Aurian

3 The Baker’s Son

“Gee up, there!” Anvar flipped the reins, urging the old horse along the rough, rutted track that slanted up from the mill by the riverside. Lazy tossed his head and whinnied, protesting at having to haul the heavy cartload of flour up the steep hill. “Never mind,” Anvar told the horse. “At least you’re warm., I’ll give you a good breakfast when we get home.” He blew on his hands and slapped them against his thighs, trying to thaw the stiffness out of his fingers. The icy dawn chill had seeped into his bones, and the mill’s roaring fire already seemed a million miles away. But a different sort of fire warmed young Anvar’s blood as he recalled the smile of the miller’s pretty daughter, Sara.

The wealth and power in the city of Nexis rested with the rich merchants, the high-placed warriors from the Garrison, and the lofty Mageborn. Life was much harder for the common folk: the craftsmen and dressmakers, the servants, laborers, shopkeepers, bargemen, and lamplighters who kept the city running with their menial but essential tasks, Children, perforce, learned to shoulder responsibility at an early age, and Anvar’s father, a master baker in the city, had given his eldest son the task of fetching the flour as soon as he was old enough to drive the cart. Though the journey was longer by road, and hard in winter, it saved the ruinous freight tolls charged by the river’s bargemen.

Ever since Anvar’s first visit to the mill long ago, fair-haired, elfin little Sara had been his best friend. When they were younger they would sneak away in the afternoons to play together, meeting along the narrow towpath that ran downriver to the city. Now that they had reached the grand old age of fifteen, however, their games had started to take a new and serious turn. Anvar was in love, and he had no doubt whatsoever that Sara felt the same. Both sets of parents viewed this development with tolerance. Tori, Anvar’s father, and Jard the miller both saw the advantage in combining the two businesses someday, and of course the mothers had no say in the matter.

Anvar smiled, still thinking of Sara, as he reached the top of the hill and turned the creaking cart onto the main highway. Nexis was hidden by the freezing mist that lay gray in the forested valley below. Only the shimmering white towers and dome of the Academy, high on their rocky promontory above the rest of the city, were visible above the fog. Anvar’s smile turned to a scowl at the sight. They would still be asleep up there, he thought. Snoring on swansdown mattresses while honest folk had been up and working well before daylight! His father had no time for the Magefolk, calling them arrogant parasites and an insult to proper men. This was such a common point of view in Anvar’s neighborhood that he had never questioned it, though he noticed that the men in the taprooms kept their voices low as they said it, glancing nervously over their shoulders as they spoke.

Suddenly Anvar was wrenched out of his daydreams as the old horse shied and laid its ears back at the sound of hoofbeats. Someone was coming up behind him, galloping perilously fast on the icy road. He sighed and pulled the cart well into the side. It was probably a courier, headed for the Garrison, the Academy, or the Merchants’ Quarter, and it would be more than Anvar’s hide was worth to get in the way of his betters’ business.

The horse was finished. As it thundered past, Anvar could hear the wheeze of its labored breathing above the sound of hooves. He caught a glimpse of its sweat-streaked, bloodstained flanks as it hurtled by, and heard the burly rider curse it as he lashed it with the end-of the reins. The swine! Anvar raged inwardly, furious at this cruel treatment. He urged his own horse onward gently, as if by his kindness he could somehow make amends for what he had just witnessed. Then he heard the fading hoofbeats falter. There was a sick thud as the horse went down, followed by a stream of savage curses.

Anvar rounded the bend to see the dark bulk of the dead horse lying in the road. The body still steamed. The great bully who had been riding it stood over it, quite unscathed and scalding the air with oaths. Anvar was consumed with anger. Without pausing to consider the consequences, he leapt from the cart and hurled himself at the big, bearded horseman. “You bastard!” he screamed. “You callous bastard!” The man ignored him completely, his eye suddenly lighting on the cart. Brushing Anvar aside with casual, contemptuous strength, he ran forward and drew a dagger from his belt to cut the old horse free from the traces.

