Aurian

14 The Death Wraiths

The meetings of the Council of Three were held in the Guildhall, a magnificent circular building near the Grand Arcade. The decisions that ruled the city were made at a small gilded table in the very center of the vast round chamber, and anyone wishing to observe the proceedings could watch from the gallery of the hall, though usually only a few stalwarts were present. Narvish, the City Recorder, sat with the Three to record what took place.

When Forral arrived at the Guildhall, every seat in the gallery was taken. Interest in this meeting was unusually high because the matter under discussion would affect every man, woman, and child in the city. The Archmage wanted to raise the sewer tax, the sum paid by every citizen in Nexis for the upkeep of the sewer system that made life so pleasant and healthy for them. Magic kept the water circulating, pumping the city’s waste away downriver, and no one objected to giving the Magefolk a small tithe for the convenience, but Miathan’s new demands were extortionate, especially for those with large families. There was a great deal of anger among the city’s people at the prospect, and feelings against the Archmage and the Council were running high.

Vannor had already arrived, and was seated alone at the table, looking uncomfortable. When Forral took the Garrison Commander’s chair, the Head of the Merchants’ Guild leaned toward him, his low voice masked by the general hubbub in the room. “Forral, no offense, but I know that Miathan has you in an invidious position on this Council, because of Aurian. But have you thought this business through? The tax will cripple the poor people of the city, and it’ll be your job to enforce it. What will happen to those who can’t pay? What if they all refuse to pay it? The way feelings are running at the moment they well might. If this new law goes through, we’ll be up to our necks in shit—in more ways than one!”

In spite of himself, Forral grinned. “You have a wonderful way with words, Vannor.”

“So they tell me.” The blunt-faced merchant returned his smile, and Forral regretted that his relationship with Aurian had always prevented him from outfacing the Archmage in a public display of opposition. Vannor deserved better. It would be a real pleasure to help him out this time.

Miathan swept into the room, making his grand entrance as usual, flanked by that obsequious little toad Narvish. Forral’s mouth tightened at the sight of the City Recorder—a stringy, gap-toothed old fossil who was the bane of the swordsman’s life. Rumor had it that Narvish took bribes from Miathan, and to Forral’s certain knowledge, the records of recent meetings had been slanted in favor of the Archmage. Nothing major, of course. Nothing that could be proved. But an altered emphasis, perhaps, or an odd word or two displaced, that threw the account of a straightforward discussion into confusion and doubt. Well, there would be no chance of that today, Forral thought grimly. This would be a public debate, settled by a simple majority vote, and now that Aurian had decided to leave the Magefolk, the swordsman no longer had to dance to the Archmage’s tune. Miathan was going to be in for a big surprise, Forral thought. He was looking forward to it immensely.

The debate took up the whole of its allotted three hours, and Forral could feel the surprise emanating from the audience. Such a thing had never been known during the Archmage’s tenure. Miathan had always made sure that he had at least one supporter on the Council, and had always had his way, sweeping any opposition easily aside. But not this time. After a while, Vannor no longer bothered to^iide his smile, as the two Mortal men systematically destroyed every one of the Archmage’s suave arguments between them. Forral contented himself with smiling inwardly as he watched Miathan’s expression gcow blacker and blacker.

At last the Voting Bell was rung, putting an end to any further debate. Narvish, who had been looking increasingly alarmed as the discussion continued, rose to his feet and addressed the meeting. “The Archmage Miathan has put forward a motion to this Council to increase the sewer tax by ten silver pieces,” he intoned. “Those in favor of accepting the motion into the city’s statutes, please rise.”

There was utter silence as the Archmage rose to his feet— alone. Forral saw Miaih^n turn to him, expecting him to have risen also. With a show of nonchalance, he leaned back in his chair, and put his booted feet up on the gilded Council table. A gasp echoed through the room. The Archmage’s expression changed from complacency to baffled rage. Narvish, completely at a loss, looked wildly around, as if searching for a means of escape. “Ah ... Is that everyone?” he squeaked.

“Get on with it, man,” Vannor growled, but his eyes were twinkling. The merchant appeared to be enjoying himself hugely. The greasy little Recorder sidled away from the fuming Archmage. “Ah . . . All those against?”

Slowly, Forral removed his feet from the table and stood up with Vannor, as the chamber erupted into tumultuous applause. The Archmage, his face absolutely livid, opened his mouth to speak, but Forral held his glare with a look of stony defiance. Miathan turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, for once in his life utterly defeated.

The Archmage paced the floor of his chamber, barely able to contain his rage. This time, Forral had gone too far. How dared he stand with that upstart Vannor, flaunting the supremacy of those Mortal scum over one of the Mageborn! Miathan knew that the rule of the city was slipping out of his grasp, along with all his greater plans. Enough was enough. Aurian or no Aurian, Forral had just signed his own death warrant.

