had been pacing back and forth, coming to look at Aurian
then striding back to peer out across the dunes, his dusty face
furrowed with concern as he cursed himself for not being able to
help the Mage, and also for being so worried about her that he had
forgotten Shia, He helped Bohan lift the cat down from the
trembling horse and laid her by Aurian's side, stroking the sleek
black head now dulled and harsh with dust, hearing the faint rasp
of her tortured breathing.

After a moment Shia opened her eyes, their light a dim echo of its
former golden glory. Her thought was as nebulous in his mind as a
fading wisp of smoke. "Goodbye,"

Anvar clasped her bleeding paws, feeling the spark of life within
the great cat flicker, feeling the beating of her great heart
beginning to falter. "Goodbye—my friend," he whispered.

"Goodbye be damned!" Aurian-'s voice cracked across Anvar's grief
like a slap in the face. He dashed the mist of tears from his
vision to see her sitting up, her eyes smoldering grimly, her face
pale but resolute. Before he could stop her, she had reached
across to Shia, linking herself irrevocably fo the great creature,

"No!" Anvar caught the Mage's limp body as it slipped sideways,
freed from the control of the mind that was far away in an
unbreakable trance as it fought to keep Shia's soul within her
failing body. Helpless and desperate, he clutched her, unable to
reach her, his heart gripped by icy dread. He knew what she was
attempting—had she not done the same for him in the slave camp,
when she had sought his fleeing spirit and brought it safely home?
But this, time she was weakened, exhausted, and
ill. And she would have no strength left to return. Frantically,
he cast forth his mind as Aurian had taught him, seeking her,
trying to find even a slight trace of her passing. But though he
searched and searched, he knew that she was lost to him.

"Anvar!" A dim echo, the voice penetrated faintly into his
consciousness, pulling him back. A hand was shaking roughly at his


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shoulders. To his surprise, Anvar saw the western horizon burning
with the last traces of sunset light. He'd been gone that long?
Fear snagged at his breathing, but then he felt the faint movement
of breath in the body that was still clutched in his cramped and
aching arms, saw an answering lift of the great cat's ribs. They
still lived, then—and Aurian was still fighting. Yazour let go of
his shoulders, squatting before him in the open mouth of the
makeshift shelter of blankets that had been rigged over himself,
Shia, and the Mage.

"By all the Gods ever spawned, man, I've been frantic! I thought
we'd lost you all!" Yazour's face betrayed a mixture of relief,
concern, and annoyance. "What happened, Anvar? What can we do?
Have you seen the sky? The storms will be upon us. at any time."
He gestured at the western sky that was hazed and fuzzy on the
horizon, and shot through with spars of lurid j orange light.
* Anvar's voice grated in his parched throat, but his words fell
strangely calm upon his own ears. "Aurian is linked with Shia—we
can't move them. You'll have to leave us, Yazour. Take the others
and go QQW, make a dash for safety while you still can. Save your
own lives."

"And will you come with us?" Yazour's voice was very

quiet.

Anvar knew there was no hope; he could do nothing now, to help the
Mage and Shia. Already they were as good as dead. The sensible
thing would be to go with the others, to save himself and the
Staff of Earth—and take the fight back to Miathan in Aurian's
name. He knew it all too well—he even knew that the Mage would
want him to do so—but he looked down at Aurian's still form, and
remembered his anguish in Dhaimmara, when he thought she had died
within the crystal of the spider-creature. He remembered the
terror that had pierced him when the great stone had fallen in the
tunnel, and how he had flung himself beneath to die with her,
rather than
be tortured again by her loss. The Mage's breast still rose and
fell, in that shallow parody of life. He knew, better than anyone,
the strength of her stubborn will. How could he abandon her while


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yet she lived? How could he go through the years, knowing that he
had left her, helpless, in the desert of a foreign land?

Anvar looked at Yazour, and shook his head. "Don't be stupid," he
said.

Chapter             35

THE WELL          OF      SOULS

he door was ancient, its thick weathered wood as gray _——— and
heavy as a block of stone, the time-blunted carvings on its panels
obscured by the weight of years. As Anvar put a hand to it, vague
shapes and intertwining patterns seemed to leap out at him,
outlined in silvery Magefire—fire that leapt sizzling from his
fingers, turning his hand into a blazing torch. Anvar flinched,
sickened by the sight of his own bones shining darkly through the
incandescent flesh, but he felt no sense of heat or pain.
Soundlessly, the door swung open, and he stepped through. As he
took his fingers from the panels, the fire in his hand was snuffed
out, shrouding his surroundings in shadowy

gloom.

Shimmering gray mist coiled around him, cutting off his vision as
effectively as a curtain. Then, like a curtain, it parted to
reveal a stooped figure whose form was obscured by a hooded gray
cloak. The apparition held a staff in one hand, leaning on it in a
way that gave the impression of great age. In its other hand a
shuttered lantern cast a single, silvery ray upon the white,
gleaming-wet pebbles of a path. As the vision turned its head,
Anvar caught the intelligent gleam of a piercing dark eye, and the
fuzz of a grizzled beard within the shadows of the cowl. In that
moment, the old "man seemed as familiar as though Anvar had known
him always, yet he could not recall having met him, or anyone like
him, in his life. In fact, he realized with a shiver, he could not
remember anything. He frowned. How had he come to be here? Where
had he come from? As though he could hear Anvar's confused
thoughts, the old man gave him an encouraging smile, and beckoned
to him to follow. At first the path led through a narrow, steep-


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sided cutting. Drooping trees overshadowed the way, forming a
tunnel, and the high banks on each side were stacked with rounded
mossy boulders and the feathery green fountains of ferns. The air
was soft with clinging moisture, and musked with the scents of
leaf mold, wild garlic, and wet greenery. Anvar felt the tension
in his breast beginning to relax as he took deep breaths. The

AUR1AN          •       559

damp, fragrant air was such a relief after the scorching desert
...

The desert! Anvar stopped dead, straining to catch at the fleeting
memory. He'd been in the desert, and— The old man caught his arm,
with a warning shake of his head. The very tension of his body
implied a desperate urgency. Hurry, he seemed to be saying. No
time for such thoughts. He let go of Anvar and lengthened his
stride, the faint gleam of his lantern vanishing rapidly in the
misty dusk. Anvar, panic-stricken at the thought of losing his
only guide in this strange, fey place, hurried to catch up.

With a suddenness that took Anvar's breath away, the narrow track
opened out into a valley. The clinging murk vanished, leaving only
a silken, silvery ground mist that swirled underfoot, displaced by
his soundless passage and that of his pilgrim guide. Catching a
brief glimpse of the ground beneath his feet, Anvar realized that
the path had vanished, and he was walking on a short, crisp carpet
of turf. Above him, millions of stars speckled the velvet night,
and the rounded curves of hills rose on either side, shouldering
against one another and standing out as blacker humps against the
star-crazed heavens. The silence wove a tangible spell around the
mist-wreathed vale as Anvar, with no memory of the past or
thoughts of the future, trailed after the hunched and shrouded
figure with the lantern, as though this following were what he had
been born to do.

The grove loomed out of the darkness as though it had materialized
from a dream, holding for Anvar an eerie familiarity. But surely
he had never set foot in this weird, unearthly place
before—except, perhaps, in dreams. The huddle of ancient trees


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bowed in upon one another as if to conceal a mystery; as though
they whispered secrets to each other through the endless night.
For an instant the thought of the desert flashed again into
Anvar's mind. To his horror the scene before him began to ripple
and distort, as though he had dropped a stone into the cogent,
fathomless well of the trees' meditations. He held up his hand,
and found it becoming vaporous, insubstantial; the dark skeletal
outlines of the trees were clearly visible through the fading
flesh.

The old man swung round sharply with a warning hiss— the first
sound that AQvar had heard him make. His breath

s6o • MAGGIE

puffed out in a cloud before his face, spangling his bushy,
graying beard with droplets that winked like stars in the light of
the silver lamp. The incongruence of the sight diverted Anvar,
concentrating his wayward thoughts upon this strange here-and-now;
and to his relief the scene before him steadied, and his flesh
became solid once more.

The old man turned back to the grove and bowed low, three times.
To Anvar's surprise, a path appeared between the ancient, hoary
trunks, as though the trees had accepted them and stepped back
hastily to allow their passage. Anvar, awed and not a little
afraid, followed his guide, passing through the archway of living
wood into the heart of the grove.

In the center of the ring of trees, cupped in a circle of soft,
mounded moss, was a pool—the very womb of this magical place.
Though it was overhung by protective branches, not a leaf marred
its still, dark surface. Anvar followed his strange guide to the
brink, looked down—and recoiled in astonishment, stepping back
hastily. Instead of reflecting his own face framed by the lacework
of branches above, the waters, of un-guessable depth, held nothing
but endless starry infinity! Anvar's head reeled. His heart
pounded, as though trying to beat its way out of his chest. He had
the utter conviction that if he should fall into those waters, he
would be falling forever . . .


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The old man gave a long-suffering sigh. Then, to Anvar's horror,
he gestured firmly at the terrifying pool—and spoke at last, his
voice as dry andaead as graveyard dust stirring on the chill winds
of midnight. "Never believe that Death is merciless. Now comes the
second part of the bargain. But remember, the third time will
decide all . . ." With that, he vanished.

Anvar spun, looking around wildly, knowing in his heart that it
was hopeless. His guide had gone. The only thing he understood was
the clear edict to return to the pool. He hesitated, afraid to go
near that dizzying brink. As though they had somehow sensed his
reluctance, the trees began to shudder with anger as a hissing
echoed through their branches.

Hastily, Anvar returned to the pool, and the tumult of the trees
died away. As he drew near it, spars of light flashed and flared
from the darkness of the glassy surface, making him flinch and
shield his eyes. He approached with trepidation and

AUR1AN          •       561

knelt upon the brink, feeling more secure that way. It was as well
that he had. The starry universe within the waters was spinning in
a furious whirlpool of light, dragging him down, down into its
dizzying vortex . . .

Anvar felt himself leaning perilously out over the pool, his nose
almost touching that spinning surface. He was overbalancing . . .
Unable to draw back from the hypnotic whirling, he dug his fingers
deep into the yielding moss of the bank, pushing backward with all
the strength of his rigid arms. He blinked as a fiery speck, rare
and brilliant amidst the swirling whiteness, came spinning up
toward him from the depths. The spark enlarged; resolved itself;
took on glowing shape and form ... A cry ripped from Anvar's
throat. He was flung violently backward as a figure erupted from
the waters, showering him with crystal drops that burned like
fire. A despairing voice called his name as Aurian struggled and
thrashed in the center of the pool, fighting with all her strength
against being sucked back down into the whirling nothingness.