Anvar hauled himself out of the ditch, horrified at the result of his folly. “No!” he yelled and ran forward to tug at the madman’s arm. A blow sent him spinning. The big man threw the last of the harness aside, cut off the trailing ends of the long reins, and leapt astride the horse’s bare back. Lazy shied, rolling his eyes, and the man gave a savage jerk at the reins. Anvar picked himself up, tears in his eyes, and hauled desperately at the rider’s muddy cloak. “Please, sir,” he begged, “he’s old. You can’t—”

The stranger turned to look at him as though noticing him for the first time, his grim expression suddenly softening to compassion and regret. “I’m truly sorry, lad,” he said gently, “but it’s an emergency. There’s a young girl’s life at stake, and I must get to the Healer. Try to understand, I’ll leave him at the Academy. Tell them Forral sent you,” He clasped Anvar’s shoulder briefly, and was gone with a clatter of hooves. Anvar stared after him for a long moment, then turned to contemplate the abandoned cart with its precious load. The flour would be late that morning and Tori would be unable to start work. They would lose money through this, for sure. Anvar sighed, and set off walking back toward the mill to borrow a horse. His father was going to be absolutely livid,

Anvar’s family lived in the north of Nexis, in the thickly populated labyrinth of narrow stpeet|pthat clustered within the great city wall -on the upper slopes of the broad valley. Farther down were the great stone thoroughfares with their magnificent, colonnaded buildings and marvelous markets and shops. Slightly apart, on a plateau where the slope leveled briefly before continuing its descent, stood the large gray fortresslike complex of the legendary Garrison. Lining the northern river-bank at the bottom of the vale were the warehouses and wharves of the merchants, with their usual dockside complement of rats, beggars, cutpurses, and whores. Elegant bridges leapt across the river’s broad flow at various points, connecting the working areas in the north of the city to the very different environment on the south bank.

South of the rivejr,, the valley sloped upward in a series of steep wooded terraces. Set like jewels among the trees were the opulent mansions of the merchants with their smooth lawns and lush, glowing gardens where colored lanterns burned on balmy summer evenings when the air was thick with the scent of many flowers. At the mid-point of its journey through the city, the river made a detour, looping north in an oxbow before reemerging to resume its path to the sea. Within this loop stood a high, rocky promontory, almost an island, connected to the southern bank by a narrow tongue of land barred with an arched white gate. Set on top of the promontory, the highest point in the city, were the white-walled towers of the Academy where the Magefolk dwelt in splendid and lofty isolation.

The morning was wearing away when Anvar drove his borrowed horse past the guards at the northern city gate and threaded his way through the narrow streets toward home. The houses and workshops in this part of the city were simply but solidly constructed of wood, brick, and plaster. Most of the homes were well cared for, and the streets were cobbled but clean. Anvar had heard that in smaller towns, people threw their waste out of the windows, turning the thoroughfares into an open sewer. In Nexis, jewel among cities and home of the Magefolk, such a thing would be unthinkable. Some two hundred years previously, Bavordran, a Mage skilled in Water-magic, had designed an elaborate and effective system of underground sewers to furnish the entire city, and the Magefolk, for once, (for they were not exactly famed for helping the Mortal population of Nexis,) took the duty of their magical upkeep very seriously indeed.

Anvar’s family lived above Tori’s bakery, where bread, cakes, and pies were made to sell in the little market held daily in a nearby square. Usually the fragrance of baking loaves filled the street, but not today. As he neared the house, Anvar could hear his father’s voice raised in anger, and chewed his lip nervously. He’d be in trouble over this, for sure. He turned the cart carefully down the narrow alleyway that led to the little stable behind the house, and made Jard’s horse comfortable in Lazy’s stall. There was no point in delaying. The later he was, the more angry Tori would become. Squaring his shoulders, Anvar crossed the yard and went reluctantly into the bakery. He hoped that his father would give him a chance to explain.

Tori was in no mood for excuses. “But it wasn’t my fault!” Anvar pleaded. “He knocked me down and took the horse—”

“And you just let him! That animal is our livelihood, you stupid boy. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you?” Tori raised his big fist, his arm brawny from years of lifting bags of flour and kneading stiff dough. Anvar ducked and the blow caught him on the shoulder, spinning him into the corner where he knocked over a clattering stack of empty bread trays in falling. “Clumsy fool!” His father advanced on him like a great, menacing shadow, hauled him up and hit him again. “Stay still, you!” The baker began to unbuckle his belt.

“Leave him alone, Tori. It wasn’t the boy’s fault.” Grandpa’s voice was filled with quiet authority. Anvar, nursing his bruises, sagged with relief at the unexpected reprieve. The old man was the only person who could defy his son’s temper when Tori was in this mood.

Grandpa was Anvar’s confidant, teacher, protector, and friend. He was a great hulk of a man, with a shock of white hair, a gentle expression, and a bristling moustache. He’d been a carpenter by trade, and his thick-fingered hands could do miracles of intricate, delicate carving that were much in demand, and brought in welcome pennies to the household. But he gave away as many pieces as he sold—much to Tori’s disgust. A countryman at heart, the old man had come to live with his son after the tragic early death of his wife, a sweet and lovely person—and a legendary cook. It was she who had taught Tori the skills that made his^baking so much in demand. For years Grandpa had tried to bury his grief in his work, but now he was content to rest and enjoy his grandsons, trying to teach them the older, simpler values of his youth. In Anvar he had a willing pupil, but Bern, the younger brother, was his father’s son, from his dark, sturdy appearance to his love of the business and the worship of profit.