Miathan frowned, remembering something else. Something that he had not previously connected with Forral’s defiance. Since he had exiled D’arvan last night, the Mage had simply vanished. Where could he be? Miathan’s spies had failed to locate him in the city, and the Archmage wondered if he had made the right decision in acceding to the pleas of Eliseth and Bragar to get rid of D’arvan, who, they insisted, was impeding his brother’s progress. Better to have one working Mage loyal to us, they had said, than two who are useless. But Miathan wondered now. Someone of Mage blood was still a potential source of power, and it disturbed him to have D’arvan away from his influence. What if he was hatching some plot with Forral and— Miathan winced at the thought—Aurian? And what did Eliseth and Bragar mean by “loyal to us”? Was Davorshan loyal to the Archmage, or simply to them? Miathan wrestled with the possibilities, falling into the classic trap of those who spend their lives plotting and scheming against others. He was convinced that the others, in their turn, were plotting to overthrow him.

Eliseth and Bragar appeared to be loyal, but he did not completely trust them. Certainly not enough to tell them about this. Miathan stroked the burnished golden rim of the chalice that stood on the table before him. This would serve him well, if they should move against him! Finbarr’s research had provided him with the answers he needed. Here indeed lay the power of the Caldron, and like all the tools of Gramarye, the High Magic, it could be used as boon—or bane. Miathan smiled. The Mages’ Code was for simpletons! Here, under his hand, lay a weapon so formidable—

His deliberations were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Miathan cursed, and quickly pulled an embroidered cloth over the chalice to hide it. “Enter,” he called.

It was Meiriel. She bowed low. “Your pardon, Lord Archmage,” she said, “I must speak with you urgently.”

“This is very formal, is it not, Meiriel?” Miathan forced joviality into his voice. There was no evidence that the Healer was against him, and he might need all the support he could get. “Come, sit. Let me pour you some wine.”

Meiriel seemed very disturbed. Her jaw worked; her eyes darted everywhere as she sat and accepted the cup from him. Before he had time to sit again she had blurted out her news. “Aurian is with child, Archmage!”

Miathan froze, half seated as_he .was. The room seemed darker, and suddenly chill. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

“I’m certain,” Meiriel said. “The aura of a Mage changes once a child is conceived. A Healer can see it, though Magewomen themselves are later than Mortals in making the discovery, since we are trained to suppress the cycles that would otherwise warn us. It can be little more than two months yet and I don’t think Aurian knows—she can hardly have expected it. But soon—very soon—she will know.”

Miathan fell heavily into the chair. “Oh Gods,” he whispered. “Gods—not this!”

The Healer, braced as she was for a furious outburst, looked at him in confusion, then took a sudden, gulping breath. “How could you let this happen!” she spat. “With a Mortal!”

“Be silent!” Miaffiaft snapped, not listening. He was remembering a day long ago when a blue-eyed Mortargirl had wept before him, as she told him similar news—and, more urgently, a day not so very long ago, when he had conceived a terrible curse . . . His Aurian, gravid with that cursed Mortal’s monstrous spawn—a monster that he himself had helped to create, just as much as they—

“Archmage?” The Healer was tugging urgently at his sleeve.

“Curse you, Meiriel, get out—no, wait!” He crushed her hands in an iron grip. “You are a Healer—could you get rid of this child? Without Aurian knowing?”

“What?” Meiriel stared at him. “What are you saying?” “Listen.” Miathan leaned close. “You said that Aurian is unaware of her pregnancy. We must end it, Meiriel, and as a Healer, it would be a simple matter for you. But if Aurian finds out, she would never allow it, and she has power enough to prevent you. So we must act quickly. I’ll summon her now, and put spells of deep sleep on her while you dispose of the child. When she wakes, she will be none the wiser. We can say she was taken ill—that she overtaxed herself again, and”—the Archmage shrugged—“the matter will end there.” His eyes met those of the Healer. “After that, I shall deal with that thrice-cursed swordsman once and for all. This must not be allowed to happen again!”

The Healer gaped at him. “But . . .” she floundered, “you weren’t supposed to—I mean, I—”

“Meiriel!” the Arcrfmage barked. “Can you do it or not?” With an effort, the Healer got hold of herself. “I suppose so,” she whispered unhappily.

“Excellent.” The Archmage smiled. “My dear Meiriel, I am well pleased with you. This will not go unrewarded. Are you sure that no one suspects? Finbarr? Anyone?”

“As if I would tell Finbarr!” Meiriel’s lip curled. “He’d be no friend to us in this. He’s besotted with the wretched woman!” Her eyes flashed angrily.

Miathan’s eyes narrowed. So she was jealous of Aurian? He filed the information away in his mind, for future use. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll send for Aurian now.”

“Blasted, bloody thing!” Aurian tugged fiercely at the brush, which was inextricably tangled with a snarl of her hair. Then in temper she threw the whole thing away from her— brush, hair, and all—with the inevitable result.

“Ouch!” She banged her fist hard on the table, making the mirror tremble.

“Lady, let me.” Anvar hurried to her side, hastily retrieving the brush, which swung in midair, dangling from the tangled lock of hair. He freed it carefully, then, while she rubbed at her head, he brought her a glass of wine, taking the brush with him to forestall a further outburst. For some reason, his mistress seemed to be growing awfully moody of late.

Aurian took a huge gulp of the wine and smiled at him. “Thank you, Anvar. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She rubbed irritably at her forehead. “Stupid of me, to carry on like that. I don’t know what’s the matter with me these days. You had better give me the brush back, or I’ll never be in time to meet Forral.”