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"Aurian!" Memory returned to Anvar in a shocking flash, and with
it confusion. Where was the oasis? But there was no time to
wonder. The Mage was weakening, dragged down by a great black
burden larger than herself—Shia. Anvar knew somehow that if he
entered the pool it would mean the end for them all. He stretched
out as far as he could, leaning out to the utter limits of his
reach. Aurian's wild flailings made it difficult —he missed her
once, twice. Although she still seemed to be wearing her desert
robes, as was he, there seemed to be nothing he could get hold of.
"Your hand," he yelled at her, praying that she would hear. "Give
me your hand!"

He saw her shift her grip on Shia, saw the whiteness of the arm
that she flung out toward him. He plunged perilously forward, made
a wild grab, trying to fling himself backward as he felt his
fingers close around her wrist. The combined weights of Aurian and
the cat dragged at him, he felt himself slipping . . . Anvar
flattened himself against the ground and hung on with all his
strength, his arm strained to breaking point. If he could have
used both hands— But the other was still anchored deeply within
the soft moss, the only thing that was stopping him from following
theJWtage into the pool. Deeply rooted as it

T
had been, Anvar could feel it beginning to crumble beneath his
fingers, beginning to tear away and—

As the moss gave completely, plunging Anvar forward, a I hand came
down out of nowhere, clamping his wrist like eagle I claws. Long,
jagged nails bit into the thin skin, crushing tendon and bone and
making him cry out in agony, but he did not relinquish his hold on
the Mage. With an effortless twitch, the hand flung him clear of
the pool, and Aurian and Shia with him. Though it had let go of
him, Anvar could feel the imprint of the ghastly hand scorching
his flesh. His skin was bloodied and torn where the nails had
scored deep, crescent-shaped gouges. Biting his lip against the
pain, he rolled onto his back —and his heart contracted to a ball
of ice as he looked up at the scarred and ravaged face, the burnt-
out sockets that had once held the terrifying gaze of the


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Archmage!

Miathan was robed in black, and his face was hideously disfigured.
The skin around his empty eye sockets was blackened and cracked,
suppurating and showing nauseating glimpses of red flesh and the
white skull beneath. And set into the dark hollow of each socket
was a faceted gem. The jewels burned with a glaring light—now
white, now red—giving his skull-like face the soulless menace of a
gigantic insect. But it was his smile, most of all, that struck
terror into Anvar's heart. Aghast, speechless, Anvar was paralyzed
by that face, and its expression of gloating evil.

A hand grasped his^shoulder. Aurian was using him to pull herself
to her feet, trying'to put him safely behind her. Her eyes burned
silver with hatred. Anvar could feel her fear in the slight tremor
of her fingers, but it did not show in her face. Shamed by her
courage, he tried to rise, but the Archmage made a contemptuous
flicking gesture with his fingers. His crystalline eyes flared
with unholy light, and a bolt of searing blackness lashed across
Anvar, hurling him down again in gasping agony.

"How dare you!" Aurian stood defiantly before Miathan, and her
voice thundered forth like a landslide. "It is forbidden to use
magic in the Place Between the Worlds!"

The Archmage's laughter rang out, cruelly mocking. "Fool! You
quote the Law of Gramarye at me, who taught you all you know? I
dare ANYTHING \" His clawed and bony hand

lashed out, flinging a whiplash of blackness at the Mage. She gave
a cry of pain and doubled up, crumpling to the ground.

Though his eyes were gone, it was plain that the Archmage was
using the arcane magic of the jewels to give him sight. The cold,
hideous glitter of his empty gaze swept across Aurian and Anvar,
and on his ghastly face was a contemptuous sneer. "That's better,"
he said. "Grovel before me—where you belong!"

Aurian pulled herself to her knees and spat at Miathan's feet.
"I'll never grovel to you, you piece of filth! But one day I will


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kill you, you have my word on that!"

Miathan laughed again. "Really?" he sneered. "I doubt it —helpless
as you are with Forral's brat in your belly! You'd have done
better to submit to me, girl. You would have had power at my side,
as much as you wanted! Instead, you are nothing—a hopeless
fugitive crippled by a half-Mortal abomination. Without your
powers you're as helpless as a beggar woman, and like any street
whore, you'll be ripe for the taking of any man who
passes—including this cowardly, bastard scum!" He turned to Anvar,
his voice curling with scorn. "You will have what you wanted now,
eh? Her powers have gone, Anvar, and your long wait is over. Who
knows, she might even like it; she seems to enjoy defiling herself
with Mortal offal such as you!"

Miathan's persuasive voice had the power to hold its victims in
thrall. Anvar looked at Aurian, helpless before him, and felt his
long-suppressed desire beginning to stir. He heard Aurian gasp;
the fear and sudden doubt in her eyes pierced him like a sword as
he realized that they had been tricked. He glared at the Archmage,
his mind cleared by the scouring of his anger, which burned like
an icy flame.

"I am no Mortal, Miathan," he said evenly, "as well you know. I
regained my powers that you stole. And you need not project your
lusts on me; the Lady knows full well which of us wants to defile
her—and which will protect her! Aurian may be helpless, but if you
come near her, you'll have me to reckon with!" But Miathan had the
Caldron, and Anvar's words were empty, and he knew it. Even so, he
saw Aurian give him a grateful glance, tempered with a grimace at
the idea of needing

his protection. It was so characteristic of her that it buoyed
him, despite their peril.

Miathan, undisturbed by the failure of his ploy, roared with
mocking laughter. "You should have stuck to your earlier ambition
of being a minstrel, boy. Already you are affording me the
amusement I expected. For know this . . ." His voice turned
suddenly hard. "I did not save you both from the Well of Souls,


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out of the goodness of my heart."

"Too right—you don't have one!" Aurian snapped. "Quiet!" His
outflung hand sent a lash of darkness cracking hard across her
face. She staggered, but refused to cry out, biting her lip
against the pain.

Anvar, boiling with rage where he had been cold before, tried to
launch himself at Miathan, but the Archmage froze him with a
casual gesture, continuing to speak as though nothing had
happened. "I might have let you perish here, and saved myself a
good deal of trouble—had I considered you a threat. But I have not
finished with either of you. It would grieve me, Anvar, if your
death was painless and swift, and as for you, my dear"—he turned
to Aurian with a chilling leer—"I have other plans. Until we meet
again in the flesh, you can entertain yourselves imagining your
respective fates, but for now, farewell!" As the Archmage spoke
his final word, the scene began to waver and dissolve before
Anvar's eyes. He closed them for an instant, to stop the dizzy
whirling, and when he opened them again, he was back at the oasis.
A sickly, sulfurous light lay over the dunes, as the sun struggled
to pierce the ominous banks of cloud on the horizon. I must have
fallen asleep, Anvar thought. Gods, what a nightmare! But at that
moment Aurian's eyes opened, and in them was horror, and a sick,
sinking dread that matched his own.

Aurian was unable to explain what had taken place at the Well of
Souls. Her best gue^ss was that Anvar had fallen asleep, and his
anxious spirit, freed from the fetters of the waking world, had
managed to cross into Death's domain to reach her. But his tale of
his encounter with the Reaper of Souls, and the specter's talk of
a bargain, filled her with a vast disquiet. It seemed so familiar,
somehow . . . Surely, when she had won Anvar back from Death's
clutches in Taibeth, the Reaper had

said something similar ... If only she could remember . . . And
how had Miathan come to be there?

Aurian grimaced at the strip of dried meat in her hand. Her hunger
was blunted by guilt for having exposed herself and Anvar to the


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Archmage—and by the fear that twisted her guts. Miathan had been
right. Her powers, stretched past their limit when they were at
their most vulnerable, had utterly vanished, leaving her
defenseless. "Damn Miathan!" she muttered. "Why did he have to
come back now, at the worst possible time?" With an oath, she
flung the offending food away from her.

Anvar reached out of the shelter and retrieved the meat. Dusting
it off carefully, he put it back into her hand. "Be sensible,
Aurian. You need to eat," he told her.

Aurian looked at Shia, who was sleeping now, recouping her
strength. The cat remembered nothing of what had taken place,
though she and Aurian had both been Healed of their infirmities in
the Well of Souls. What else could I have done? the Mage thought.
Had I not acted as I did, Shia would be dead. She prayed that the
price of Shia's life would not prove too high.

"You did what you had to." Anvar's quiet voice broke into her
thoughts as though he had been reading her mind.

Aurian took his hand. "Thank you for that. But we're in so much
trouble now, with the storm coming, and Miathan on the loose, and
my powers gone." She couldn't control the tremor in her voice.
"Anvar, I'm scared," she confessed. "Without my magic I'm so
vulnerable. Now that Miathan has recovered from my attack,
anything could happen." Aurian shuddered. "And what about the
Staff? I don't think he knows that we have it, but if he should
find out . . . Anvar, do you remember the shipwreck, when he
possessed my body and tried to kill you?"

Anvar nodded, looking puzzled at her switch of subject. Aurian
took a deep breath, dreading what she had to say. "What if happens
again, now that Miathan has recovered? Anvar, if he should get
control of the Staff—"

"No!" He was ahead of her now. "Don't say it, Aurian—"

"I must. If I—if Miathan should gain control of me, you'll have to
kill me, Anvar. You'll have no choice—as I would have no other


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recourse if-k-shappened to you."

"I am not going to kill you! I won't!" Anvar's voice dropped to a
horrified whisper. "I can't."

Aurian's heart went out to him, but she met his gaze without
flinching. "I'm sorry, my dearest, but you must. If Miathan gets
the Staff, it will be the end of everything—and better we die,
than let him take us. You heard what he said, at the Well of
Souls."

Anvar hardly heard her last words. He knew that the endearment had
slipped out without her being aware of it, but ... He fought to
keep the jubilation from his face, not wanting her to withdraw
from him, as he knew she surely would. Whatever she might feel for
him, she was still grieving for Forral, and would be stricken with
guilt at the thought of replacing her childhood love. It's too
soon; give her time, he told himself, and prayed to all the Gods
that the Archmage would let them have that time.

