Dhiammara

13 A Price to Pay

“Now it begins.” As Death stepped away from the Well of Souls, the vision cupped within it vanished, and the figures of Aurian and Forral were replaced by boundless depths and the whirl of infinite stars. Within the shadows of his deep cowl, the Specter smiled a wry, secretive little smile. That incorrigible, unstoppable Mage had returned to the world and discovered the substitution of one love for another. This should make matters interesting!—Death made his way back through the sacred grove, wondering which Magewoman he would soon be welcoming to his realm: Eliseth—or Aurian.

As he left the trees, the Specter stopped, cursing softly. There, waiting for him, was that pigheaded fool of a Mage.

Anvar confronted the implacable figure. “What did you see in there?” he demanded. “She’s back, isn’t she? After all this time, Aurian has returned to the world—I can feel it. We’re Magefolk, soul-mates and custodians of the Artifacts—it would take more than mere death to sever our bond. You’ve got to send me back now! I can’t stay here—why, I’m not really dead, in any real sense of the word. You’ve got to let me go!”

“By all means.” Death’s voice was light with mockery, but his cold gaze never faltered. “I grow weary of your incessant whining and complaints. That swordsman was bad enough, but you . . .” Red sparks of anger kindled in the black depths of the Specter’s eyes. Anvar said no more, but stood his ground.—After a moment, the twin sparks flared brighter.

“Go, then,” Death snarled. “I will not hinder you. Leave—if you think you can find a way out. You have been here long enough to explore every corner of my realm—you should know by now that the only way out of this place is the Well of Souls.”

“There must be a way out,” Anvar insisted stubbornly. “Aurian and I were here once before, and we got away. I’m willing to wager that you’ll tell me eventually, when you’ve grown tired of playing games with me. Let me warn you—

Death or no Death, you’ll tire of me long before I run out of ways to plague you!”

“You tire me already—believe me.” The Specter sighed. “Very well—I cannot help you escape from this place, but I will tell you the one way in which you can leave. Do you remember our encounter when you and that wretched Mage were in the desert? Her spirit passed beyond the Door, and you came in search of her?”

“It’s not a thing I’m likely to forget,” Anvar replied: “I followed her to this place and you sent us back together. So why can’t you send me back now?”

“Because at that time, one of you was still anchored in Life. This served to draw you both back to the mundane world.”

“But I am still anchored in Life,” Anvar protested. “My body is still there.—It was stolen by that treacherous son of a bitch, and ...”

“And therefore it no longer belongs to you,” Death said flatly. “Dispute the matter as you will, you are dead. In order for you to return to the mundane world, one of the living must come in search of you—so you had better hope that Aurian does not decide that her swordsman is a fair exchange for her former soulmate. Even if she should seek you and guide you back, until the Caldron is found you will exist as nothing but a bodiless spirit—a ghost, if you will. And, should that Mage of yours regain the Caldron, you must still persuade Forral to give up your body. He may be well determined to stay where he is—and if that is the case, you must return to me, or be doomed to roam the earth as a ghost forever, until you are entirely forgotten. Then your spirit will be snuffed out, and will cease to exist. Heed me, Anvar, for that is the risk you run, if you persist in wishing to return. If the swordsman refuses to quit your body, your only hope is to fight him for possession.”

Forral tried to fold Anvar’s long legs beneath his threadbare cloak as he huddled, shivering, in a drafty corner of the underground chamber. He didn’t mind the cold and darkness—he was savoring Aurian’s sweet presence as she sat beside him, talking softly with the shabby little thief. Though he had found it difficult to accept her new air of command and the core of steel that seemed to have grown within her in his absence, they seemed to have reached a fragile understanding at least—though so far, he admitted ruefully, it seemed to be entirely on the Mage’s terms. It was something to build upon, however, and Forral was privately glad that he’d been able to return in time to help her with the culmination of her quest. He had always protected her, and he wasn’t stopping now—no matter how forcefully she objected.