“Shall I do it, Lady?” Anvar offered. “I used to brush my mother’s hair ...” He flinched from the memory. Why did it still hurt so, to think of her? “Anyway,” he went on hastily, “she always said I was gentle.”

“Perhaps you should,” Aurian agreed. She looked surprised at the mention of his past, but Anvar knew that she had given up trying to question him about it.

Anvar took up the brush and began to work on her hair, carefully unknotting the snags with his fingers before carrying on. He enjoyed the feel of the long, thick strands that slipped like heavy silk through his hands. Soon he was brushing in long, smooth strokes, and he saw the rigid set of Aurian’s shoulders beginning to rela^,

“That’s lovely,” she sighed. “Bless you, Anvar. I can’t think how it got so tangled—it usually doesn’t when it’s braided. It must have been Parric’s cavalry practice. I’ve been on the horse, off the horse, underneath it even, all day—and that doesn’t count the times when I fell, or was knocked off!”

“Is fighting on horseback very different, Lady?” Anvar asked. Lately, she had been teaching him the rudiments of swordsmanship, and he was determined to excel.

Aurian nodded. “Completely different,” she said. “For one thing, you count on force rather than agility because you are far less maneuverable. There are different fighting styles, depending on whether your opponents are mounted or on foot. If they’re on foot, they’ll be trying to get in underneath and disable the horse, which in itself is a very formidable weapon— warhorses are trained to fight as well as their warriors—” She broke off with a rueful smile. “Sorry, Anvar. I didn’t mean to start a lecture. Parric has me eating, sleeping, and breathing horsemanship at the moment.”

Anvar smiled back at her reflection in the mirror, enjoying the ease that existed between them nowadays. “Shall I braid it again?” he asked.

“You can do that, too?” Aurian sounded surprised. “Gods, Anvar, is there no end to your talents?” She chuckled. “I suppose you realize that you’ve just talked yourself into another job? All that braiding makes my arms ache!”

“I’d be happy to do it, Lady,” Anvar said, and was surprised to realize that it was true.

“Thank you, Anvar. I appreciate that. But not tonight. We’re dining with Vannor, and I think I’ll look like a lady, rather than a warrior.” She slipped a fillet of twisted gold over her burnished hair to hold the fiery mass in place, and stood, smoothing the skirts of her emerald-green gown. “Well,” she said, “I must be off. See you later, Anvar—oh, drat! Who can that be?”

Anvar went to answer the door. It was a servant, summoning the Lady Aurian to “the presence of the Archmage. Aurian scowled when he gave her the message. “Bat turds! I’m going to be late! Did he say what Miathan wanted?”

“I’m sorry, Lady.” Anvar shook his head. The Mage gave a long-suffering sigh, but he had glimpsed the flicker of fear behind her casual pose. “Lady—if you want to get away, I’ll go and tell the Archmage that I made a mistake, and that you’ve already gone,” he offered.

“Thanks—but I’d better go myself. Miathan is the sort to blame the messenger for the tidings! I’ll come back for my cloak before I go—hopefully this won’t take too long.”

When Aurian had gone, Anvar busied himself about her rooms, tidying away the clothing she’d discarded on her return from the Garrison. He picked up her leather fighting clothes and her sword belt and boots, rolling them into a bundle with the cloak that had once belonged to Forral. He left them by the door, near her sword that stood propped against the wall. He’d clean them later, he thought. They stank of horses. He emptied her bath, built up the fire, and placed a new flask of wine on the table, ready for her return. His tasks completed, Anvar was about to reach for his guitar to while away a solitary hour or two, when he saw her staff, which had rolled beneath the bed, forgotten.

A staff was a vital tool for a Mage, serving to focus and concentrate their power. Each of the Magefolk, on reaching a certain degree of aptitude, would make a staff from one of the traditional magical trees—from a branch or a root, as they preferred—and fuse it with their power and personality. Aurian had delayed long over making her staff, knowing she was clumsy at carving and afraid that the result would be a disaster.

Seeking a way to repay her generous Solstice gift, Anvar had gone to the woods south of the river and found a twisted root of beech, Aurian’s favorite tree. He had carved it carefully, using the skills his grandpa had taught him and using the natural twists of the wood to form the two Serpents of the High Magic—the Serpent of Might and the Serpent of Wisdom— that coiled, intertwining, up the length of the staff from bottom to top. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever made, with a force and life of its own, even before it was imbued with magic. Aurian had been overjoyed with it, and her delight had been reward indeed for Anvar.

Anvar bent to pick up the staff—and dropped it as though it had burned him. When his fingers had touched the wood, he’d felt a jolt of fear—a flash of panic as though Aurian had cried out to him in helpless desperation. Cautiously, he reached for it again, but this time, there was nothing. Turning the staff in his hands, Anvar frowned. What had happened to Aurian? She had been gone for ages! Was something wrong? Had she managed to reach out to him via this implement that he had made, and she had infused with her power? A knot of pain formed between Anvar’s eyes at the thought, but he refused to be put off, remembering the flash of fear on her face when she was summoned by Miathan. Terrified though he was of the Archmage, Anvar knew he would have to find out if she was all right.

