Aurian

35 The Well of Souls

The door was ancient, its thick weathered wood as gray and heavy as a block of stone, the time-blunted carvings on its panels obscured by the weight of years. As Anvar put a hand to it, vague shapes and intertwining patterns seemed to leap out at him, outlined in silvery Magefire—fire that leapt sizzling from his fingers, turning his hand into a blazing torch. Anvar flinched, sickened by the sight of his own bones shining darkly through the incandescent flesh, but he felt no sense of heat or pain. Soundlessly, the door swung open, and he stepped through. As he took his fingers from the panels, the fire in his hand was snuffed out, shrouding his surroundings in shadowy gloom.

Shimmering gray mist coiled around him, cutting off his vision as effectively as a curtain. Then, like a curtain, it parted to reveal a stooped figure whose form was obscured by a hooded gray cloak. The apparition held a staff in one hand, leaning on it in a way that gave the impression of great age. In its other hand a shuttered lantern cast a single, silvery ray upon the white, gleaming-wet pebbles of a path. As the vision turned its head, Anvar caught the intelligent gleam of a piercing dark eye, and the fuzz of a grizzled beard within the shadows of the cowl. In that moment, the old “man seemed as familiar as though Anvar had known him always, yet he could not recall having met him, or anyone like him, in his life. In fact, he realized with a shiver, he could not remember anything. He frowned. How had he come to be here? Where had he come from? As though he could hear Anvar’s confused thoughts, the old man gave him an encouraging smile, and beckoned to him to follow. At first the path led through a narrow, steep-sided cutting. Drooping trees overshadowed the way, forming a tunnel, and the high banks on each side were stacked with rounded mossy boulders and the feathery green fountains of ferns. The air was soft with clinging moisture, and musked with the scents of leaf mold, wild garlic, and wet greenery. Anvar felt the tension in his breast beginning to relax as he took deep breaths. The damp, fragrant air was such a relief after the scorching desert ...

The desert! Anvar stopped dead, straining to catch at the fleeting memory. He’d been in the desert, and— The old man caught his arm, with a warning shake of his head. The very tension of his body implied a desperate urgency. Hurry, he seemed to be saying. No time for such thoughts. He let go of Anvar and lengthened his stride, the faint gleam of his lantern vanishing rapidly in the misty dusk. Anvar, panic-stricken at the thought of losing his only guide in this strange, fey place, hurried to catch up.

With a suddenness that took Anvar’s breath away, the narrow track opened out into a valley. The clinging murk vanished, leaving only a silken, silvery ground mist that swirled underfoot, displaced by his soundless passage and that of his pilgrim guide. Catching a brief glimpse of the ground beneath his feet, Anvar realized that the path had vanished, and he was walking on a short, crisp carpet of turf. Above him, millions of stars speckled the velvet night, and the rounded curves of hills rose on either side, shouldering against one another and standing out as blacker humps against the star-crazed heavens. The silence wove a tangible spell around the mist-wreathed vale as Anvar, with no memory of the past or thoughts of the future, trailed after the hunched and shrouded figure with the lantern, as though this following were what he had been born to do.

The grove loomed out of the darkness as though it had materialized from a dream, holding for Anvar an eerie familiarity. But surely he had never set foot in this weird, unearthly place before—except, perhaps, in dreams. The huddle of ancient trees bowed in upon one another as if to conceal a mystery; as though they whispered secrets to each other through the endless night. For an instant the thought of the desert flashed again into Anvar’s mind. To his horror the scene before him began to ripple and distort, as though he had dropped a stone into the cogent, fathomless well of the trees’ meditations. He held up his hand, and found it becoming vaporous, insubstantial; the dark skeletal outlines of the trees were clearly visible through the fading flesh.

The old man swung round sharply with a warning hiss— the first sound that AQvar had heard him make. His breath puffed out in a cloud before his face, spangling his bushy, graying beard with droplets that winked like stars in the light of the silver lamp. The incongruence of the sight diverted Anvar, concentrating his wayward thoughts upon this strange here-and-now; and to his relief the scene before him steadied, and his flesh became solid once more.