The swordsman knew he should be concentrating on what Grince was saying, but his attention kept wandering. Although he felt weary, he was too caught up in the wonder of rebirth to lose a minute of this first, miraculous day in sleep.—After the endless deprivation and numbing monotony of Death’s kingdom, the dank, dusty air of the underground room seemed as fresh and fragrant as a draft of sparkling wine. The sullen fire and even the gloomy shadows it cast seemed ablaze with color and light. The interplay of the two murmuring voices sounded loud and harmonious in his ears, and he thrilled to feel the textures of clothing against his skin, and the warmth of Aurian’s body beside his own.—Experimentally, Forral flexed his right arm. Though it lacked the heavy musculature of his old body, the joints were limber and the grip was strong.—With some regular training, he thought drowsily, I could soon get this body into shape. . . . Abruptly the swordsman snapped wide awake, horrified by the direction of his thoughts. This was not his body—it belonged to Anvar. He must learn to think of it as merely a garment—a borrowed cloak that must be returned someday to its rightful owner.

Why? There was no quelling the insidious little thought that lurked at the back or his mind. Why give up all this wonder and joy when you’ve only just won it back again?

Forral looked for a long time at Aurian as she sat beside him, her head cocked attentively toward the thief. If he were to keep this body, she could be his forever. “But it’s not mine,” he told himself weakly.

Maybe not—but it’s half the age your body was when you died, and we already know, don’t we, that Aurian seems to like your new shape well enough?—A thin tendril of jealousy for Anvar curled itself like bindweed through Forral’s thoughts. Why should he have her? the swordsman thought. She loved me first. Anvar is no longer here, and I have taken his place. In time, I could win her back....

Of course you can, the sly voice began once more. And why shouldn’t you? It wasn’t your fault that you were killed. You weren’t ready. You weren’t finished. Aurian will come to accept it—she loved you for most of her life.—You have a son together. .. .

Stop this! Forral told himself angrily. You know it isn’t right. You should be ashamed of yourself. But then he thought of everything that could be his once more: the dew-drenched stillness of summer dawns on campaign, the smell of leather and woodsmoke, hot baths, cold beer, riotous nights of warm companionship in a crowded tavern, the unknown joys of fatherhood ... He looked at Aurian again.

All of this can be yours once more—and so can she, whispered the voice. Forral forced it back into the depths of his mind as though he were strangling a snake. After a struggle it subsided—but he knew it would be back.

As his attention returned to his surroundings, the swordsman suddenly had the uneasy feeling he was being watched. He looked around to see one of the great cats staring at him intently with blazing eyes. Forral shivered. The creature looked so fierce and knowing—almost as though it had been looking into his innermost thoughts. Firmly, he pulled himself together. “Don’t be a bloody fool,” he muttered to himself. For all of Aurian’s fond imaginings that she understood every word the cat was saying, it was only an animal, when all was said and done.

Shia stifled a growl and flexed her claws, digging them into the crumbling stone of the chamber floor. Stupid human! He was lodged in the body of a Mage, but he had no idea of the powers that were available to him—nor was she about to disabuse him, for it was plain that he could not be trusted.

Anvar’s old channels of mental communication were still open to the cat, and she had overheard every word of Forral’s inner battle. Shia loved Anvar with the same fierce protectiveness that she loved Aurian, and to hear this interloper planning to steal the Mage’s body left her smoldering with rage.—Shia knew she must be patient, however. This human also meant a great deal to Aurian, and in any case, until the grail was regained, nothing could be done to change the situation. They must all work together to defeat their common foe; therefore it would do more harm than good to precipitate a conflict now.—Reluctantly, Shia decided not to tell Aurian what she had overheard. This was not the right time—but nonetheless, the cat resolved that in future she would watch this human very closely indeed.

Rasvald thanked the gods for Lord Pendral’s hounds. Without them, he would never have found the thief in ten thousand years, and besides, it seemed from all the twists, turns, and backtrackings he and his men were making that the wretch had managed to get himself utterly lost in this tangle of passages. The two dogs, however, followed the fugitive’s scent unerringly- Rasvald, who had less confidence in the animals’ ability to find their way back, was careful, at each intersection, to mark the return route with chalk.