With dragging feet, he climbed to the topmost floor, trying without success to convince himself that he’d imagined the whole thing. Miathan’s door was slightly ajar. Anvar was lifting his hand to knock when he heard voices within. The Archmage —and Meiriel? Where was Aurian? He froze, one hand lifted, chilled by what he heard.

“It isn’t working, Miathan.” Meiriel’s voice was strained. “Even under your spells, she instinctively fights to protect the child.”

“Plague on it! Is there nothing you can do?” “Well . . . There’s a drug that I could try. It would work on her mind, to make her malleable to our commands. We might be able to make her expel the brat herself.” “Do you have it with you?”

“Of course!” Meiriel snapped. “We must hurry, though. It will take the drug about an hour to take effect, and if we should be discovered in the meantime—”

“Don’t worry. Eliseth and her companions will no doubt be occupied in plotting their usual mischief, and you know that Finbarr never leaves his Archives! Get on with it, Meiriel! For-ral’s child must not survive this night!”

Anvar gasped, steadying himself against the cold stone wall of the tower, his mind spinning with confusion . . . Aurian’s babe, destroyed as Sara’s had been, and for similar reasons . . . His child-^Forral’s child . . . Forral! Turning, Anvar ran, soft-footed until he was well around the first curve, then descending the spiral stairs at a breakneck pace. Without thinking, he thrust the staff into his belt as he reached the bottom, then pelted across the torchlit courtyard to the stables next to the guardhouse. “A horse, quick!” he yelled to the startled guards. “I’m on an urgent errand for the Lady Aurian!” They knew by now that he was the Lady’s trusted servant, and did not hinder him. He snatched a bridle and forced it onto the nearest animal, then without waiting for a saddle he vaulted astride, ducking beneath the stable doorway. He spurred out of the gate just as the guards raised the signal lantern that would alert the gatekeeper to open the lower gates.

Anvar reached the gates of the Garrison, pursued by several mounted troopers who had taken exception to him hurtling through the city streets, heedlessly scattering the passersby who got in his way. Two guards stood forth to bar his way, and Anvar wrenched at the horse’s mouth, throwing himself off the startled beast before it had time to skid to a halt. He thrust the reins at the astonished soldiers. “Commander Forral!” he gasped. “Quick—where is he?”

Luckily one of the guards was Parric. “In his quarters, but—” He was talking to empty air. Anvar had gone, shouldering past him and running across the parade ground to the officers’ quarters. The troopers, arriving close on his heels, looked at Parric, who simply shrugged.

Anvar hammered frantically on Forral’s door, almost hitting the Commander in the face as he opened it.

“Anvar, what in the world . . .”

Anvar almost fell into the room, barely noticing Vannor seated by the fire. Clutching at Forral’s tunic, he gasped out his story. The result was unexpected. Anvar, knowing Forral as a cool, capable, professional soldier, had failed to realize that the swordsman might have a blind spot where Aurian was concerned. Forral’s face went absolutely white; all reason fled from his eyes. “Miathan,” he howled in an inhuman voice, and snatching up his sword, he fled from the room. Vannor and Anvar stared at each other, horrified, then, as one, they rushed out after the berserk swordsman.

By the time they had found norses and made their way through the crowded streets of the clty^Torral was well ahead of them. The gatehouse on the causeway showed the horrific evidence of his passing: the gatekeeper lay huddled and twisted in a pool of blood. In the courtyard above was a worse scene of carnage, with dead guards and servants littering the bloodstained paving stones. Forral’s warhorse stood by the tower door, its sides heaving, its ears laid back and nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. Anvar and Vannor hurled themselves from their mounts and dashed up the steps of the tower—only to stop dead on Miathan’s threshold, frozen by the horror within.

Aurian was lost in a dark dream, fighting with all her strength against something dark and nebulous, twisted and unspeakably evil—something that strove to possess her very soul.

She fought, desperate, weaponless, feeling herself gradually beginning to weaken, feeling her will slowly slipping away in the face of the dark terror—the voice that strove to master her. Then another voice reached her, crying Miathan’s name. Forral! She clung to his voice—a lifeline pulling her up—up and out ...

Aurian opened her eyes, saw the lamplight of Miathan’s opulent quarters, saw Meiriel cowering in a corner—and saw Forral, splattered with blood and clutching a gory, dripping sword, advancing on the Archmage. Miathan retreated behind the table, snatching at a cloth that covered something ... A chalice of graven, burnished gold. In a chilling voice, the Archmage began to intone the words of a spell, in a language ancient and steeped in evil. Aurian felt an agonizing buzzing within her skull as the buildup of dark, obscene magic permeated the chamber. “Miathan, no!” she shrieked, struggling to fight off the effects of the drug and rise from the couch where she lay. Forral continued his slow, inexorable advance, murder in his eyes. Desperate, Aurian sent out a frantic mental call for help—to Finbarr, the only Mage she could still trust.