The old man turned back to the grove and bowed low, three times. To Anvar’s surprise, a path appeared between the ancient, hoary trunks, as though the trees had accepted them and stepped back hastily to allow their passage. Anvar, awed and not a little afraid, followed his guide, passing through the archway of living wood into the heart of the grove.

In the center of the ring of trees, cupped in a circle of soft, mounded moss, was a pool—the very womb of this magical place. Though it was overhung by protective branches, not a leaf marred its still, dark surface. Anvar followed his strange guide to the brink, looked down—and recoiled in astonishment, stepping back hastily. Instead of reflecting his own face framed by the lacework of branches above, the waters, of un-guessable depth, held nothing but endless starry infinity! Anvar’s head reeled. His heart pounded, as though trying to beat its way out of his chest. He had the utter conviction that if he should fall into those waters, he would be falling forever . . .

The old man gave a long-suffering sigh. Then, to Anvar’s horror, he gestured firmly at the terrifying pool—and spoke at last, his voice as dry andaead as graveyard dust stirring on the chill winds of midnight. “Never believe that Death is merciless. Now comes the second part of the bargain. But remember, the third time will decide all . . .” With that, he vanished.

Anvar spun, looking around wildly, knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. His guide had gone. The only thing he understood was the clear edict to return to the pool. He hesitated, afraid to go near that dizzying brink. As though they had somehow sensed his reluctance, the trees began to shudder with anger as a hissing echoed through their branches.

Hastily, Anvar returned to the pool, and the tumult of the trees died away. As he drew near it, spars of light flashed and flared from the darkness of the glassy surface, making him flinch and shield his eyes. He approached with trepidation and knelt upon the brink, feeling more secure that way. It was as well that he had. The starry universe within the waters was spinning in a furious whirlpool of light, dragging him down, down into its dizzying vortex . . .

Anvar felt himself leaning perilously out over the pool, his nose almost touching that spinning surface. He was overbalancing . . . Unable to draw back from the hypnotic whirling, he dug his fingers deep into the yielding moss of the bank, pushing backward with all the strength of his rigid arms. He blinked as a fiery speck, rare and brilliant amidst the swirling whiteness, came spinning up toward him from the depths. The spark enlarged; resolved itself; took on glowing shape and form ... A cry ripped from Anvar’s throat. He was flung violently backward as a figure erupted from the waters, showering him with crystal drops that burned like fire. A despairing voice called his name as Aurian struggled and thrashed in the center of the pool, fighting with all her strength against being sucked back down into the whirling nothingness.

“Aurian!” Memory returned to Anvar in a shocking flash, and with it confusion. Where was the oasis? But there was no time to wonder. The Mage was weakening, dragged down by a great black burden larger than herself—Shia. Anvar knew somehow that if he entered the pool it would mean the end for them all. He stretched out as far as he could, leaning out to the utter limits of his reach. Aurian’s wild flailings made it difficult —he missed her once, twice. Although she still seemed to be wearing her desert robes, as was he, there seemed to be nothing he could get hold of. “Your hand,” he yelled at her, praying that she would hear. “Give me your hand!”

He saw her shift her grip on Shia, saw the whiteness of the arm that she flung out toward him. He plunged perilously forward, made a wild grab, trying to fling himself backward as he felt his fingers close around her wrist. The combined weights of Aurian and the cat dragged at him, he felt himself slipping . . . Anvar flattened himself against the ground and hung on with all his strength, his arm strained to breaking point. If he could have used both hands— But the other was still anchored deeply within the soft moss, the only thing that was stopping him from following theJWtage into the pool. Deeply rooted as it had been, Anvar could feel it beginning to crumble beneath his fingers, beginning to tear away and—

As the moss gave completely, plunging Anvar forward, a I hand came down out of nowhere, clamping his wrist like eagle I claws. Long, jagged nails bit into the thin skin, crushing tendon and bone and making him cry out in agony, but he did not relinquish his hold on the Mage. With an effortless twitch, the hand flung him clear of the pool, and Aurian and Shia with him. Though it had let go of him, Anvar could feel the imprint of the ghastly hand scorching his flesh. His skin was bloodied and torn where the nails had scored deep, crescent-shaped gouges. Biting his lip against the pain, he rolled onto his back —and his heart contracted to a ball of ice as he looked up at the scarred and ravaged face, the burnt-out sockets that had once held the terrifying gaze of the Archmage!