Tori scowled. Letting go of Anvar, he turned on Grandpa. “You stay out of this, old man!”

“I don’t think so, Tori. Not this time.” Grandpa placed himself between the wrathful baker and his victim. “You’re too hard on the lad.”

“And you spoil him, you and his wretched mother! No wonder the boy is good, for nothing!”

“He’s good for a great many things, if you would give him a chance,” Grandpa said firmly. “Instead of taking it out on him, why don’t you go up to the Academy and see what’s happened to the horse?”

“What? Trek all the way across town and up that bloody great hill? Have you lost your wits, Father? Enough of today’s been wasted, thanks to this idiot!”

“Nonsense, Tori. You can take Jard’s horse, and the trip may well be worth your time. It won’t hurt to have your name known at the Academy—they eat bread too, you know. We can start the baking while you’re gone, and there’s a good chance that you’ll be compensated by this Forral. From what Anvar said, he seemed an honorable man, and if it was an emergency, what else could he do? You’d have done the same thing yourself, if anything had happened to Bern.”

Tori hesitated for a moment, still scowling. “Those bastards could starve before I’d sell them a crumb of my bread— and besides, you old fool, they bake their own—or get the bootlicking Mortal scum who serve them to do it!” Satisfied that he had had the last word he stamped out, slamming the door behind him. Grandpa shrugged, and put an arm around Anvar’s shoulders. “Come on, son, we’d better get started. We’re well behind this morning, and your father’s temper isn’t likely to improve with the day.”

As Anvar followed him, Grandpa’s last words to his father echoed in his head. Bern—Tori’s favorite, and he never bothered to hide it. Always BernrAnvar looked sourly at his dark-haired younger brother, who was smirking in the doorway. Why did Tori favor him so? Grandpa had been right. If Bern had been hurt, his father would move mountains to help him. If it had been himself, on the other hand . . . Anvar sighed. He knew only too well what his father thought about him. But he wished he knew why.

At nightfall Anvar dragged himself up the ladder to the cramped little attic that he shared with Bern, having finished work at last. He had been too tired to eat the special supper that his mother had prepared to placate his father’s black mood. Lacking the energy to undress, he threw himself down on his bed. Gods, what a terrible day it had been! Tori had worked them like slaves, taking Anvar’s mishap out on the whole family. His poor mother had been pale and shaking with fatigue by the end of the day, and Anvar was consumed with guilt, knowing that her exhaustion was his fault. Ria had never been strong, but she toiled without complaint, afraid that if she faltered, Tori’s wrath would fall on her son again. Anvar wondered, as he often did, how this gentle, intelligent woman had come to wed his rough and greedy father. She deserved far better. Delicate and slender, she had dark blond hair and blue eyes like her elder son, and her beauty still shone through her haggard appearance.

Ria’s past was a mystery. Unlike anyone else in their neighborhood, she could read and write and play music, and had taught these skills to Anvar. A waste of time, Tori had called it, and pointed out that Bern had more sense than to ape his betters. He was learning to follow in his father’s footsteps like a proper son. But for once Ria had defied her husband, and Anvar was glad. Ever since the day his grandpa had carved him his first little wooden flute, he had fallen in love with music and practiced every spare minute, driving his family, especially his father, to distraction. Soon he had mastered all the simple tunes he knew, and had begun to compose his own, stretching the limits of the simple flute until even Grandpa’s ingenuity was hard-pressed to construct new instruments that would give him the sounds he wanted, Anvar lived for his music. His playing and Sara were the only consolations in his hardworking life, and he blessed his mother for giving him such a priceless gift.

Anvar loved Ria. Now she w«S faded, fragile, and careworn, and too cowed to stand up to the bullying Tori. He wished he could protect her, but although he was growing up tall and broad-shouldered, his frame was still lanky and gangling. If it came to a confrontation, Tori could fell him with a single blow.

Anvar sighed. He had other troubles that night. He had arranged to meet Sara in their usual trysting place along the riverbank, but Tori’s grueling workload had put paid to that. He hoped she wouldn’t be angry. He was sad too about poor Lazy, His wind had been ruined, and Tori had callously sold him to the knacker men. Anvar mourned the loss of the old horse. Though balky and stubborn, he had had great character and intelligence—which he constantly used to avoid work.