The air thickened and grew dark. In the gloom, the outside of the cup began to glow with a pale, sickly luminescence like rotting fungus, its inside enclosing a black, bottomless pit from which issued a hideous stench. The air was chill with a cold from beyond the very grave, and reeked of rot and putrefaction. Then something stjrred in the depths of the chalice and a shadow, like a drift of black, oily smoke, poured over the rim. A single red eye burned steadily within the moiling, churning vapors as the specter expanded and coalesced. Forral shrank away as its deadly light fell upon him. A freezing wave of malevolence filled the room, striking the swordsman to his knees as the creature drifted slowly in his direction. He screamed once, horribly, his face contorted.

“Miathan—no!” The Archmage turned at the sound of Aurian’s shriek, to see her struggling to rise from the couch, her eyes fixed in horror on the abomination that he had summoned. Then she turned to him, and the agony on her face struck straight to his heart. “Take it back!” she cried. “Please,

Miathan, spare him! I’ll do anything—I swear it! I beg you, take it back!”

For a moment, the Archmage hesitated—and his creature paused, hovering. He already owed Aurian a blood debt for the murder of her father, and in his own, grasping way, he truly loved her. Anything, she had said—and he had her oath on it. Having won her gratitude for sparing Forral, surely he would win back her heart?

He turned, fully intending to call the creature back—until he saw the swordsman trapped in his corner. All at once, the memory of his humiliation at Forral’s hands that morning returned in force. This—this filthy upstart Mortal was Aurian’s lover! He had laid hands on her body, had filled her with his seed—and now she carried his monstrous brat! Enough! The Archmage’s mind was utterly consumed by the searing flames of jealousy—and his one chance to redeem himself from evil was utterly lost.

Aurian saw Miathan turn to the abomination—and saw his face contort into a hideous mask of hatred. “Take him!” he shrieked. Forral huddled flat against the wall, staring wild-eyed at the Thing that stalked him. Although he was utterly fearless in the face of any human foe, this \w^s more than even Forral could face. Aurian gasped, her body breaking out into an icy sweat. Never had she seen anything like this! It took all her courage not to break and run, to flee in mindless panic from this manifestation of evil that was_advancing on her love with deadly intent.

It was like a wisp of dark cloud—a smoky wraith that writhed and undulated with a sickening pulsation, twisting and recombining in a series of leering, malevolent demon faces that flickered and shimmered in a way that tortured and wrenched both the eye and the gut. It was impossible to look at it; impossible to look away. Aurian felt her head beginning to throb. The Thing was surrounded by a swirling vortex of cold evil that sucked at her, leeching the warmth and strength from her body, and she suddenly knew she had little time in which to act.

With the strength of desperation, she wrenched herself to her feet and leapt across^the room, hurling herself in front of the swordsman and snapping her magical shield into place to protect them both. The Thing kept advancing, slow and inexorable. Aurian bit back a scream as it hit her shield—and passed straight through as though nothing were there! Forcing down her panic, she backed toward Forral, snatching the sword from his nerveless fingers.

The blade thrummed, flaring into fiery light as Aurian infused it with the force of her Fire-magic. She went for the abomination with a great, two-handed swipe, cleaving it straight through the middle. Her blade met no resistance, as though it had passed through smoke. The specter gave a deep, chilling chuckle—and the two halves rejoined, flowing effortlessly back together. Shock exploded through her, as her blade went dark and dead. Aurian staggered back weakly, dropping the sword, her hands and arms numb with a pervasive chill that was quickly spreading. The abomination advanced, seeming to grow in size, blotting out the room with its massive, shadowy form. Passing over her as she lay helpless, it swooped upon the swordsman, engulfing him in its reeking darkness. Forral gave one last, strangled cry—her name—as the dark mass flowed over him. Then there was silence. Slowly, the abomination lifted.

Forral lay, white and still, as Aurian had seen him so long ago, in a dread vision. “Forral!” she shrieked, a cry wrenched with anguish from the depths of her soul, as, heedless of her own danger, she flung hesself upon him. But it was too late. Forral’s body beneath her was lifeless, an icy husk, his breathing stilled, his great, generous, loving heart stopped forever,

Anvar reached the doorway in time to see Forral fall. He saw Aurian, oblivious in her grief to her own danger, hurl herself across his body, weeping as she tried to revive him, seeking desperately with her Healer’s senses for one last spark of life to which she could cling. With a jarring whine, the dark, roiling monstrosity swooped down toward her, its black maw gaping. “No!” Miathan screamed. “Not her, you fool!” The Thing ignored him. Strengthened by the life-force of its victim, it was now beyond his control. With an inarticulate cry, Anvar leapt forward, only to be shouldered aside by the tall, lanky form of Finbarr, bearing his staff. He lifted it, feeing the monster, and cried out some words in a strong, ringing voice.

The abomination gave a startled flicker, suddenly finding itself enclosed by a misty blue aura. Then it stopped, frozen, hanging helplessly in midair scant inches away from Aurian’s face, taken completely out of time by Finbarr’s preserving spell. Miathan recoiled with a vile curse, and lifting his hands, uttered a spell of his own. More dark shapes, more and more, began to pour over the rim of the chalice. Finbarr countered them with his own spell, freezing each Wraith as it emerged, his damp face contorted with strain. “Nihilim!” he shouted. “The Death Wraiths of the Caldron! Anvar—get Aurian out of here!” Meiriel, in her corner, was shrieking.

