Aurian

7 Death by Fire

With the coming of the rain, the threat of unrest in the city 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 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 gentleness. She’d imagine them touching her, caress-??? would check herself 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 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.”

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.

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 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.

“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 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 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 I 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.

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. 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. “I’ve 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 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 <...> he never have allowed her to bear this halfblood <...> 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, 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 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!”

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 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.