Miathan's chamber was dismal and chill. The blaze that he had left
in the huge fireplace was sunk to sullen embers clogged with pale
ash, and the lamps were guttered and dark. Dull light streaked
through the curtains, announcing the dawn of another grim day over
Nexis. The Archmage's body lay on the bed, just as he had left it,
looking pale and gelid as a corpse in the dim, bleak light. His
hovering consciousness shuddered, and shrank from returning to
this cold, pain-wracked housing, but it had to be done. Miathan
braced himself and plunged downward, slipping back into his
corporeal form with the ease of long

practice.

Entering his body was worse than falling into an icy pool. Miathan
swore vehemently, steeling himself against the pain. Since Aurian
had attacked him, he had suffered the agony of his burnt-out eyes,
and he knew it would never leave him. With Eliseth's help, he'd
discovered enough of the magic of the Drag-onfolk to permit him to
use crystals to give him back a form of sight, but the sharp edges
of the gemstones chafed the tortured sockets. Still, it was better


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than living blind. He cursed that mad bitch Meiriel, who had
refused to Heal him, and that treacherous worm Elewin, who had
helped her escape.

Miathan reminded himself that lying here raging would bring him no
nearer to his revenge. He pulled his robes around

him and hauled his creaking bones from the bed, though he was
shaking violently from the cold, and from reaction to the
prolonged journey Between the Worlds, which had so depleted his
energies. Leaning on his staff, the Archmage hobbled to the fire
and threw on an armful of logs, deciding to let them blaze of
their own accord, rather than waste the last of his strength on
kindling them by magic. He filled and relit the lamps by hand,
frustrated to impotent rage by the fumbling efforts of his
weakened state.

By the time Miathan had finished, the room was already cozier. The
fire snapped and sizzled, dispelling the arid silence and sending
tongues of orange flame over the resinous logs to brighten the
dank air with the tingling scent of pine. Warm lampglow mellowed
the dismal daylight, gilding the silver dish of bread and fruit on
the table. The Archmage turned to the food that he kept in his
quarters for his return from a journey beyond his body. He poured
wine, with a stab of irritation as he noticed that the flask was
almost empty. Were Elewin here, such an omission would never have
occurred! But the Steward was gone, he reminded himself bitterly,
turning traitor as Aurian had done, Aurian! Miathan's tongue slid
over his lips at the memory of her falling before him, tortured by
the pain that he had inflicted. When he had her back in his power
he would teach her the true meaning of pain! Once he had broken
her to his will he would take her—and at last, he had the means .
, , Smiling to himself, Miathan sent out a mental call to summon
Eliseth. He hated to confide in her, but there were things she
ought to know.

Eliseth was in the Archives when she heard the Archmage's call.
She cursed and pushed her hair back from her face with a hand that
was black with dust. What did the old nuisance want now? Since
that vermin Elewin had gone, Miathan seemed to think she had


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nothing better to do than run around after him! And was he
grateful? Not a bit—even though she had found a cure for his
blindness! Only she had thought to seek answers in the moldering
records stored beneath the library, after the escape of Meiriel
and Elewin had drawn her attention to Finbarr's neglected
catacombs. Bragar, of course, was too stupid to think of making
use of the awctent wisdom stored there, but Eliseth
had realized that any extra knowledge might give her the
advantage—not only over Bragar, but over Miathan as well.

Eliseth's searches in the cold, dirty tunnels had been far from
pleasant, but the results had been well worth the discomfort.
While finding a way to restore Miathan's sight, she had discovered
much more besides, matters of dark and arcane lore dating back to
the Cataclysm, which the Archmage had no idea of—nor was she about
to enlighten him. She had found no solution to the problem of the
Wraiths, but she had unearthed a great deal of information
pertaining to the Caldron, and she knew how to make better use of
it than Miathan had. She only needed to find out where the old
fool had hidden it ... Eliseth smiled as she went to answer the
Archmage's summons. His mental voice had held overtones of
triumph, and she was anxious to discover what he was up to—and how
it fitted in with her own plans.

Eliseth listened, incredulous, as the Archmage told her how he had
sensed the presence of Aurian, Between the Worlds, and how he had
tracked her to the Well of Souls, and Anvar with her. The
existence of another Mage came as a considerable shock to Eliseth.
"Aurian's servant? One of «j?" she gasped. "Did you know about
this?"

"No." Miathan shook his head, but she knew that he was lying. "I
had my suspicions," he said. "I knew she must be getting help from
somewhere. But I hardly thought it worth mentioning—the notion
seemed too farfetched."

"That's an understatement! How could he have been here at the
Academy without us knowing? Where did he come from in the first
place? Who were his parents?"



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Miathan shrugged, his voice suspiciously bland. "Who can say? He
came to us as a Mortal, the son of a baker, but it seems that his
true father was of a different stamp. Anvar is a bastard —a half-
breed with a Mortal mother—but as to which of the Magefolk
fathered him . . ." He shrugged again, the picture

of innocence.

Eliseth's eyes narrowed. This is too glib,                                         she thought. You know
too much. Well, here's a turnup! The great                                         Archmai: prone as the
rest of us to using a Mortal for pleasure.                                         But to 1 so careless as
to father a child—no wonder you were upset                                         Aurian's pregnancy!
There was no time now to consider wli

advantage this might bring her. She turned back to Miathan, before
he could see where her thoughts were tending. "So where does this
leave us? I don't understand you, Archmage. Why did you not kill
them, and be done with it?"

Miathan's fist slammed down on the table. "How many times have I
told you? I want Aurian alive\"

Eliseth bit down on her anger. Despite what the bitch had done to
him, he still wanted her! Concealing her rage, she took up the
weapon of common sense. "But with respect, Archmage, you're asking
the impossible! Aurian is too far away for us to capture her, and
if you wait until she comes to you—Well, you said yourself that
the risk was too great. And alive, will she not always be a threat
to us?"

"Her intransigence will be dealt with!" The gems in Miathan's eyes
flared red, betraying his anger. "Besides," he continued, with a
chilling smile, "Aurian's capture has already been dealt with. She
and Anvar were not the only minds I encountered in the Southlands.
I have found one who, for his own reasons, can be easily bent to
my will."

"What?" Eliseth was dismayed. She had underestimated the
development of Miathan's new powers badly, if he could already
control Mortal minds with such confidence!


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"Our experiment using human sacrifices has worked out better than
I had expected." Miathan drew her attention back to him. "We can
certainly proceed, Eliseth—but I need more power, to keep my
Southern pawn on a close rein. Tell Angos that more Mortals will
be required—tonight!"

"But Archmage," Eliseth protested, "there is already unrest at
these 'disappearances.' We must be more circumspect—"

"You have your orders! Tell Angos to proceed at once!" Miathan's
faceted eyes gleamed. "I wish I had known about this sooner. With
power gained from the ritual spilling of Mortal life, nothing is
beyond us! And I need that power, Eliseth. Aurian is currently in
the Southern desert, but when she leaves it, I have a surprise for
her! She will discover then what it means to defy the Archmage!"

Eliseth stormed out of the Tower on the wings of rage, sending the
first poor terrified drudge she found to summon Angos, Captain of
Mercenaries, to the Academy. She glared
after the retreating servant, her fists clenched, her body rigid
with determination. Thus far/she would obey Miathan s orders,

but no further.                   ,

"So you're determined to bring her back, Miathan? she muttered.
"Well, / may have a surprise for J^' ^"l* swiftly she crossed the
courtyard to the dome in which she did her work of controlling the
weather. So Aurian was in the desert? Excellent! She would never
come out alive! Smiling grimly, Eliseth went to unleash the
sandstorms.

Vxhapter              36

BATTLE        IN      THE WILDWOOD

ate at night, Vannor walked with his daughter Zanna, along the
torchlit shingle beach in the smugglers' great cavern. Fragments
of shell crunched softly beneath their feet, and the only other
sound was a hushed, soothing sea song as the waters lapped gently


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against the sheer walls at the rear and farther side of the cave.
The companionable silence was broken by Vannor's sigh. His reunion
with Antor and his daughter had been joyous, but the brief time
spent here with them had flown—and tomorrow he would be leaving
again.

"Cheer up, Dad." Zanna squeezed his hand, much to Vannor's
chagrin. Why, he should have been consoling her\ But his middle
child, just turned sixteen, possessed common sense far beyond her
years. She was his favorite, taking after him in all
ways—including looks, unfortunately. He smiled at her, taking in
her sturdy, compact little body, her plain, pleasant face, and her
brown hair, pulled back from her face in no-nonsense braids. "I
thought you'd want to go with me," he said.

"You should have taught me to fight, then, like the Lady Aurian,"
Zanna replied. "The maidenly arts that caught my sister a husband
are wasted on me." She sighed, betraying her true feelings. "I
wish I could come—but I'd only hold you back. Besides, I'll be of
more use here."

Vannor put his arm around her, hugging her close to his side.
"Well, you seem to have it all thought out. Do you have any plans
your old dad should know about?"

Zanna smiled, a secret little smile that added a new maturity to
her face. "I have, indeed, but you must promise to hear me out
before you start yelling!"

"All right." The merchant wondered what she was up to.

Zanna hesitated for a moment. "I'm going to marry Yanis."

"What? Are you out of your mind? Over my dead body will you wed
some base-born outlaw—"

"Dad, you said yould-jiear me out! You can't be choosy
now," Zanna reminded him. "You're an outlaw, too! It may not be
what you want, but don't you see the sense of it? I'm not cut out
to be a merchant's wife, all decorative and ladylike." She made a


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wry face. "Besides, you know how merchants go for looks. You can't
afford a dowry that would tempt one to take me—and I'm needed
here. Yanis has been struggling since he took over. Oh, he's
brave, and full of ideas, but he doesn't know how to plan\ But I
do—I'm not your daughter for nothing!

Vannor gaped at her, astonished and—reluctantly—impressed. "But
he's twice your age!" he objected.

"Not even thirty," Zanna corrected swiftly, "and you have no room
to talk about age differences!" Vannor flinched, knowing her
vehement disapproval of Sara, and changed the subject hastily.
"Was this his idea?"

"Certainly not!" Zanna was all indignation. "But Remana will help
me. She thinks it's time he married—"

"Hold on! You mean Yanis doesn't know about this?"