Anvar needed no second telling. He dashed across to Aurian, ducking around the frozen form of the hideous monstrosity that loomed over her. She clutched frantically at Forral, as Anvar tugged at her arm. “Aurian, come on,” he yelled, “Please—there’s nothing you can do for him!” His own face was flooded with tears,

Aurian looked up at him, and her eyes suddenly cleared, as though she recognized him for the first time. She dragged a sleeve across her tearstained face and nodded, then turned back to Forral, touching his face with a gentle hand, in farewell, “Safe journey, love,” she whispered, “until we meet again.” Then, with a sob, she tore herself away, leaning heavily on Anvar’s arm as they staggered toward the door.

Finbarr was still fighting the Arcjimage’s endless succession of Wraiths. He was staggering with weakness now, Vannor stood at the door, paralyzed with horror, his face deathly white. Anvar thrust Aurian into his arms.

“Help her,” he yelled. “Hurry!” He ran ahead of them down the stairs and ducked into Aurian’s room, snatching up her bundle of discarded warrior’s clothing and her sword. There was no time for more. He caught up with Vannor and Aurian at the bottom of the stairs and helped the distraught Mage mount one of the horses, Vannor mounted the other, and Anvar passed his bundle to the merchant before leaping up behind Aurian and snatching up the reins.

“To my house!” Vannor shouted, and spurred toward the gates, trampling the fallen bodies of the guards in his haste.

??? swordsman and snapping her magical shield into place to protect them both. The Thing kept advancing, slow and inexorable. Aurian bit back a scream as it hit her shield—and passed straight through as though nothing were there! Forcing down her panic, she backed toward Forral, snatching the sword from his nerveless fingers.

The blade thrummed, flaring into fiery light as Aurian infused it with the force of her Fire-magic. She went for the abomination with a great, two-handed swipe, cleaving it straight through the middle. Her blade met no resistance, as though it had passed through smoke. The specter gave a deep, chilling chuckle—and the two halves rejoined, flowing effortlessly back together. Shock exploded through her, as her blade went dark and dead. Aurian staggered back weakly, dropping the sword, her hands and arms numb with a pervasive chill that was quickly spreading. The abomination advanced, seeming to grow in size, blotting out the room with its massive, shadowy form. Passing over her as she lay helpless, it swooped upon the swordsman, engulfing him in its reeking darkness. Forral gave one last, strangled cry—her name—as the dark mass flowed over him. Then there was silence. Slowly, the abomination lifted.

Forral lay, white and still, as Aurian had seen him so long ago, in a dread vision, “Forral!” she shrieked, a cry wrenched with anguish from the depths of her soul, as, heedless of her own danger, she flung herself upon him. But it was too late. Forral’s body beneath her was lifeless, an icy husk, his breathing stilled, his great, generous, loving heart stopped forever.

Anvar reached the doorway in time to see Forral fall. He saw Aurian, oblivious in her grief to her own danger, hurl herself across his body, weeping as she tried to revive him, seeking desperately with her Healer’s senses for one last spark of life to which she could cling. With a jarring whine, the dark, roiling monstrosity swooped down toward her, its black maw gaping. “No!” Miathan screamed. “Not her, you fool!” The Thing ignored him. Strengthened by the life-force of its victim, it was now beyond his control. With an inarticulate cry, Anvar leapt forward, only to be shouldered aside by the tall, lanky form of Finbarr, bearing his staff. He lifted it, facing the monster, and cried out some words in a strong, ringing voice.

The abomination gave a startled flicker, suddenly finding itself enclosed by a misty blue aura. Then it stopped, frozen, hanging helplessly in midair scant inches away from Aurian’$ face, taken completely out of time by Finbarr’s preserving spell. Miathan recoiled with a vile curse, and lifting his hands, uttered a spell of his own. More dark shapes, more and more, began to pour over the rim of the chalice. Finbarr countered them with his own spell, freezing each Wraith as it emerged, his damp face contorted with strain, “Nihilim!” he shouted. “The Death Wraiths of the Caldron! Anvar—get Aurian out of here!” Meiriel, in her corner, was shrieking,

Anvar needed no second telling. He dashed across to Aurian, ducking around the frozen form of the hideous monstrosity that loomed over her. She clutched frantically at Forral, as Anvar tugged at her arm. “Aurian, come on,” he yelled. “Please—there’s nothing you can do for him!” His own fact-was flooded with tears.

Aurian looked up at him, and her eyes suddenly cleared, as though she recognized him for the first time. She dragged t sleeve across her tearstained face and nodded, then turned back to Forral, touching his race with a gentle hand, in farewell. “Safe journey, love,” she whispered, “until we meet again.” Then, with a sob, she tore herself away, leaning heavily on Anvar’s arm as they staggered toward the door.

Finbarr was still fighting the -Arcjimage’s endless succession of Wraiths, He was staggering with weakness now. Vannor stood at the door, paralyzed with horror, his face deathly white, Anvar thrust Aurian into his arms.