Miathan was robed in black, and his face was hideously disfigured. The skin around his empty eye sockets was blackened and cracked, suppurating and showing nauseating glimpses of red flesh and the white skull beneath. And set into the dark hollow of each socket was a faceted gem. The jewels burned with a glaring light—now white, now red—giving his skull-like face the soulless menace of a gigantic insect. But it was his smile, most of all, that struck terror into Anvar’s heart. Aghast, speechless, Anvar was paralyzed by that face, and its expression of gloating evil.

A hand grasped his^shoulder. Aurian was using him to pull herself to her feet, trying’to put him safely behind her. Her eyes burned silver with hatred. Anvar could feel her fear in the slight tremor of her fingers, but it did not show in her face. Shamed by her courage, he tried to rise, but the Archmage made a contemptuous flicking gesture with his fingers. His crystalline eyes flared with unholy light, and a bolt of searing blackness lashed across Anvar, hurling him down again in gasping agony.

“How dare you!” Aurian stood defiantly before Miathan, and her voice thundered forth like a landslide. “It is forbidden to use magic in the Place Between the Worlds!”

The Archmage’s laughter rang out, cruelly mocking. “Fool! You quote the Law of Gramarye at me, who taught you all you know? I dare ANYTHING \” His clawed and bony hand lashed out, flinging a whiplash of blackness at the Mage. She gave a cry of pain and doubled up, crumpling to the ground.

Though his eyes were gone, it was plain that the Archmage was using the arcane magic of the jewels to give him sight. The cold, hideous glitter of his empty gaze swept across Aurian and Anvar, and on his ghastly face was a contemptuous sneer. “That’s better,” he said. “Grovel before me—where you belong!”

Aurian pulled herself to her knees and spat at Miathan’s feet. “I’ll never grovel to you, you piece of filth! But one day I will kill you, you have my word on that!”

Miathan laughed again. “Really?” he sneered. “I doubt it —helpless as you are with Forral’s brat in your belly! You’d have done better to submit to me, girl. You would have had power at my side, as much as you wanted! Instead, you are nothing—a hopeless fugitive crippled by a half-Mortal abomination. Without your powers you’re as helpless as a beggar woman, and like any street whore, you’ll be ripe for the taking of any man who passes—including this cowardly, bastard scum!” He turned to Anvar, his voice curling with scorn. “You will have what you wanted now, eh? Her powers have gone, Anvar, and your long wait is over. Who knows, she might even like it; she seems to enjoy defiling herself with Mortal offal such as you!”

Miathan’s persuasive voice had the power to hold its victims in thrall. Anvar looked at Aurian, helpless before him, and felt his long-suppressed desire beginning to stir. He heard Aurian gasp; the fear and sudden doubt in her eyes pierced him like a sword as he realized that they had been tricked. He glared at the Archmage, his mind cleared by the scouring of his anger, which burned like an icy flame.

“I am no Mortal, Miathan,” he said evenly, “as well you know. I regained my powers that you stole. And you need not project your lusts on me; the Lady knows full well which of us wants to defile her—and which will protect her! Aurian may be helpless, but if you come near her, you’ll have me to reckon with!”

But Miathan had the Caldron, and Anvar’s words were empty, and he knew it. Even so, he saw Aurian give him a grateful glance, tempered with a grimace at the idea of needing his protection. It was so characteristic of her that it buoyed him, despite their peril.