Grinning, Zanna shook her head. "No—but / don't p/an to let that
stop me'. Dulsina says—"

"Dulsina again!" Vannor growled. "I might have known she'd be in
this somewhere!" He tried to quell the fond smile that was
creeping over his face at the thought of his indomitable
housekeeper. When he was outlawed, Dulsina had insisted on
accompanying him into the sewers, where she had proceeded to
organize and mother his ragtag band of rebels, learning to shoot a
bow and wield a deadly knife in the process, with the same calm
interest tharshe would have shown in trying out a new recipe. Now
she had come with him to join the Nightrun-ners, and was
reorganizing the lives of his family again, as though she had
never left off.

Vannor shook his head. "Dear Gods!" He suddenly found himself
ceasing to worry about his levelheaded daughter. His sympathies
swung instead toward the unsuspecting leader of the smugglers.
Poor Yanis didn't stand a chance!

"Come along, Dad." Zanna tugged at his arm. "Here comes Parric,


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with the others. It's time to say goodbye."

"And that's another thing—" Vannor began—and shut his mouth
abruptly. He had no right to burden his daughter with his doubts
about Parric's pigheaded insistence on traveling south, in search
of Aurian. He should be coming with us, to the

AtlRIAN           •       573

Valley, Vannor thought. Even supposing the Lady will help us, how
will I set up a rebel base without his help? It's all very well to
say I'll have Hargorn to help me, but the man is a soldier, not a
strategist! I just don't have the military experience for this
—and Parric is going off to get himself killed for nothing!

The Cavalrymaster came out of the opening that led from his
lodgings, and smiled to see Zanna with her dad. He was glad the
little lass had come to say farewell—he'd grown right fond of her.
Why, if he'd been a few years younger . . . Parric stifled the
thought. Vannor wouldn't stand for a randy soldier tumbling his
favorite daughter! Besides, her attentions were fixed
elsewhere—and good luck to her. Yanis wasn't bright, but he was a
handsome catch, and Parric knew whose hands would hold the reins
of that marriage! He chuckled, wondering if she'd had the chance
to break the news to her father. By the stunned look on Vannor's
face, it seemed she had. Sure enough, as he approached, Zanna gave
him a sly wink behind her father's back. Parric fought to keep a
straight face, feeling absurdly pleased that the lass had chosen
to confide in him. Even if it did imply that she saw him in a more
fatherly role than he liked . . .

"Better get a move on!" Idris, the weatherbeaten, pinch-faced
captain of the ship that was to take them south, hailed them from
the deck of his vessel. "The tide won't wait, you know!" Parric
grinned and made an obscene gesture at him, before turning to
Vannor.

The merchant looked troubled, as he had done since the
Cavalrymaster had first broached what Vannor called "this crazy
scheme." Parric decided to beat him to it, for he had no time to


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argue the whole thing out again. "It's all right, Vannor," he said
firmly. "You'll manage, and I'll manage—and I'll be back as soon
as I've found Aurian."

"//you find her," Vannor muttered doubtfully. "You have no idea
how big the Southern Kingdoms are—not to mention the hostile,
warlike nature of the Southerners!"

"But that's why Aurian needs my help . . ." Parric might as well
not have spoken.

"Added to that, you've saddled yourself with an old man and a mad
Mage," V§njnor went on, but to Parric's relief, he
shut his mouth hastily as the old man and the mad Mage came over
the sands toward them with Sangra, who had refused to be left out
of the expedition.

"Ready to go?" the warrior asked cheerfully. Parric could have
kissed her—but that could wait. "Get them aboard, love," he told
her, "I'm just coming." He turned back to Vannor. "You're right
about one thing—I wish we could have persuaded Elewin to stay
behind. The journey here took it out of him, and he's in no fit
state to go traipsing around the South."

Vannor shrugged. "Meiriel will be in good company— you're all
bloody mad! I don't know why Elewin is so sure that he's the only
one who can take care of her—she's been lucid enough since she
came with us." Suddenly his gruff reserve broke, and he flung his
arms around Parric with tears in his eyes. "I'll miss you, you
idiot," he muttered. "Take care of yourself—and for the sake of
all the Gods, come back safe."

"Count on it." Parric returned the hug, his own voice choked with
emotion. "Don't worry about commanding the troops, Vannor. They
know their business, and they'll keep yon right. Besides, once
you've found Eilin, she'll give you the help you need. I'll be
back before you know it, and what's more, I'll bring that wife of
yours with me."

"I hope so, Parric, I truly hope so."


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The following evening, Vannor stood with Dulsina and Zanna on the
grassy clifltop as the pallid sun set over the hills behind him.
The air was chill with the unnatural winter that had lingered this
year, but the view was glorious. Below and to his right was a pale
sweep of crescent beach, embraced by cliffs and cradling the calm,
shining sea. Some half-league distant on the opposite horn of the
crescent was a green knoll, crowned by a stark and sinister
standing stone. Directly below the merchant's feet, a vee-shaped
niche hid the beginnings of a narrow crumbling path that descended
the cliff. Apart from the secret tunnel for the horses, this
perilous, well-guarded ledge was the only landward access to the
smugglers' stronghold.

"Having second thoughts?" Yanis approached, panting from his climb
up the steep path. "You ought to," the smuggler went on. "Why take
your folk inland, Vannor? It's safer here,

AURIAN          '       575

and you're welcome to stay. Your children are brokenhearted that
you're leaving them again."

"That's what I've been telling him," Dulsina put in.

The merchant sighed. "This place is no good to us as a fighting
base, Dulsina, as you very well know! All these objections are
only because I wouldn't let you come!"

Dulsina shrugged, and raised an eyebrow. "Your mistake, Vannor,"
she said serenely. Vannor scowled, wishing they would leave him
alone. It was bad enough parting from his children again. Tney
were all he had, now . . . Nonsense, he told himself. Sara is with
Aurian, and she'll be all right . . . And Parric had promised to
bring her back. Vannor hated to admit that this was really why he
had allowed the Cavalrymaster to talk him into his crazy scheme.

"Anyway, Yanis," he said, picking up the thread of the
conversation. "It's my children and your people that I'm thinking
of. They'll be safer if we're away from here."


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"But the Valley has an evil reputation now," Yanis protested.
"They say the Mage Davorshan was killed there."

"That's exactly why I'm going! Davorshan's death was no accident,
I'm sure. After what happened to Aurian and Forral, the Lady will
protect us—you can count on that."

"But the risk in getting there! Angos is combing the countryside
looking for you!"

"We'll be careful. And the Valley is a far better base for us
—more central, and nearer the city."

"That's what worries me," Yanis said glumly. "Well, I'll let you
go. If we hear any news of Parric in the south, I'll try to get
word to you. The Gods go with you, my friend. And don't worry,
I'll take care of your children."

"Goodbye, Yanis—and my thanks for all you've done," Vannor told
him, reflecting that in the case of one of his children, it might
end up being the other way around.

"Take care of yourself," Dulsina told the merchant, "since I won't
be there to do it for you!" she added tartly.

"Goodbye, Dulsina." Vannor hugged her. "Take care of Zanna for me,
won't you?"

"As if Zanna couldn't take care of herself!" the housekeeper
snorted. "It's you idiot men I'm worried about!" With that, she
left him to say his farewells to Zanna.

But there was little need for words between father and daughter.
They had said it all already. "Don't you dare marry that smuggler
of yours before I get back!" he teased her gruffly. "That's a
wedding I don't want to miss!"

Zanna hugged him. "Then you'd best get a move on, Dad." She looked
up at him through her tears. "I don't plan to wait forever, you


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know!" For a long moment they looked at each other. Zanna bit her
lip, and her arms around him tightened. "Bye, dad." She whirled,
and was gone.

The merchant turned away, back to his waiting rebels. Perhaps it
was the confusion of the departure, perhaps it was the tears in
his eyes—but he never noticed that he was one man short.

As soon as Vannor's troop had vanished over the nearest rise, the
gorse that concealed the horses' tunnel parted. Zanna emerged,
followed by Dulsina, dressed in warrior's gear—and the grizzled
veteran Hargorn, carrying two packs. He looked at them and shook
his head. "The Gods know why I let you talk me into this," he
sighed. "Vannor will have my bollocks off— Begging your pardon,"
he added hastily, to a frigid look from Dulsina.

Zanna grinned. "It's because you love us," she teased him. "Are
you ready, Dulsina?"

The housekeeper smiled wryly. "I hope my old walking muscles come
back quickly," she said dubiously.

"With respect, ma'am, they had better!" Hargorn snorted. "We can't
afford to let you slow us up—and you'd better hurry, if we want to
catch the others now! Vannor won't notice if we slip in quiet, at
the back."

"Don't worry, Hargorn. If Vannor can do it, then so can I. The man
hasn't walked anywhere in years!" With a hug for Zanna, Dulsina
shouldered the pack, and raised her eyes heavenward. "The things I
do for Vannor," she sighed.

"The things you do for love, you mean," Zanna murmured softly, as
Dulsina strode away into the dusk. Smiling, she began to pick her
way back down the cliff to find Yanis.

Where in the Pits of Torment are we? Vannor wondered. The partings
with his family and friends seemed like a long-ago dream. The
rebels had been wandering for days on these bare,



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AURIAN          '       577

blighted moors that stretched from the sea to Eilin's Vale.
Because they had been forced to keep to the winding valleys for
concealment from the searching bands of mercenaries—far more
numerous than Vannor had expected—they had soon become lost. And
now they were doubly lost in this pitch-black nighr, for clouds
had dropped to the hills, shrouding them in a thick clinging mist
that brushed the merchant's face like cold cobwebs.

Vannor curbed, as he'd been cursing for days. What had the
Magefolk done to the weather? By the calendar, it should be
haytime going on harvest, and these hills should be basking in
sunshine, swathed in the vivid green of young bracken and the
cloudy purple of early heather, the sky a deep blue bowl filled
with the wild, bubbling joy of the skylark's song. But spring had
never come this year, let alone summer, and the land was withered
and sere. People would be starving now, Vannor thought. Those who
had died in the Night of the Wraiths might have been the lucky
ones.

The grim, wintry weather preyed on the merchant's spirits, sapping
his courage and hope. If only Parric were here, with his military
skills and unquenchable spirits! He wouldn't have got them lost in
a fog! If they had had horses, instead of having to make this slow
and winding journey on foot, they could have reached the sanctuary
of the Valley days ago! But there were no horses to be had. The
smugglers had not had enough to supply them, and most of the
others had probably been eaten already, Vannor suspected. Parric
had trusted him to take care of the rebels—and a fine mess he was
making of it! "I'm no good at this!" he muttered helplessly. "Oh
Parric, why did you have to go?"

