Aurian

10 A Shadow of Evil

When 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 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 genuine streak of cruelty in Bragar. He regularly 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 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 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 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 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 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 in Anvar’s hands, and Aurian gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. “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 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. He’d be safer as Finbarr’s ft, 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.”

“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 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 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 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 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 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 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.”