“Help her,” he yelled. “Hurry!” He ran ahead of them down the stairs and ducked into Aurian’s room, snatching up her bundle of discarded warrior’s clothing and her sword. There was no time for more. He caught up with Vannor and Aurian at the bottom of the stairs and helped the distraught Mage mount one of the horses. Vannor mounted the other, and Anvar passed his bundle to the merchant before leaping up behind Aurian and snatching up the reins.

“To my house!” Vannor shouted, and spurred toward the gates, trampling the fallen bodies of the guards in his haste.

As they passed the gates, they heard a terrible shriek from the tower—Meiriel’s voice. Aurian stiffened in Anvar’s arms and gasped, flinching as though she had been struck. “Finbarr. He’s dead,” she said in a small, bleak voice, as though this last grief were the utter end and nothing could ever touch her again. As Anvar looked back at the tower, he saw the sinister black shapes of the Wraiths already beginning to pour out of the upper windows, heading for the city.

They thundered across the causeway, away from the horror behind them, and turning right, took the lamplit road that climbed away amidst the trees, never once pausing in their wild flight until they reached the sturdy carved doors of Vannor’s mansion. Pushing past the bewildered servant who opened the door, the merchant led them across the tiled hallway and into his study. Dropping Aurian’s bundle on the floor, he gestured for Anvar to help the Mage to the couch, and poured strong spirits for each before dropping shakily into his own chair. “Gods,” he said. “What are we going to do?” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. “It’s obvious,” he went on, with the calm of deep shock, “that Miathan is insane. He’s broken the Mages’ Code and unleashed a horror such as this city has never seen. He always wanted power—he’ll take it now, make no mistake. And he’ll be after us—and Aurian in particular. You’ll have to get her away from here, lad. The only question is, where? Could you go north, Lady, to your mother?”

Aurian sat stiffly beside Anvar on the couch, staring at nothing, her eyes wide and blank, her face gray. Her knuckles were clenched white about her untouched cup.

“Lady?” Anvar prompted gently. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he guided her hands that held the cup to her lips, encouraging her to drink.

As she swallowed the fiery liquor a tremor passed through her, and the terrible tension of her body eased a little. “Forral,” she whispered longingly. Her eyes began to focus, and Anvar could hardly bear to meet that lost, pain-filled gaze. Then she looked away, and with a shaking hand held her cup out to Vannor to be refilled, and downed the liquor in one swift gulp.

“Anvar, what happened?” she asked. “What did the Archmage do to me? Why were you and—and Forral there?”

Briefly, his voice trembling with emotion, Anvar told her, and saw her eyes grow wide with shock. “Child?” she gasped. “What child? I’m not—I can’t be!” For a moment her expression clouded, and Anvar guessed that she was probing within, with her Healer’s extra sense. “Dear Gods,” she murmured. “Solstice! It must have been at Solstice. We were drunk that night ... So happy . . . But I couldn’t have been so careless—it’s impossible ...” Suddenly her eyes flared with a terrible anger. “Meiriel!” she snarled. “Meiriel betrayed me! It’s the only possibility! By all the Gods, she’ll pay for this, before I’m done!”

Leaping to her feet, she whirled toward Vannor, suddenly grimly decisive. “You go north, Vannor, if you will,” she said. “My mother must be warned that the Archmage has turned traitor and renegade. We’ll need her powers before this is done. Gather together any who’ll support us as you go. I’m going south, to the hill forts, to raise an army. I swear to you that I’ll never rest until Miathan has paid in full for his deeds tonight!”

“What!” Vannor sprang upright in turn, white an4 shaken. “Aurian, don’t be so rash! Will you break the Mages’ Code for revenge? Don’t you remember the bitter lessons of the Cataclysm? You can’t unleash that horror again!”

The Mage met his gaze without flinching. “I have no choice,” she said. “Miathan has already broken the Code. Finbarr said those—things—were Nihilim, the Death Wraiths, and that can only mean that he possesses the Caldron of ancient legend, and has turned its power to^evil. If we don’t stop him, he’ll eventually hold the very world in his hand.”

Vannor sat down abruptly. “How could you hope to defeat him, when he holds such a powerful weapon?”

“I don’t know,” Aurian admitted. “But I have to try, or die in the attempt.”

There was no swaying her, and time was too short, danger too near, for argument. Anvar, afraid to his very soul, knew that he would have to accompany her. Who knew what the Mage might do, in her grief? And she hardly seemed to be considering her unborn child. Someone had to take care of her, and it was the very least he could do, in atonement.

Having had some little time to reflect on what had passed, Anvar was consume$L.w,ith guilt over his part in Forral’s death.

Had he paused to consider toe consequences before rusing to seek the swordsman, Forral would still be alive and so would Finbarr. And Miathan would not have unleashed the terror of the Wraiths. True, the babe wou\d have perished, but hard though the choice was, Anvar knew that Aurian would always have chosen her love. Just now, she had submerged her grief in the need to act, but eventually it would occur to her, as it had to him, who was truly responsible. He shuddered at what she might do to him then. But it would only be what he deserved. Anvar closed his eyes in grief. Was he doomed always to be the bane of those dearest to him? First his mother, then Sara—and now Forral and Aurian. He truly wished that he had died instead of the swordsman—and he was certain that Aurian would feel the same way.