In desperation, Vannor had left his band and crept to the top of
this hill, hoping to pierce the mist that lay in the Valley like a
deep gray river. But it was no good. Even up here, he could see
nothing. "Fional? Hargorn?" he whispered to the scouts who had
accompanied him. There was no reply. Confound them! Had he not
warned them to stay close? Sound carried in fog, and he dared not
call out to them. The hills were alive with Angos's soldiery. If


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they were lost, there would be no chance of finding them_JTL this
murk. Angry at their stupidity
and worrying about their safety, he set off down the hill to
rejoin his troop.

Vannor had walked for some time before the dreadful truth dawned
on him. His scouts were not lost—he was! He had reached level
ground long ago, sure he was heading the right way—but there was
neither sight nor sound of the rebels. Van-nor's heart began to
thunder, and a clammy sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.
When he had been sure he was heading in the right direction, he'd
been all right, but now . . . The cloying mist swirled around him,
confusing him beyond all hope of finding his bearings. Vannor
choked on panic. Was the ground really level beneath his feet? Was
he moving in the wrong direction, and heading straight into the
arms of the enemy? He fought a desperate battle with himself to
keep from running blindly into the darkness, fleeing from the fear
that threatened to consume him . . . With an effort, Vannor got
hold of himself. Steady, he thought. Calm down, you fool. What
would Parric have done in this situation? He wouldn't have got
himself lost, for a start—but that's no comfort!

He stopped and took a swig from his waterflask, wishing it
contained the fiery liquor he used to keep at home. What now? He
could wait here until the mist cleared or dawn came, whichever
happened sooner. Or he could try to retrace his steps, in the hope
that he would blunder into his troop. He knew the most sensible
course was to stay put, but the cold was piercing and inactivity
galled him, forcing his mind into futile imaginings. Was that a
sound?"t)ver there? Or that way? Was it his people? Or the enemy?
Again and again he was on the verge of racing after illusory
noises, though common sense told him that he risked losing himself
even more completely on these vast stretches of moorland. In the
end, with his nerves frayed to breaking, Vannor gave up. Better to
be moving, he decided, to try to retrace his steps. At least that
must surely bring him closer to his people. Turning himself
carefully to face back the way he had come, Vannor set off again
into the fog.

Damn and blast it! The tilt of the ground beneath his feet and the


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strain on his thighs were no illusion. For some time, Vannor had
been wandering uphill again—a hill far steeper than the one he'd
climbed before! How could it have happened? He'd been so careful!
Dismayed and disgusted with himself, the

AURIAN          '       579

merchant sat down heavily and put his head into his hands. It was
no good. Maybe he could think more clearly if he rested a little.

Vannor sat up with a jerk. It was still foggy but there was dingy
gray light around him, and he could see yellowish, withered turf
for a few feet around where he sat. He must have dozed! Then he
heard again the faint noise that had awakened him. From somewhere
on the hillside above him, the sounds of fighting carried, through
the fog. His fear for his troops churning in his belly, Vannor
scrambled to his feet and ran, with drawn sword, up the incline.

The steep slope seemed to stretch on forever, but the clash of
battle was growing in his ears. At last, Vannor saw vague, dark
shapes ahead of him. Distance was deceptive in the mist, and he
was into their clutching limbs before he knew it. Trees! Thank the
Gods! There was only one place on this grim moor that boasted
trees. He must be near the edge of the Valley. But he could hear
the fighting ahead of him, its noise still undimin-ished. Flinging
up an arm to protect his face from the tangle of springy branches,
Vannor began to force his way through.

Flinging caution aside, the merchant crashed heedlessly through
the undergrowth until finally he broke through into a clearing
where the sound of fighting was loud ahead. "Halt, Vannor—traitor
and outlaw!" The voice was loud and harsh. Vannor stopped,
lowering the arm that obscured his vision. From the trees came a
ring of unshaven, flint-eyed mercenaries, bristling with naked
steel.

"Drop your sword." The circle parted and Angos stepped forth,
cold, callous amusement on his face. "Some rebel!" he said,
sneering. "You never stood a chance, you fool."



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Almost of its own volition, the sword fell from Vannor's numb
hand. He had failed his people! Parric had been wrong to trust
him! In the forest, the sounds of battle faltered, and ceased. One
by one, the rebels were pushed into the clearing, their numbers
fewer than before, the merchant saw with a sinking heart. Their
hands were bound behind them, and they were forced to kneel on the
ground at swordpoint. Vannor's gaze searched the demoralized
captives, picking out faces—until he saw one face that turjjed him
cold with horror. There—un-
cloaked and unmasked, her long black hair straggling across a
bruised and filthy face—was Dulsina.

A blow from a mailed fist caught him hard across the face, sending
Vannor staggering. Through swimming eyes, he saw Angos, standing
over him, grinning evilly. "The Archmage wants you and Parric for
questioning. If you survive, he has a nice little public execution
planned." His cold gaze flicked over the captured rebels. "What,
no Parric? Has the little runt abandoned you? Or is he hiding
elsewhere?" He shrugged. "If you know, we'll get it out of you. If
not, we'll find him, never fear. I don't think we need bother
taking the rest of this scum, though. It's not even worth notching
good steel on them. Archers—"

The mercenary's voice was drowned in a thunder of hoof-beats.
Before Vannor's eyes, Angos jerked and stiffened, his chest
exploding in gouts of blood as though he'd been pierced by a
sword. His body was tossed into the air, to land in a crumpled
heap several yards away. Pandemonium broke out among the
mercenaries, but before they could lift a sword or put arrow to
bow, the trees around the clearing came to life. Boughs and roots
writhed forward, clutching them in a deadly embrace. Thorny twigs
gouged at eyes, and branches ripped soft bellies, spattering the
ground with offal and gore. Then, drowning the screams of agony
and the crack of breaking bones with their wild song of death, the
wolves erupted into the clearing in a seething mass of gray.

It was over in seconds, though Vannor, taking in every detail of
the hideous slaughter, knew that he had seen enough to furnish
himself with endless hours of nightmares. As the wolves finished
their bloody work, the frozen calm of shock left him, and he fell


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to his knees, doubled over with vomiting and moaning in terror.

Vannor opened his eyes to witness what his numbed brain had been
trying to tell him for several minutes. The wolves and trees had
known which people to take! The bloody remains of Angos and his
men were strewn across the clearing. Not one had survived. But in
the one clear space, the bound and terrified rebels huddled
together, wild-eyed and trembling—but totally unscathed! Beside
them stood the biggest of the wolves, alone now, for his
companions had melted away into the forest. He

AURIAN          •       581

pricked his ears questioningly at Vannor, whined—and wagged his
tail!

Shaking his head in disbelief, the merchant approached the wolf,
his hand outstretched. As he closed the distance between them, the
animal backed away, his tail still wagging furiously. Vannor
picked up a dagger from the discarded weapons that lay about the
clearing, and having wiped it clean of blood on his cloak, he
began to free the others. "Nobody hurt the wolf," he warned in a
low voice.

"Nobody hurt it?" someone muttered incredulously. "Nobody's going
near the bloody thing!"

There was a swell of nervous chuckles from among the rebels, and
their courage gave Vannor the strength to take charge once more.
He yanked Dulsina to her feet. "You," he said sternly, "have some
explaining to do!" He glared at his assembled troops. "In feet, it
took a conspiracy to hide her all the time we were marching—so you
all have some explaining to do!"

Everyone looked at Hargorn, and the veteran shrugged. "Well,
Parric was depending on me to keep you right—and since you were
trying to set up a permanent camp without a cook and quartermaster
. . ." He grinned. "I couldn't let you make a mistake like that
now, could I?"



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Luckily for Hargorn and Dulsina, an urgent whine took Vannor's
attention away from the miscreants. He looked around to see the
wolf, still waiting patiently on the far edge of the clearing.
Beyond him, the trees had somehow moved aside, leaving a clear
path through the forest. The wolf turned and ran along the path,
then stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Vannor. The
merchant looked at his rebels and shrugged. "I don't know what you
think, but it looks to me as though we're being welcomed."

As the weary rebels followed the wolf toward the sanctuary of the
Valley, D'arvan closed the ranks of trees behind them, concealing
their passage and all signs of the carnage in the clearing. Maya
was wiping her horn on the grass, cleansing Angos's blood from the
sparkling weapon. She looked wistfully at the departing back of
her dear old friend Hargorn, and gave a sad little whinny. D!acv£n
knew that she wanted to follow her
former companions—and he knew how she felt. He laid a comforting
arm across the unicorn's warm, gleaming back, wishing the men
could see him—wishing that he could talk to them, and tell them
they were safe. He longed for companionship. The forest was
proving a lonely place for its Guardian—and it must be worse for
Maya. "Well, my love," he said to the unicorn, "Hellorin told us
to shelter the enemies of the Archmage —and I can't think of
anyone better than our old friends from the Garrison. And others
will come in time. It may not be much of an army yet, but at least
we've made a start."

It was dusk by the time the tree had been felled and stripped of
its branches. Parric watched from the rainswept beach as it was
towed to the crippled ship by rowing boats. "Well, that's it,"
Idris said. "We'll be off now, Parric, and do our repairs as we
go." He looked heartily relieved to be leaving this desolate
place.

"But surely you'll stay until the new mast is in place," the
Cavalry master protested.

"Not a chance, mate. Take you to the South, Yanis said— and that
was all. I'm not stopping here until the bloody Horse-lords come,
thank you very much! From now on, you're on your own." He spat


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into the sand. "Besides, I've my crew to think about. I've never
seen such storms at this time of year. No, I'm running for home,
and grateful."

"But you know these people ..."

Idris raised his eyebrows in astonishment. "Who told you that? We
trade with the Khazalim, farther south—we don't know this lot at
all. Bunch of savages, or so I've heard!"