Miathan, undisturbed by the failure of his ploy, roared with mocking laughter. “You should have stuck to your earlier ambition of being a minstrel, boy. Already you are affording me the amusement I expected. For know this . . .” His voice turned suddenly hard. “I did not save you both from the Well of Souls, out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Too right—you don’t have one!” Aurian snapped. “Quiet!” His outflung hand sent a lash of darkness cracking hard across her face. She staggered, but refused to cry out, biting her lip against the pain.

Anvar, boiling with rage where he had been cold before, tried to launch himself at Miathan, but the Archmage froze him with a casual gesture, continuing to speak as though nothing had happened. “I might have let you perish here, and saved myself a good deal of trouble—had I considered you a threat. But I have not finished with either of you. It would grieve me, Anvar, if your death was painless and swift, and as for you, my dear”—he turned to Aurian with a chilling leer—“I have other plans. Until we meet again in the flesh, you can entertain yourselves imagining your respective fates, but for now, farewell!” As the Archmage spoke his final word, the scene began to waver and dissolve before Anvar’s eyes. He closed them for an instant, to stop the dizzy whirling, and when he opened them again, he was back at the oasis. A sickly, sulfurous light lay over the dunes, as the sun struggled to pierce the ominous banks of cloud on the horizon. I must have fallen asleep, Anvar thought. Gods, what a nightmare! But at that moment Aurian’s eyes opened, and in them was horror, and a sick, sinking dread that matched his own.

Aurian was unable to explain what had taken place at the Well of Souls. Her best gue^ss was that Anvar had fallen asleep, and his anxious spirit, freed from the fetters of the waking world, had managed to cross into Death’s domain to reach her. But his tale of his encounter with the Reaper of Souls, and the specter’s talk of a bargain, filled her with a vast disquiet. It seemed so familiar, somehow . . . Surely, when she had won Anvar back from Death’s clutches in Taibeth, the Reaper had said something similar ... If only she could remember . . . And how had Miathan come to be there?

Aurian grimaced at the strip of dried meat in her hand. Her hunger was blunted by guilt for having exposed herself and Anvar to the Archmage—and by the fear that twisted her guts. Miathan had been right. Her powers, stretched past their limit when they were at their most vulnerable, had utterly vanished, leaving her defenseless. “Damn Miathan!” she muttered. “Why did he have to come back now, at the worst possible time?” With an oath, she flung the offending food away from her.

Anvar reached out of the shelter and retrieved the meat. Dusting it off carefully, he put it back into her hand. “Be sensible, Aurian. You need to eat,” he told her.

Aurian looked at Shia, who was sleeping now, recouping her strength. The cat remembered nothing of what had taken place, though she and Aurian had both been Healed of their infirmities in the Well of Souls. What else could I have done? the Mage thought. Had I not acted as I did, Shia would be dead. She prayed that the price of Shia’s life would not prove too high.

“You did what you had to.” Anvar’s quiet voice broke into her thoughts as though he had been reading her mind.

Aurian took his hand. “Thank you for that. But we’re in so much trouble now, with the storm coming, and Miathan on the loose, and my powers gone.” She couldn’t control the tremor in her voice. “Anvar, I’m scared,” she confessed. “Without my magic I’m so vulnerable. Now that Miathan has recovered from my attack, anything could happen.” Aurian shuddered. “And what about the Staff? I don’t think he knows that we have it, but if he should find out . . . Anvar, do you remember the shipwreck, when he possessed my body and tried to kill you?”

Anvar nodded, looking puzzled at her switch of subject. Aurian took a deep breath, dreading what she had to say. “What if happens again, now that Miathan has recovered? Anvar, if he should get control of the Staff—”

“No!” He was ahead of her now. “Don’t say it, Aurian—”

“I must. If I—if Miathan should gain control of me, you’ll have to kill me, Anvar. You’ll have no choice—as I would have no other recourse if-k-shappened to you.”

“I am not going to kill you! I won’t!” Anvar’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “I can’t.”

Aurian’s heart went out to him, but she met his gaze without flinching. “I’m sorry, my dearest, but you must. If Miathan gets the Staff, it will be the end of everything—and better we die, than let him take us.