Anvar was going to miss him. Tori, however, only thought of the generous sum that Forral had left for him at the Academy. He had not seen Anvar’s horseman, for Forral had only stopped long enough to pick up the Lady Meiriel, the Healer, and the two had set off as fast as possible for the north on fresh horses. Anvar wondered what she was like, this child whose life was in danger. At first he felt inclined to resent the mysterious dying girl who had caused all this trouble, but when he thought about it, he found himself hoping that the Healer would get there in time to save her. That way, at least some good would come out of Lazy’s death.

Some weeks later, Anvar’s own family came to be in desperate need of the Healer’s services. All winter long, Grandpa had been complaining of tiredness and aches in his bones, and after Solstice, in the bleak gray season that stretched beyond the turn of the year, the old man took to his bed. He grew weaker by the day despite Ria’s diligent nursing with the herbal brews and folk remedies that were the only recourse of the common Mortals in the city. But when Anvar, remembering Forral, begged his father to send for the Healer, Tori admonished him harshly. “I don’t know where you get your ideas from,” he said. “A family like us send for the Healer? She’d laugh in our faces. Besides, I’ll have none of those Mageborn scum over my threshold. Now get back to work, boy, before I take my belt to you!” That night, when Anvjir visited Grandpa, the old man was too weak even to speak to him. He simply lay back on the pillows, his face yellow and sunken. There was an odd transparency about the old man’s skin that Anvar had never seen before, and without knowing why, he felt a stab of fear. “Mother, help him,” he begged.

Ria shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Anvar, you have to face it,” she said softly. “Grandpa’s dying.”

“No!” Anvar gasped. “He can’t die!” He came to a sudden decision. “I’m going for the Healer, if Father won’t.”

“You can’t!” Ria went absolutely white, her eyes wide with stark terror.

Even in his extremity, Anvar was stunned by her reaction. Then he looked back at his grandpa’s face.

“Why not?” he demanded. “I’m not afraid of Father. Anyway, he’s gone to the tavern. If I’m quick he need never know.”

“It’s not that!” Ria was trembling. She caught hold of Anvar’s hands. “Anvar, you and I—we must never have any dealings with the Magefolk. I can’t tell you why, but you must believe me. Stay away from them, son, for my sake—and especially for your own.”

Anvar was dumbfounded. What had his mother to do with the Magefolk, that she should be so terrified? But she wouldn’t tell him, and there was no time to find out. He pulled away. “I’m sorry, Mother.” Quietly he slipped downstairs, hoping to avoid Bern, who was always on the lookout for opportunities to get him into trouble. When Anvar reached the street he started to run, heading downhill toward the river. From the open window behind him came the sound of his mother’s frightened weeping.

Anvar pounded along the quiet, lamplit streets. It was a long way to the river, and his breath was coming in gasps as he neared the wharves, taking a shortcut to the bridge nearest the Academy. Lamps were scarce in the warehouse district and Anvar hurried nervously through the dark alleys, his feet slipping on cobbles that were covered with filth. He was already regretting that he had chosen this route. The district had a bad reputation. As he passed the dark, stinking entrance to one of the smaller alleys there was a sudden scuffling noise, and several ragged figures burst out of the shatjews. Anvar was forced to slide to a halt as they surrounded him. They closed in on him, and he gagged on the acrid stench of unwashed bodies. In the dim light from a rag-draped window above, he saw the flash of knives in their hands, and his mouth went dry with fear,

“Hand over your money, boy,” a voice growled in an unfamiliar accent.

Anvar backed away until he was stopped by the wall. “I—I haven’t got any,” he stammered, “Please let me go. I’m going for the Healer—it’s an emergency.” Irrationally, Forral’s face flicked into his mind as he echoed the big man’s words.

The cutthroat laughed. “My, aren’t we grand! Going for the Healer, eh? And with no money? Search him, boys!” Anvar was thrown to the .ground. Rough, bony fingers rummaged through his clothing, making his flesh crawl. He had time for one enormous bellow for help before they started to hit him.

The nightmare came to an abrupt end as the clatter of hooves echoed down the alley. “Troopers!” somebody yelled.

“Run for it!”

Anvar suddenly found himself alone, and struggled to make his bruised and aching body rise. A hand grasped his collar, and he was hauled to his feet.

“Got you!” Anvar found himself staring up into the stern face of a tall soldier. “What were you up to, eh, brat?” the man rasped.