There were so many tunnels beneath the promontory that it was a wonder the entire hill didn’t collapse, and the Academy with it, Rasvald thought sourly.—He only wished it could have happened before ill luck had conspired to drag him down here. Though he had brought a dozen men with him—a ridiculously large number to track down a solitary thief—he still didn’t feel at ease. It wasn’t just the cold and darkness, he was sure, that caused his crawling skin and the itch between his shoulder blades—there was a feeling down here, as though some hostile presence left over from the Mages’ reign still walked these passageways.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Rasvald whispered to himself, over and over. There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he heard an echo of hollow, mocking laughter.

Whether the phantoms of the Magefolk were present or not, it was impossible to tell. The leaping torchlight made a confusion of shadows, and though he had long ago silenced their grumbling and whispering, the heavy footfalls of the men still obscured all other sound. The whines and harsh panting of the leashed hounds sent a rippling cloak of echoes across the other noises.—Nonetheless, Rasvald knew that they must be closing in on their quarry, for the dogs were becoming increasingly excited now. The big animals strained ahead, pulling so hard on their leashes that their two handlers were forced to quicken their pace, simply to stay on their feet.

“Keep those bloody animals quiet!” Rasvald hissed. “They’ll warn him.”

One of Pendral’s kennelmen gave him a withering look. “Sithee, mister—how would you like to try? Maybe you’d put your hand in his mouth to silence the hound? Or better still, your head?”

“Mind your tongue,” Rasvald snapped—but he had more sense than to push the issue. Instead, he sent a man to run ahead to the next junction of the passage and listen there. Then, when the dogs caught up and pointed the new way, he sent the runner on again. Once more the man went out, and then came racing back up the tunnel. “Sir, I can hear voices up ahead.”

Grince scowled. “New laws here, new rules there, and bloody Garrison troopers everywhere. Truly, Lady—when Lord Vannor was ruling Nexis it got so an honest thief couldn’t make a living anymore.” He sighed. “I have to admit though, that most folk were a lot better off—until the stupid sod decided to go and make war on the bloody Phaerie.”

“He decided to do what?” Aurian gasped. “But that’s insane!”

“Vannor would never do that—he’s got too much sense,” Forral protested.

“Oh, but he did—believe me.” Grince waited until the ensuing uproar had died down; then, in a grim voice, he described how, some ten months ago, a large force made up partly from the Garrison and partly from Nexian conscripts had gone north to attack the new city the Phaerie had built. Parric had denounced the whole affair as pure insanity and refused, at first, to waste the lives of his troops. Eventually, however, in the face of Vannor’s determination, he had been persuaded to lead the Nexian forces—not a single one of whom had returned. It was assumed that he, too, had died there. The Phaerie, however, came back to Nexis with a vengeance, indulging in a frenzy of destruction and causing almost as much devastation as the earthquake that had happened some months before.

“It was a bad time,” Grince told the horrified Mage. “A lot of folk were killed, a great many more were stolen away. The Phaerie took Lord Vannor, too—snatched him right out of his house. I would have said good riddance, but then that evil bastard Lord Pendral took over in his stead!” His voice turned low and hard, and his face contorted with hatred. “Pendral keeps a tight grip on the city now. He has to—folk would see him not only deposed but dead besides, given half a chance.”

The Mage was utterly devastated by his words. This is my fault, she thought.—It was my failure to master the Sword that unleashed the bloody Phaerie in the first place.

“Nonsense!” Shia snorted. “Did you compel that stupid human to make war on the Phaerie? Did you force them to attack the city?”

“You have a point,” Aurian told her. “Nonetheless, I’m not entirely blameless.” She clenched her fists. Maybe Parric was captured, she thought.—He’s a tough old bugger—I refuse to believe he could be dead. Not without some proof. “Listen, Grince,” she added aloud, directing her query toward the thief. “Where exactly is this Phaerie city?”