You heard what he said, at the Well of Souls.”

Anvar hardly heard her last words. He knew that the endearment had slipped out without her being aware of it, but ... He fought to keep the jubilation from his face, not wanting her to withdraw from him, as he knew she surely would. Whatever she might feel for him, she was still grieving for Forral, and would be stricken with guilt at the thought of replacing her childhood love. It’s too soon; give her time, he told himself, and prayed to all the Gods that the Archmage would let them have that time.

Miathan’s chamber was dismal and chill. The blaze that he had left in the huge fireplace was sunk to sullen embers clogged with pale ash, and the lamps were guttered and dark. Dull light streaked through the curtains, announcing the dawn of another grim day over Nexis. The Archmage’s body lay on the bed, just as he had left it, looking pale and gelid as a corpse in the dim, bleak light. His hovering consciousness shuddered, and shrank from returning to this cold, pain-wracked housing, but it had to be done. Miathan braced himself and plunged downward, slipping back into his corporeal form with the ease of long practice.

Entering his body was worse than falling into an icy pool. Miathan swore vehemently, steeling himself against the pain. Since Aurian had attacked him, he had suffered the agony of his burnt-out eyes, and he knew it would never leave him. With Eliseth’s help, he’d discovered enough of the magic of the Drag-onfolk to permit him to use crystals to give him back a form of sight, but the sharp edges of the gemstones chafed the tortured sockets. Still, it was better than living blind. He cursed that mad bitch Meiriel, who had refused to Heal him, and that treacherous worm Elewin, who had helped her escape.

Miathan reminded himself that lying here raging would bring him no nearer to his revenge. He pulled his robes around him and hauled his creaking bones from the bed, though he was shaking violently from the cold, and from reaction to the prolonged journey Between the Worlds, which had so depleted his energies. Leaning on his staff, the Archmage hobbled to the fire and threw on an armful of logs, deciding to let them blaze of their own accord, rather than waste the last of his strength on kindling them by magic. He filled and relit the lamps by hand, frustrated to impotent rage by the fumbling efforts of his weakened state.

By the time Miathan had finished, the room was already cozier. The fire snapped and sizzled, dispelling the arid silence and sending tongues of orange flame over the resinous logs to brighten the dank air with the tingling scent of pine. Warm lampglow mellowed the dismal daylight, gilding the silver dish of bread and fruit on the table. The Archmage turned to the food that he kept in his quarters for his return from a journey beyond his body. He poured wine, with a stab of irritation as he noticed that the flask was almost empty. Were Elewin here, such an omission would never have occurred! But the Steward was gone, he reminded himself bitterly, turning traitor as Aurian had done, Aurian! Miathan’s tongue slid over his lips at the memory of her falling before him, tortured by the pain that he had inflicted. When he had her back in his power he would teach her the true meaning of pain! Once he had broken her to his will he would take her—and at last, he had the means . , , Smiling to himself, Miathan sent out a mental call to summon Eliseth. He hated to confide in her, but there were things she ought to know.

Eliseth was in the Archives when she heard the Archmage’s call. She cursed and pushed her hair back from her face with a hand that was black with dust. What did the old nuisance want now? Since that vermin Elewin had gone, Miathan seemed to think she had nothing better to do than run around after him! And was he grateful? Not a bit—even though she had found a cure for his blindness! Only she had thought to seek answers in the moldering records stored beneath the library, after the escape of Meiriel and Elewin had drawn her attention to Finbarr’s neglected catacombs. Bragar, of course, was too stupid to think of making use of the awctent wisdom stored there, but Eliseth had realized that any extra knowledge might give her the advantage—not only over Bragar, but over Miathan as well.