“Please, sir,” Anvar stammered, squirming in the man’s iron grip, “they set on me. I was going to the Academy for the Healer—”

The trooper burst out laughing. “Come, can’t you manage a better tale than that? Do you think I was born yesterday?” He hauled Anvar to the end of the alley, where a single lamp hung from the wall on an iron bracket. As he took in Anvar’s appearance, his expression altered. “You don’t come from around here,” he accused him. “What’s a lad like you doing wandering alone in this district at night? Have you lost your wits?”

Haltingly, Anvar told him about his grandpa.

The trooper let go of his collar. “Lad,” he said gently, “the Lady Meiriel won’t bother herself with the likes of your grandpa. Don’t you know how the Magefolk are?”

“I’ve got to try,” Anvar insisted. “Why wouldn’t she help me? A while ago I met tTfts man called Forral, and—”

“You know Forral?” A look of profound respect crossed the trooper’s seamed face.

“We met on the road—he took my horse. He said he was going for the Healer to save a little girl’s life. If she would do that, why wouldn’t she help Grandpa?”

The soldier sighed. “Lad, don’t you know who Forral w? He’s a living legend—the world’s greatest swordsman—and he’s friendly with some of the Magefolk. The girl was the daughter of Eilin, the Lady of the Lake. We heard about it at the Garrison. Why, I don’t even know if the Lady Meiriel is back yet—the Valley is a long way north of here. I’m sorry, son, but even if she has come back, she won’t haul herself out at this time of night for some Mortal’s grandpa.”

“But if I could explain to her . . .” Anvar persisted.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The trooper sounded resigned. “Come on, I’ll take you on my horse. If you go up there alone, the Magefolk will likely have you flogged for your cheek before they throw you out.”

The horse’s hooves sounded loud on the causeway that led across the promontory as Anvar and the trooper approached the white gate. The gatekeeper was an old man—a Mortal, as were all the servants of the Magefolk. When Anvar’s new friend explained their errand, he gaped in disbelief.

“What? Are you joking? The Lady Meiriel has just returned from a long journey this very day. It’s more than my hide’s worth to disturb her. You should have more sense, Hargorn, than to bring the boy here.”

“This is a special case,” Hargorn insisted. “It’s the lad who gave Forral his horse. Why, if it hadn’t been for that, the little Mage lass might have died before the Healer could reach her. Surely that deserves some consideration.”

The old man sighed. “Oh, very well. I’ll ask her. But she’s not going to be very pleased.”

He ducked back into the squat white gatehouse. On a shelf inside stood a rack of crystals, each glowing with a different colored light. The gatekeeper picked up a stone that shone a deep violet-blue and spoke into it softly. After a moment a patch of luminescence shimmered into existence in front of him, and Anvar gasped as it resolved itself into a woman’s face, with dark, cropped hair, high cheekjxmes, and an arrogant beaked nose. Her expression was sleepy and cross. “What is it?” she demanded brusquely. “I trust you’ve a good reason for bothering me at this hour?” With many bows and apologies, the gatekeeper explained the situation. The Lady Meiriel frowned. “How often have I told you not to bother me with such trifles? If I had to attend every sick Mortal in Nexis, I’d exhaust my power in a day! Send the brat away—and as for you, the Archmage shall hear tomorrow that I’ll bear your incompetence no longer. This sort of thing is happening far too often! You’re obviously not fit for your post!” The face flickered into darkness.

The gatekeeper turned to Hargorn. “See what you’ve done,” he whined. But there was no one there.

The trooper caught up with Anvar before he reached the end of the causeway. “Leave me alone!” the boy shouted, blinded with tears.

Hargorn laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, lad, but I did warn you. Come on—I’ll take you home.”

Grandpa died before morning. As Anvar wept over the old man’s body, his mother sought to comfort him. “Don’t grieve so,” she said softly, putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. “Look at him.” Grandpa’s expression was transfigured by a smile of pure, sublime joy. “He’s gone back to Grandma,” Ria said. “He loved her so much, and he’s been missing her terribly all these years. You can see from his face that they’re together again. I know how much you’ll miss him, dear, but you should be happy for him, too.”

“How do you know?” Anvar demanded. “How can you be sure he knows about anything now? He’s dead! When that accursed Healer could have saved him!”

Ria sighed. “Anvar, Grandpa was old and worn out. He never really liked living in the city and he’d had a hard life. He was tired, that’s all. It’s not likely that the Lady Meiriel could have done anything—”

“She could have tried!” Anvar was dimly aware that he was shouting. “She could have cared! But he was only a Mortal. We mean less to those Magefolk than animals!”

Ria sighed again and left the room, leaving him alone for the last time with his grandfather. And as he knelt there in the cold chamber beside the empty remains of what had been a good and loving man, a deep and remorseless hatred of the Magefolk took root within his heart.