The thief shrugged. “How in perdition should I know? I’ve never been out of Nexis in my life.”

Forral, who had been very quiet until Grince had mentioned Vannor’s attack on the Phaerie, nudged the Mage. “Isn’t there anyone left in this benighted city that we know and trust? Preferably someone with a small amount of intelligence at least.”

Aurian closed her eyes and thought hard, trying to remember the faces of former friends and companions. So many were dead now, or vanished. Some must even be growing quite old. “I’ve got it!” she all but shouted. “Grince, have you ever heard of an old soldier called Hargorn? I’d guess he must have retired from active service now.”

Grince’s face split in a grin. “Has he ever!” he said. “You’ll never guess wha—”

“Danger!” Shia and Khanu roared the warning almost simultaneously. “Enemies attack!”

Then the air was filled with a fierce, deep-throated baying, and two massive hounds burst into the chamber, followed by a horde of men with swords.—At the first hint of a threat, Forral’s old instincts took over. As his sword left its scabbard, he was faintly surprised to hear the sound of Aurian clearing steel, so quickly that the ring of the two blades being drawn might have come from a single sword. Beyond them, there was a flare of light as Finbarr ignited a searing fireball and held it at the ready. Grince scrambled away behind the Mages and was cowering in the farthest corner of the alcove, a pathetically inadequate knife in one clenched fist, his face contorted with terror. “Don’t let them get me,” he whimpered. “Lady, I beg you—Pendral will cut off my hands.”

Forral felt faintly stung that the thief had turned to Aurian for succor, rather than himself. Who was supposed to be the warrior here, anyway?

“They won’t get you, Grince,” Aurian reassured him. “We won’t let them.”

The guards, expecting to find only one small, fairly defenseless thief, took one look at what appeared to be three armed and angry Mages, and stopped dead—unlike the hounds, who, with their quarry in sight, kept right on charging!

Shia launched herself at the foremost hound, knocking it off its feet with the force of her spring. The two massive creatures rolled right across the chamber, toppling bookcases and scattering volumes in a snarl of claws and fangs and flying fur; then Shia had the dog cornered, darting from side to side to contain the clamoring creature as it tried repeatedly to charge its way past her and make its escape. The other hound, finding itself face-to-face with the snarling Khanu, turned tail and fled, bowling two guards over in the process, and dragging its handler behind it for several yards before the man could manage to get his hand unwrapped from the leash.

The leader of the guards stepped forward, pale and apprehensive. Incredibly, Forral actually recognized him as Rasvald, who had come to the Garrison as a raw green recruit—and had later been thrown out again because, as Parric had so succinctly put it, “that one will never make a soldier as long as he’s got a hole in his arse.” Clearly, Rasvald had finally found a way to prove the Cavalrymaster wrong.

“S-Sirs and Lady,” stammered the quaking commander, “I apologize for trespassing, but our orders come from Pendral himself, High Lord of the City of Nexis.”

Forral was impressed by the way in which the fellow had managed to apologize while putting the blame on someone else at the same time—and then he remembered that Parric had also referred to Rasvald as “that two-faced weaselly little bastard.”

The two-faced weaselly little bastard was still speaking. “Your Honors probably weren’t aware that you’d caught a criminal nosing around in your—er—home, but you don’t need to trouble yourselves, we’ll take care of him. Believe me, once Lord Pendral has finished with the little vermin, he won’t be in any condition to steal again. ...” Catching Aurian’s expression, which had turned at his last words from frosty to positively glacial, Rasvald faltered for a moment, then rallied again. “I beg you, Lady, don’t be angry with us. We’re only following orders—doing our job, as you might say. We’ll leave here and never come back, I swear it. All we want is the thief ...”

“Well, you’re not having him,” said Aurian, very clearly and distinctly, “so I suggest you take your men out of here, before somebody gets hurt.”

“Lady, please—I don’t think you understand,” the commander protested. “If I go back without the thief, Lord Pendral will kill me.”