Eliseth’s searches in the cold, dirty tunnels had been far from pleasant, but the results had been well worth the discomfort. While finding a way to restore Miathan’s sight, she had discovered much more besides, matters of dark and arcane lore dating back to the Cataclysm, which the Archmage had no idea of—nor was she about to enlighten him. She had found no solution to the problem of the Wraiths, but she had unearthed a great deal of information pertaining to the Caldron, and she knew how to make better use of it than Miathan had. She only needed to find out where the old fool had hidden it ... Eliseth smiled as she went to answer the Archmage’s summons. His mental voice had held overtones of triumph, and she was anxious to discover what he was up to—and how it fitted in with her own plans.

Eliseth listened, incredulous, as the Archmage told her how he had sensed the presence of Aurian, Between the Worlds, and how he had tracked her to the Well of Souls, and Anvar with her. The existence of another Mage came as a considerable shock to Eliseth. “Aurian’s servant? One of «j?” she gasped. “Did you know about this?”

“No.” Miathan shook his head, but she knew that he was lying. “I had my suspicions,” he said. “I knew she must be getting help from somewhere. But I hardly thought it worth mentioning—the notion seemed too farfetched.”

“That’s an understatement! How could he have been here at the Academy without us knowing? Where did he come from in the first place? Who were his parents?”

Miathan shrugged, his voice suspiciously bland. “Who can say? He came to us as a Mortal, the son of a baker, but it seems that his true father was of a different stamp. Anvar is a bastard —a half-breed with a Mortal mother—but as to which of the Magefolk fathered him . . .” He shrugged again, the picture of innocence.

Eliseth’s eyes narrowed. This is too glib, she thought. You know too much. Well, here’s a turnup! The great Archmai: prone as the rest of us to using a Mortal for pleasure. But to 1 so careless as to father a child—no wonder you were upset Aurian’s pregnancy! There was no time now to consider the advantage this might bring her. She turned back to Miathan, before he could see where her thoughts were tending. “So where does this leave us? I don’t understand you, Archmage. Why did you not kill them, and be done with it?”

Miathan’s fist slammed down on the table. “How many times have I told you? I want Aurian alive\”

Eliseth bit down on her anger. Despite what the bitch had done to him, he still wanted her! Concealing her rage, she took up the weapon of common sense. “But with respect, Archmage, you’re asking the impossible! Aurian is too far away for us to capture her, and if you wait until she comes to you—Well, you said yourself that the risk was too great. And alive, will she not always be a threat to us?”

“Her intransigence will be dealt with!” The gems in Miathan’s eyes flared red, betraying his anger. “Besides,” he continued, with a chilling smile, “Aurian’s capture has already been dealt with. She and Anvar were not the only minds I encountered in the Southlands. I have found one who, for his own reasons, can be easily bent to my will.”

“What?” Eliseth was dismayed. She had underestimated the development of Miathan’s new powers badly, if he could already control Mortal minds with such confidence!

“Our experiment using human sacrifices has worked out better than I had expected.” Miathan drew her attention back to him. “We can certainly proceed, Eliseth—but I need more power, to keep my Southern pawn on a close rein. Tell Angos that more Mortals will be required—tonight!”

“But Archmage,” Eliseth protested, “there is already unrest at these ’disappearances.’ We must be more circumspect—”

“You have your orders! Tell Angos to proceed at once!” Miathan’s faceted eyes gleamed. “I wish I had known about this sooner. With power gained from the ritual spilling of Mortal life, nothing is beyond us! And I need that power, Eliseth. Aurian is currently in the Southern desert, but when she leaves it, I have a surprise for her! She will discover then what it means to defy the Archmage!”

Eliseth stormed out of the Tower on the wings of rage, sending the first poor terrified drudge she found to summon Angos, Captain of Mercenaries, to the Academy. She glared after the retreating servant, her fists clenched, her body rigid with determination. Thus far, she would obey Miathan s orders, but no further. ,

“So you’re determined to bring her back, Miathan? she muttered. “Well, I may have a surprise for you!” swiftly she crossed the courtyard to the dome in which she did her work of controlling the weather. So Aurian was in the desert? Excellent! She would never come out alive! Smiling grimly, Eliseth went to unleash the sandstorms.