Aurian

5 A Voice in the Dark

“So 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?”

“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 meaning, 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!”

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.”

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 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.

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 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.

“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 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 periphery 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 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. 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 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 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.

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 temper, 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.”

“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!

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—”

“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.

“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, 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 tailin, 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 tailin.

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, the Mage’s childhood habit of obedience to 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 tailin, while he went into danger? “Some chance!” Aurian muttered. Rising swiftly, she hurried after Forral.