Aurian and Vannor made their plans swiftly. Vannor would take his personal guards and try to locate Parric in the city, and gather support there to resist the Archmage. Anvar shuddered, marveling at the merchant’s courage. He was shamefully glad that he would not have to venture into those Wraith-infested streets. He and Aurian were to take Vannor’s little boat, a light pleasure craft, and escape downriver to the port. The Mage had decided that the quickest way to reach the southern forts would be by sea, and Vannor provided her with gold to pay for their passage on a ship. Then the merchant made a request of Aurian that snapped Anvar out of his introspection with a jolt. “When you go, will you take Sara with you? She’d be safer in one of the southern forts than with m?.”

Aurian frowned. “Vannor, I can’t,” she said bluntly. “Though Forral”—her voice trembled at the mention of his name—“though he taught me a lot about adventuring, this will be the first such journey that I’ve made, and having Sara with me would endanger both us and herself. Truly, she’d be safer with you.”

“Aurian, please,” Vannor begged. “I know she’s not made for hardship, but she’ll be in worse danger if she stays here.”

.Aurian sighed. “Very well, Vannor. I owe you that much, and more besides—but bear in mind that we won’t be able to cosset her.”

Vannor’s face brightened. “Thank you, Lady,” he said. “I’ll have her brought here at once.”

??? rounded on Vannor like a fury, accusing him of all kinds of stupidity for becoming involved in the first place, for incurring the Archmage’s wrath and ruining their lives. The merchant looked thoroughly ashamed of her behavior, and Aurian’s lip curled in disgust. Anvar stayed silent in the background, his heart pounding as he drank in her beauty once more. Though she was ignoring his presence, he had seen her face turn white at the sight of him, and was tortured anew by the memory of her repudiation the last time they had met. Yet had it stemmed from hatred of him—or fear of Vannor discovering the shameful secret of her past?

It was plain from the scene before him that all the love in the marriage was on Vannor’s side. When Sara addressed her husband, Anvar saw nothing but coldness and scorn. Her mother had said that Sara’s father had sold her in marriage to Vannor. Had she been forced against her will? Was she a prisoner in these rich surroundings? It would explain her behavior toward the merchant, whom Anvar knew to be a kind and decent man at heart. And if she hated Vannor, how would the girl react when she discovered that she would be traveling with her former lover, who had fathered a child on her and left her to face the consequences?

Vannor’s explanation never got as far as including Anvar. When the merchant managed to get a word in edgewise to tell Sara their plans, she refused point-blank to go. “Why should I?” she snapped, stamping her foot, “I’m not wandering the world like a vagabond, with her” She glared at Aurian, “None of this U my fault—the Archmage can’t blame me. I didn’t choose to marry a fool—or an outlaw!”

Anvar saw the hurt on Vannor’s face, saw Aurian curse and step forward, her hand upraised. He leapt forward, certain that the Mage was about to strike her, but Aurian simply laid her hand on Sara’s head and said: ’’Sleep!” Sara crumpled to the ground. “Don’t worry,” Aurian said, catching Vannor’s worried glance as he knelt by his wife. “It’ll keep her out of mischief for a while. Send for someone to carry her down to the boat, Vannor. We’ve delayed too long already.”

“Is she all right?” the merchant asked.

“Of course she-w. Far more than she deserves to be,”

Aurian replied irritably. “She’s only asleep. But I warn you, Vannor—the next time she starts carrying on like that, I really will slap her—with the greatest pleasure!”

The wind was rising, driving ragged tatters of cloud across the face of a sickly half-moon whose fitful, flickering light afforded glimpses of dark, bare branches tossing against the sky. Patches of unmelted snow still lingered on the wooded river-banks by Vannor’s little boathouse and the river ran swiftly, sending choppy waves lapping hungrily against the edge of the low wooden jetty. One of Vannor’s guards held a shielded lantern aloft, and another pulled the small boat out of its shelter and held it steady while the merchant gently laid the sleeping, warmly wrapped form of his wife inside, pillowing her head on the pathetic bundles that contained their belongings.

Anvar shivered. He was wearing a cloak borrowed from Vannor, but between the chill of the night and the shock that had finally caught up with him, he was seized with an uncontrollable trembling. Aurian stood beside him, huddled miserably in Forral’s old cloak, her face pale and set like stone. Only her indomitable will, he knew, was keeping her from collapse, and he feared for her.

Vannor looked long at Sara and kissed her in farewell, then turned to Aurian, catching her up in a rough hug. “The Gods go with you, Lady,” he said in a choked voice, tears running freely down his cheeks. ^

“And with you, dear Vannor.” Aurian’s voice caught on a sob. She swallowed hard. “Take care of yourself,” she said softly and, wiping her eyes, she drew her hood over her head and climbed down into the boat, careful of the sword that she now bore at her side. She thrust her staff, which she had reclaimed from Anvar, into her belt, and took hold of the pole, ready to push off. Vannor came to Anvar and seized his hand in a warm grasp. “Take care of them, lad,” he said. “Take care of them both.”

Anvar nodded, speechless. He climbed aboard the frail little craft and took up the oars. Aurian pushed with the pole and the boat swung out into the current of the dark river. As they gathered speed, Vannor’s form quickly dwindled, and passed