Parric took a deep breath, counted to ten, then swearing a vile
oath, he grabbed the smuggler captain by the throat. "Then why the
bloody blazes didn't you take us to the Khazalim?" he grated.
Idris freed himself with a struggle and stepped back hastily,
giving Parric a dirty look as he straightened his jerkin.
"Because," he said, "I'm not going any farther south in this
weather—and I'm not taking that bloody Mage another inch! She's
been a pain in the arse all the way here, and she's nearly had the
crew in mutiny, with her orders and complaints! Besides, her sort
are bad luck—look at the storms we've had, if you doubt it! I'm
sorry, mate, but she's all yours—and I

AURIAN          •       583

wish you luck:with her!" With that, he got into the last boat. His
men rowed away, fighting the boiling surge of the breakers, and
leaving Parric fuming helplessly on the shore.

"Parric . . ." Sangra interrupted the Cavalrymaster's heartfelt
swearing. Taking his arm, she drew him away from the others.
"Cursing won't do any good, love. We must get the supplies they
left us under cover, and Elewin needs a fire. He's in a bad way."

Parric nodded, knowing that she was right. During the unending
misery of the storms, the old man had almost died from cold and
seasickness—and Meiriel had refused to help him, haughtily
insisting that it was not her business to waste her powers on
Mortals.

They found an overhang—it was too shallow to be called a


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cave—among the rocks of the cove, and sent Meiriel and Elewin
inside. Sangra began to haul the supplies into shelter, while
Parric gathered driftwood. Looking at the sodden pile, he knew no
Mortal could ever get it to light. And Elewin looked terrible. The
Steward huddled, wracked with coughing, in the back of the
shelter. Seeing his gray fitce and bloodless lips, Parric felt a
pang of alarm. Remembering Aurian's talents, he suggested to the
Mage that she use her magic to light the fire.

Meiriel looked at him as though he were a cockroach—a particularly
stupid cockroach, at that. "I can't do Fire-magic," she declared.
"I'm a Healer, not a Fire-Mage."

Something snapped inside Parric, He leapt forward, seizing the
Mage and twisting one arm up behind her back. With the other he
drew his knife, laying the blade across the exposed white skin of
her neck. "If you're a bloody Healer, then do your job," he
snapped. "Heal Elewin now—or I'll slit your worthless throat!"

"Parric, don't move!" Sangra's quiet warning broke the tableau.
The Cavalrymaster glanced up to see several strangers blocking the
entrance to the shelter. They were warriors—there was no doubt
about that. Their rain-darkened hair was long on both men and
women, tied back for battle in intricate braids. Though they were
small of stature, there was wiry strength in their knotted
muscles, witnessed by the great swords that they carried. They
were clad alike in jerkins and breeches of supple leather, and the
men^were clean-shaven. One of the women
stepped forward, and spoke some words in a fluid, rolling tongue.

"That's torn it!" Parric muttered. "I can't understand a bloody
word they say!" He felt his knife move against Meiriel's throat as
the Magewoman laughed harshly.

"I can," she shrilled triumphantly. "She said put down your
weapon, Parric. She said that we're their prisoners." #

v^napter              37

CONFRONTING             THE SPECTER


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he horse floundered, pitching Aurian forward and almost jolting
her over its neck. She reacted quickly, throwing her weight back
in the saddle as she pulled on the reins to help her stumbling
mount regain its balance. Murmuring encouragement, she patted the
neck of her weary stallion, grimacing as her hand came away coated
in a layer of sweat and dust. Although the horse rallied bravely
at the sound of her voice, she knew he was at the end of his
strength. The Mage looked ahead, to where a line of distant
mountain peaks marked the end of the desert, and cursed under her
breath. They had traveled all night and dawn was breaking now, but
those snow-bright pinnacles never seemed to draw any closer.
Aurian wondered whether they had any hope of reaching safety
before the horses dropped beneath them.

It was the third night of their journey from the final oasis and
the companions had made the best speed they could, given the
dreadful conditions of heat and thirst. They had been able to
carry little water, and had been forced to travel at a slower pace
than they would have liked, to conserve the strength of Shia and
their mounts. There had been one consolation, however. The sky was
covered by low, bulging swags of lurid yellow cloud that hid the
sun and allowed them to travel during fart of the day, although
they were still forced to get under cover at midday, when the
light was at its brightest. Unfortunately, Aurian thought,
glancing up with a shudder at the ominous sky overhead, those
clouds presaged the coming of the storms.

Almost as if the thought had spurred the treacherous elements to
action, Aurian felt a breath of hot wind stir her robes. Her hands
tightened unconsciously on the reins as she glanced across at
Anvar. Though his face was hidden by the desert veils, she saw him
tense with alarm in the growing light. The wind was strengthening,
driving the rolling clouds across the sky with ponderous speed and
tattering their stacked towers to rags. Before the Mage's eyes,
patches of clear sky began to show,

I

forcing her to squint against the glare of the sands that


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brightened faster than the sunlight. Aurian bit her lip; fear like
a fist clenched around her guts. It was already too windy for a
shelter —thin skeins of glittering gem dust were snaking across
the desert floor, threatening worse to come. "Run!" Aurian had no
need of Anvar's warning cry. She spurred her horse forward,
forcing her mount toward the safety of the desert's edge as fast
as its weary legs would move.

It was not fast enough. About a league out from the edge of the
desert the clouds thinned and cleared, and the blinding disc of
the sun burst forth. Aurian clamped her hands over her eyes to
shut out the agonizing glare as Shia's pain seared into her mind.
The horses screamed, trying to rear and bolt blindly away from the
source of their torment. The Mage wrestled with the reins,
sightless and disoriented, trying desperately to control her
maddened, plunging beast. She was pierced by terror that she must
have lost Anvar—until his mount blundered into her own, almost
unseating her. Wild with fear, the horses ran, keeping close to
one another through herd instinct. Aurian hung on tightly, trying
to keep mental contact with Shia, to guide her friend's blind
flight. Through her link with the cat, she could sense Anvar doing
the same, and prayed that they were fleeing in the right
direction.

Then mercifully, miraculously, the white glare vanished, cut off
as though it had never existed. The horses stumbled to a halt,
their limbs trembling. The dazzling afterimages gradually cleared
from Aurian's sightpand she saw Anvar close by, looking over his
shoulder, transfixed with horror.

The hot wind tore in gusts at their clothes, whipping up stinging
dust devils of the sharp gem sand. And behind them, blowing up
from the south and east and obscuring the sun, great dark clouds
were rolling across the desert floor from horizon to horizon,
gaining on them even as they watched, "Sandstorm!" Aurian
shrieked. "Run!"

They ran. The horses, knowing instinctively what was behind them,
put on a burst of speed that astonished Aurian. Shia ran to one
side, out of the way of the pounding hooves. With her life at


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stake, she could run. But how long could she keep up the grueling
pace? How long could any of them? Could they hope to outrun the
wind itself?


Streamers of sand swirled around them, already beginning to tear
at Aurian's robes, abrading the skin of her face as the sharp-
edged dust worked its way beneath her veils. The pain acted as a
spur to horses and riders, speeding their flight. Aurian caught
glimpses of the way to safety ahead of her, appearing and
vanishing in the far distance through the shifting curtains of
sand—a steep cutting in a shallow cliff with trees growing at the
top of it. Blessed, thickly planted trees; ragged and ravaged by
the desert, but enough to shelter them from the force of the
deadly storm. But they were too far away. As the wind ripped the
shreds of her veils from her blood-streaked face and her nose and
mouth filled with choking sand, even as Aurian was forced to close
her eyes on the vision of safety ahead, she knew it was too far.
She could sense the gloating malice of the Weather-Mage behind the
power of the storm, and she knew that Eliseth had won.

Anvar sensed, rather than saw, Aurian falter, and hauled on the
reins with all his strength to pull up his crazed horse, looking
wildly around for his friends. Of Shia there was no sign, and he
could not touch her mind. Twisting in the saddle, he peered
through shredded veils to see the Mage with her hands over her
face to protect her eyes, using her knees to control her mount
with the skill that was a hallmark of Fame's teaching. But this
was no Northern war-horse, trained to such methods, and he knew it
was only a matter of time before the panic-stricken beast went
berserk and pitched her off. Pain clouded his mind as gem dust
scored his flesh through robes that were in ribbons, but Anvar
could feel Eliseth's triumph, and it goaded him to a towering rage
such as he had not felt since the night he snatched his powers
from Miathan. Aurian was powerless to counter the attack—if
anything could be done to defend them, it would have to come from
him. Suddenly decisive, he leapt from his plunging horse and flung
the reins at Aurian, forcing her to drop her scoured and bloody
hands from her face in order to grab them. Ignoring her startled
exclamation, he whetted his anger on the edge of his fear, and


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wielding it like a sword, he extended his consciousness as the
Mage had taught him, flinging his power out into the face of the
storm.

Peace. There was^sudden, blessed stillness within the en-
chanted bubble of Anvar's shields, though the storm flung itself
with increasing fury against the shimmering, translucent barrier
that surrounded himself and his friends. He saw Aurian struggling
with the frantic horses, her streaming eyes fixed on him in
astonishment. The ground heaved nearby as Shia emerged, shaking
gem dust from her coat in a glittering shower and sneezing
violently. The cat had had the sense to lie down and bury herself,
so that the sands had given her some protection from their own
cutting force. That was all that Anvar had time to glimpse before
Eliseth flung the focus of her power at him in frustrated fury,
sensing his magic from afar.

His shields were shattered from the force of her blow—the storm
was upon them once more! Grimly, Anvar closed with Eliseth, his
consciousness straining to confront the core of her will. He felt
her recoil in shock at the identity of her assailant, and used her
hesitation to reassert his power, driving the storm away from his
friends. Eliseth struck back like a viper, but this time he was
expecting her, and his shields wavered but held. Their battle
settled down into deadly earnest as they waged a desperate
struggle, their wills locked and stalemated; Eliseth was unable to
pierce his shields, while Anvar was forced into a position of
defense, too occupied with maintaining his frail barrier to strike
at her. The air around the shields crackled and hummed, glowing
now red, now blue with the stresses of the magical battle, and
erupting into showers of piercing white sparks. ""*•

Anvar lost all track of time as the deadly battle continued.
Though minutes or hours might have passed, it felt as though he
had been locked forever in this endless combat, and as Eliseth's
malice sapped his strength, he felt himself beginning to tire. He
was new at this game, unused to fighting with magic, but Anvar
gritted his teeth and held on, though his face contorted with
strain and his knees were buckling beneath the relentless force of
Eliseth's will. If he should falter now, they would be lost . . .


