Aurian

9 A Warrior’s Heart

The 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?

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.

“Ow!” Aurian wailed indignantly, rubbing at the sting. Tears of exhaustion and frustration 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 his.” 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 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, the leathery, balding little man was Duty Officer for the day, and his manner was apologetic, “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 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, 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 a 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.

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 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 awestruck 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 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 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 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 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 vexation. How had the bloody brat crept in so quietly!-

“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 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 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 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 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. “If 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.”

“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 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. 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 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 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 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 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.