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The hand shaking urgently at his arm was an unwelcome break in his
concentration. Anvar's shields wavered, sagging ominously inward
beneath the force of the storm. Aurian was yelling into his ear,
her voice shrill with strain as she fought to


attract his attention. "Drop your shields, Anvar! Drop them and
strike, while you still have the strength!"

He shook his head despairingly. "It's too late!"

Aurian muttered a savage oath. "Here—use this!" She thrust
something into his hand.

Anvar felt a tingling surge flood through his body, coursing along
his veins like liquid light. The Staff of Earth! Struggling to
focus its unruly new power, he dropped his shields— and struck.

He had failed—he knew it instantly. Air and Water, the elements of
Weather-magic, were foreign to the Staff, and so its power was
limited. Anvar, inexperienced as he was, used it clumsily, without
the deadly precision that Aurian might have commanded. The focus
of his power was weak and uncoordinated, dissipating before it
reached its target to leave him exposed to attack.

"Dead and buried, Anvar! Flayed, dead, and buried without trace!"
Eliseth's shrieking laughter mocked the Mage as she lashed back at
him with the full force of the storm. He dropped to his knees,
bleeding and choking, mauled by the gnawing teeth of the dust . .
.

A hand—groping—catching at his sleeve ... It found Anvar's
wrist—then his hand that still clutched the Staff. The hand
clasped his own, tightening his fingers round the serpent-carved
wood. Then came the touch of Aurian's mind—not an intrusion, but a
tentative questing—a touch more gentle, more intimate, than any
physical caress. Though the Mage had lost her power, their minds
had been linked through the power of the Staff, which he had
carved, and she had imbued with magic. Ah, such closeness! Anvar


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knew, without question, what Aurian sought. Gladly, trustingly, he
surrendered his powers ro her, holding them out for her, putting
them into her hands.

"Now!" Anvar never knew whether she had cried the word aloud, or
simply into his mind. She snatched his magic, wove it into the
Staff's power, and forged it into a shield. Such was the force of
her act that the sand underfoot was blasted away from them,
leaving them kneeling in a shallow crater as the storm's fury
ceased once more.

Far away in Nexis, Eliseth staggered backward as her magic
rebounded against a solid wall of power, recoiling against her
like a physical blow. The building shook as though in the grip of
an earthquake and she was spun across the floor of the weather-
dome, colliding with the great map table and striking her head as
she feJl.

"Eliseth! What's happening? I could feel the magic clear inside
the Mages' Tower—" It was Bragar. He lifted the dazed Weather-Mage
to her feet, his shields springing up to form a fiery wall around
them both, protecting her from the vicious backlash of magic.

For once, Eliseth was genuinely glad to see him. "Aurian!" she
gasped. "She attacked me!" Bragar must not discover that she was
disobeying Miathan's orders—he was too craven to join such an
overt rebellion, and she needed his help.

"What? But how?" Bragar wore his usual expression of perplexity.
"The Archmage said she'd lost her powers—"

"He was wrong!" Eliseth was already gathering her scattered
thoughts into the beginnings of a new plan. Anvar she could
defeat, but he and Aurian together were too much. But if she could
sunder them . . . And there was a way, she knew: one weak link in
Aurian's defenses that had always existed. But Eliseth was not
prepared to risk exposing herself again to the power of the two
renegades. Not when she had poor, malleable Bragar to do it for
her! Turning to the Fire-Mage, Eliseth gave him her most seductive
smile. "I'm sorry, Bragar, I didn't mean to snap. I'm so glad


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you'f? come," she murmured, "for only you can help me now."

"Don't worry, Eliseth, I'll protect you!" Bragar cried. Gods, he
was so simple! Chuckling inwardly, the Magewoman quickly outlined
her plan.

"I'm ready," Bragar cried. The Weather-Mage looked with
satisfaction at the sturdy, flaming barrier that he was
maintaining with all his strength. If her ruse should fail, then
she, at least, should be protected from the consequences!
Sheltered safely behind the shields of Bragar's magic, Eliseth
turned her will back to Aurian and began to weave an illusion, and
an irresistible lure . . .


The minds of Aurian and Anvar were still linked, through their
clasped hands upon the Staff. There was comfort in their touch,
and strength. Aurian, not daring to let go even for a second, used
her free hand to wipe the blood and sand from her face. Beyond
their shield, the storm still ravened, though its impetus had
slackened now.

"We didn't finish her, did we?" Anvar's thought came into the
Mage's mind, as clearly as if he had spoken aloud.

"No," Aurian replied. "We shook her—but she'll be back."

In wordless communion, they reviewed their options. Should they
risk dropping the shield to strike at Eliseth before she could
recover herself, or try to maintain it for the length of time it
would take them to reach the desert's edge? It would be a long
walk—their horses were gone, and would certainly be dead by now.
It was Shia who settled the matter. The great cat huddled flat to
the ground with her paws over her eyes, unable to function beneath
the onslaught of the magic that existed within their shield. She
would never make it, Aurian knew. She looked at Anvar, knowing
that in that moment they reached a decision, their minds in total
harmony. They would fight.

Aurian rose unsteadily to her feet, still clutching tightly to


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Anvar's hand, which held the Staff. Once more she took up his raw
power, and that of the Staff of Earth, combining them with the
skilled force of her will and feeling buoyed and strengthened by
the closeness of his touch. Abandoning the shield, she gathered
herself . . ,

And froze. Through the drifting curtains of dust, a figure came
walking—the familiar, spectral shape of her lost love. Forral was
calling . . . Spellbound by the apparition, Aurian let go of
Anvar, taking her hand from the Staff and sundering their link.
Unaware that she had left them at the mercy of the storm, she
moved like a sleepwalker toward the specter of the murdered
warrior. Shielding her eyes with her hands from the stinging sand
and peering between her fingers through its whiplash skeins she
saw him moving just beyond her reach as he had in Dhiammara,
beckoning to her to follow him into the teeth of the storm.

"Forral . . ." The word was little more than a whisper. The Mage
took a faltejiqg step forward, then another . . .

I

Aurian felt, rather than saw, that Anvar had restored the shield.
As the sand around her dropped and settled, he came from behind
her with an inarticulate curse. A rough hand grabbed her shoulder,
pulling her back, and he barged past her, blocking her view of
Forral's ghostly form. "No! You can't have

her!" he howled.

"Let me go!" Aurian shrieked. "Forral, wait!" As she struggled
with Anvar, the shield faltered once more, then held, but though
he was burdened by the need to keep up their only defense, he
still held her back. "You had your chance!" he shouted at the
specter. "Aurian belongs with the living! Get away from here!
Leave us alone!"

"Aurian, no\" Shia's mental voice was filled with anguish. From
the corner of her eye, the Mage saw the great cat struggling
desperately to rise, and falling back, defeated. But caught as she


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was in the lure of Eliseth's spell, even this failed to move her.
"Let go, damn you!" she spat at Anvar. She lashed out, striking
him across the face.

Anvar caught her wrist, so tightly that Aurian gasped with pain.
The side of his face was branded with the mark of her hand and his
expression was tight with misery, but his eyes burned. "That's the
second time you've hit me for saving your life. I thought you were
over that nonsense."

"You don't understand!" Aurian yelled. "I love him!" "I don't
understand?" Anvar's face was twisted into a tortured mask with
the strain of fighting a battle on two fronts, maintaining his
shield off" the one hand, while struggling to restrain the Mage.
"Forral is dead," he told her brutally. Aurian flinched, hating
him in that moment, but his fingers were locked about her wrist,
preventing her escape as he smote her with the unbearable,
implacable truth. "He's dead, you fool, but you're alive—and so is
your babe. You have no right to rob it of its chance for life.
This is absolutely wrong, and you know it." Anvar looked straight
into her eyes. "I understand because I love you—and if I were in
Forral's position, I'd love you too much to want to kill you and
our child."

His bluntness struck Aurian as though he had returned her blow.
Unable to deny his words, she could only return hurt for hurt.
"That's what this is about, isn't it?" she retorted bitterly. "You
want me for yourself—that's all you care about! Well, /

don't love you, Anvar. I hate you! Whatever happens, I'll never
love you as long as I live!"

Aurian's words reverberated in the shocked silence between them.
Anvar flinched as though she had dealt him a mortal blow—then with
a curse, he let go of her wrist, almost hurling her away from him.
"Go then, if it'll make you happy. Follow your precious Forral
into death! Kill your child, if it means nothing to you! Run away
from your responsibilities and abandon your friends!" He turned
away as if in scorn, but Aurian saw his slumped and shaking
shoulders, and knew that he was weeping. She looked yearningly at


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the beckoning shade of Forral, but his face was suddenly eclipsed
by a vision of Anvar— the hurt in his blue eyes, the ugly mark on
his face where she had struck him. Aurian suddenly knew that if
she followed Forral into death, she would miss that face, and
Anvar's loving and loyal presence, beyond all bearing. But she
loved Forral. To choose another over him would be an appalling
betrayal!

Yet Aurian wavered, unable to take that last, crucial step. She
knew that Anvar loved her, and if she went with Forral, he would
go through the same anguish she had felt when the swordsman died.
When she had saved Anvar's life in the slave compound, their very
souls had touched. He had clung to her hand then, as though she
were his only anchor on life. Sara had already betrayed him—how
could she do the same? Surely, after all they had been through
together, she owed him more than that.

Tears flooded Aurian's face. It felt as if she were tearing out
her own heart, but she straightened her shoulders and faced the
shade of Forral squarely. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "I can't! I
can't come with you!" As her anguished cry tore the air, the
spirit-shape flickered—and vanished.

Aurian sank down in the sand, undone by her grief—but only for a
moment. She had no time now, to weep. Suddenly the Mage felt a new
strength flooding into her, a sense of freedom and a new maturity.
She had made her choice. Life over death—the future rather than
the past—and whatever that future might hold, she was committed to
it now. "Get up, you ass," she told herself firmly. "Anvar needs
you."

Anvar had turned his back on Aurian, unable to watch her go to her
own death. Though his vision was blurred with tears, he held
firmly to the Staff, still using its power as a shield against
Eliseth's venom. He tried not to think of what was happening
behind him, knowing that he needed to concentrate on his defense
against the storm—but his heart betrayed him. In his mind's eye,
he saw how it would end. Aurian would penetrate his shield and
walk out into the storm, embracing death in her foolish pursuit of
a vanished dream. There would be nothing left of her. The sand


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would strip her to the

bone . . .

The Mage fought to master his anguish, but his will was weakening.
If Aurian hated him, what was the point of continuing the battle?
It would be so easy just to throw the Staff away, to drop his
shield and walk after her, following her beyond this last
boundary, as he had followed her for so long . . . As he finally
abandoned all hope, the Staff fell from Anvar's fingers . . .

And was caught by a hand that seemed to come out of nowhere—a
strong, capable hand, square-palmed, long-fingered, nicked with
the old white scars of many battles. A hand that could bestow
either death or healing . . .

Joy engulfed Anvar like a soundless explosion of light. Aurian's
face was tearstained and grim, haggard and haunted, but she faced
him squarely, her chin lifted in that old determined gesture that
he knew so well. Rejoicing, Anvar put his hand on hers, and ,felt
an answering jolt of power as their wills combined with the might
of the Staff.

"Now, we get the bitch!" Aurian's tight, swift grin was
conspiratorial, and through tears of relief, Anvar found himself
grinning back as he offered up his powers once more. Aurian seized
them, dropped the shield, and struck.

Their blow was impelled by a new strength, their wills a mighty
weapon forged from shared pain, and a new sense of purpose in
Aurian's mind. With the power of the Staff, it was enough. As
their blow struck its target, Anvar felt a distant echo of the
agony that marked the death of a Mage. His shields brightened and
blazed, a sure protection now against the lethal gem sand—but
there was no need for them. The storm had vanished. Overhead,
stars were shimmering in a clear sky that

was washed in the west by the glory of sunset. Anvar looked up,
amazed. Hours had passed in their struggle and the battle had
lasted a whole day—but it was over at last.


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Miathan had been away from his body in trance, resting for the
night ahead, when he would perform further acts of sacrifice to
increase his power. He would be spending a great deal of time away
from his body in the weeks to come, occupying the form of his new
Southern pawn while he set in motion the forces that would result
in Aurian's capture. Confident in his own authority, he had never
realized that Eliseth might seek to thwart his plans.

The final attack on Eliseth brought the Archmage sharply back to
himself, jerking him abruptly into his body as the bed began to
shake beneath him. Disoriented by the sudden transition back to
corporeality, he staggered to his feet, stumbling as the floor
beneath him shuddered and lurched. With a deafening bang, an
explosion of blinding light in the courtyard outside shattered the
casements of his room, showering him with glass. With his ears
ringing, Miathan brushed off splinters and made his way cautiously
to the window. The curtains blew wildly, shredded to smoking
tatters. He brushed them aside to peer out —and gasped, aghast at
the devastation. This was impossible! What had happened while he'd
been out of his body?

The courtyard was choked with drifts of glittering sand, and the
Archmage had to fight his way through to the blackened shell of
the shattered dome. Clawing his way through the smoking rubble, he
finally reached the ruined inner chamber— and saw Eliseth kneeling
over a black and twisted corpse, the scarcely recognizable remains
of Bragar. The stench of charred flesh filled the room, and the
Archmage fought down a wave of nausea.

"Aurian . . ." Eliseth whispered. She was shaken but un-scarred.
Bragar had taken the full force of the blast, sacrificing himself
in order to shield her. How had she duped the witless fool into
that? Miathan wondered, then put aside all thoughts of the hapless
Fire-Mage. Bragar had always been an idiot. But it was clear that
Eliseth had deliberately disobeyed him, and made an attempt on
Aurian's life.

Shaking with rag£, ^Miathan turned his menacing jeweled
glare upon the cringing Weather-Mage. Slowly, he advanced upon


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her, his fists clenched at his side with rage. "What have you
done?" he snarled. "What have you done?"

Aurian dropped the Staff and fell to her knees, trembling with
exaustion and the aftershock of magic. Anvar sank down beside her.
"We did it," he murmured, still unable to believe it.

"We killed her."

Aurian nodded. "I felt a death-pang," she whispered. Her face was
bloodless, and Anvar caught her as she began to sway. "I'm all
right," she muttered—her usual, automatic response— but she was
trembling violently as she lifted her stricken face to look at
him. "Anvar, I—"

"Aurian, after what you've just been through—after all the
dreadful things I said to you—don't you dare apologize to me,"
Anvar scolded gently.

"But I—" Aurian's voice was choked off in a torrent of

wracking sobs.

"Ah, love . . ." Anvar gathered her into his arms, stroking her
hair as she wept. "My dear, brave Lady . . ," The magnitude of
Aurian's decision filled him with awe. She had been forced into a
cruel choice—an impossible choice—yet she had made it with
courage, and if he knew the Mage, with complete honesty. And
having made her decision, she would stick to it. Even as he
comforted her, Anvar felt a crushing weight of worry lift from his
heart. Ever since the night of their escape from Nexis, when*TJhe
had railed at him for saving her life, he had been haunted by the
fear that she would choose that road in the end—would leave him to
follow her lover into death. But now the fatal crossroad had been
reached, and the crisis safely passed. Aurian had chosen life over
death—had elected to stay with him, rather than follow Forral.

Though he grieved for Aurian's grief, Anvar's spirits lifted like
a joyous burst of song. Oh, they had a long road ahead, to be
sure. Forral had barely been dead for half a year, and Aurian


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would still mourn him for some time to come. She would continue to
fight against loving someone else with all the strength of her
stubborn nature. Nonetheless, this was one battle that Anvar
intended to win—and now he possessed the strength and
determination to match her own indomitable will.


Anvar smiled to himself. My dearest Lady, he thought, how much I
owe you! First you made a Mage of me, and now you've turned me
into a warrior, too! And someday I'll pay you back, I promise, by
making you happy again. Anvar tightened his arms around the
weeping Mage. "Do you know what I would do if we were back in
Nexis?" he murmured. "I'd take you around every tavern in the city
and get you more drunk than you've ever been in your life!"

Aurian looked up at him gratefully, swallowing hard, struggling to
find her voice. "It's—it's a long way back to Nexis," she said at
last.

"We'll do it," Anvar assured her. "And who knows, maybe we'll find
you a few taverns along the way!"

"If we do, I'll definitely take you up on your offer," Aurian said
ruefully.

Anvar was pleased to see the flash of her old spirit beginning to
return. In her old, automatic gesture, she wiped her face on her
sleeve, and he gave a mock sigh. "You know," he teased, "I don't
think I'll ever break you of that revolting habit!"

Aurian glared at him, on the verge of a scathing retort, and Anvar
chuckled. "Why, you . . ." she snarled, but her lips began to
twitch in a smile, and suddenly she threw her arms around him,
hugging him hard, "Dear Anvar," she murmured. "Thank you."

Shia, forgotten in the heat of the battle, crept up to them,
laying her head in Aurian's lap. "You won a brave victory, my
friend. I'm glad you stayed," Anvar heard her say.

"We both are," he added softly.


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"My friends," Aurian whispered, and reached out to caress the cat.
She looked at Shia, then at Anvar, and took a deep breath. "You
know," she said slowly, "in spite of everything. I'm glad I
stayed, too."

Aurian's hair was wildly tangled and full of sand; her face was
filthy, tear-streaked and abraded by the glittering dust; her
clothes were a mass of rags. But to Anvar, as he held her in his
arms, she had never been more beautiful. There was so much, in
that moment, he wanted to say to her, but it could wait for the
future—the future Aurian, whether she knew it or not, had granted
him at last.__^

As dawn began to glimmer over the jeweled sands, Aurian looked up
from her trudging feet to find that they had reached the end of
the desert at last. Slowed by weariness, the Mages and Shia had
walked all night, praying that they would reach safety before the
sun rose. Though Aurian was footsore and tired, though her spirits
were shadowed by a lingering sadness, her heart felt strangely
light. I'm sorry, Forral, she thought, but I couldn't come with
you—not yet. I didn't believe you when you said it would be wrong
to throw my life away in grief—but you were right, my love. You
were right. There is more to life than sorrow and revenge. There
is friendship, and hope, and new life to follow death—and maybe,
if fate is kind, I'll live to see your son take his own place in
the world.

Aurian halted abruptly, reeling with astonishment. Son? she
thought. How the blazes do I know it's a boy? But, she realized,
she did. For certain. Stunned, she turned her thoughts inward—to
feel not just a spark of life, but a mind. A tiny, unformed child-
mind, but the mind of a person nonetheless— her son. For the first
time, he knew her—recognized her—and his small, barely focused
thoughts reached out to her trustingly, and with the uttermost
love.

"Anvar!" Aurian shrieked. Her thoughts were awhirl with an
uncontainable excitement that simply had to be shared with her
dearest friend. He turned back to her, and Aurian closed the space


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between them as though she, like Raven, were winged. She hugged
him tightly, laughing at his startled expression, her words
tumbling over one another in her anxiety to communicate the good
news. "Anvar, it's a son! I felt him! He knows me! I—he loves me,
Anvar!"

"You did? I mean, he is—he <&#? Oh, Aurian!" Anvar swung her
around until she was giddy, his blue eyes bright, his face
transfigured with joy. And suddenly, as if joining their
celebration, a glad cry rang out from the rise above them, where
the edge of the forest met the desert. Blinking back happy tears,
Aurian looked up to see Yazour, with his arms around Eliizar and
Nereni. Beside them was the vast, familiar form of Bohan, his face
split in a happy grin as Shia bounded up the steep cutting to meet
him. Aurian and Anvar looked at each


other. "Thank you, Anvar, for making me stay," Aurian said softly.
In answer, he smiled—that rare, wonderful smile that had always
had the power to touch her heart. Aurian reached out to him, and
he took her hand. Together, they went to greet their friends.

Miathan, brooding in his Tower, flung his crystal away with a
snarling curse, wishing that he had never decided to spy on Aurian
just then. How dare she be happy! How dare she rejoice in that
accursed swordsman's bastard brat! And with the other abominable
half-breed, of his own conceiving! Well, he'd have his revenge on
them yet. "Let's see you rejoice, Aurian, when you give birth to
that monster you're carrying," he muttered.

Still muttering darkly, the Archmage went to retrieve the crystal,
which had rolled into the fireplace, chipping and scarring the
marble hearth. All was not yet lost, he consoled himself. He still
had a weapon or two in his armory, and Eliseth's rebellion had not
interfered too badly with his plans. His revenge would be all the
sweeter for waiting—and this time, he would not fail!




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