Aurian didn’t even blink. “Him or me,” she said evenly. Take your pick.”

Rasvald, not the tallest of men, looked up into the face of the Magewoman. Her stony expression was bleak and forbidding, and there was death in the unyielding flint of her cold grey stare. All at once, the prospect of Lord Pendral’s wrath seemed far less terrifying than it had been a short time ago.—Besides, someone must survive to bring back the news that the Mage-folk had returned to Nexis. He only hoped the High Lord would be sufficiently grateful for the warning to spare his Commander’s life.

“Lady, please forgive me,” he found himself saying, almost before he was aware of his own decision. “I must have made a mistake. I see now that your friend couldn’t possibly be the man we’re looking for. By your leave, I’ll take my troops back up above now, so we can get on with searching the city.” From behind him, he was positive he heard a collective sigh of relief from his men.

“Why, of course, Commander—by all means. We won’t detain you.”

Rasvald shivered. Somehow, the Magewoman’s haughty graciousness was even more unnerving than her outright hostility. Afraid to say more, lest he dig himself deeper into trouble, he sketched a bow and ushered his men from the chamber—not, however, without one last, venomous glance for the thief, who paused in the act of putting his knife away to make an obscene gesture at Pendral’s soldiers behind the Mages’ back.

I’ll get you, you cocky little bastard—one way or another, Rasvald thought.—You can’t hide behind your Magefolk friends forever. It’s not over yet.—Shia stepped back to permit the kennelman to leash his savage hound, and the invaders crowded their way out of the chamber with indecorous haste. The Mage was glad to see them go without any further trouble—but her relief was short-lived.

“Aurian!” Forral hissed at her. “What the blazes are you playing at? You can’t let them get away to tell Pendral there are Mages loose in Nexis.”

He was right, the Mage realized. She bit back a curse, possible solutions cascading with lightning speed through her mind as she struggled with her conscience.

A dozen soldiers, two great hounds, and their handlers would be too large a number to guarantee the success of a full-out attack. With Forral beside her and the great cats in support, Aurian had little doubt about the outcome, but she knew it could not be accomplished without risk. The possibility of serious injury or even death for herself or some of her companions was high—and in the end, there was no guarantee that some of the enemy might not escape into the catacombs after all.

The Mage knew she could unleash the Death-Wraith that occupied Finbarr on the soldiers—but she shrank from that dreadful option. It would also be impossible to take the men out of time—she could not ensorcell all of them at once, and before she had frozen more than a handful of their number, the rest would be turning on her. Also, there was still the possibility of losing one or more of them—and not a single one must escape.

Only one option remained—evil, dark, and dreadful. She knew there would be a price to pay—but what else could she do? I have no choice, Aurian thought desperately. And she would have to act fast—there was no time for discussion, or pondering the repercussions of her deed. Taking the Staff of Earth from her belt, she grasped it tightly in both hands, invoking its powers as she had done so many times before. Her mind went forth into the labyrinth, seeking the retreating soldiers among the twisting, intersecting tunnels. When she found them, the Mage set her will against the rock of the ceiling above them, and found a fault line where the planes of the rock had sheared and slipped a little. Sliding the tendrils of her power into the tiny crevice, she struck at the weakspot with all the power of the Staff.

Forral heard the distant rumble, and then felt the slight vibration as the earth trembled beneath his feet. “What the . . . ?” Then Aurian crumpled to the ground beside him, and as he caught a glimpse of her stricken expression, he knew at once what she had done.

Horror claimed him—horror and utter disbelief. He had been advising pursuit of the enemy—with the cats, surely he and the Mage could have finished them off.—Truth to tell, he had been spoiling for a fight, and glad of the excuse . . .—but he had never imagined that Aurian would deal with the problem in this appalling manner. Why, she would never do that—not his Aurian. She would no more be capable of using magic to murder a dozen men in cold blood, than . . .—But she had done it. All those men, plain soldiers like himself who had only been following orders, lay dead and buried under tons of rock. Killed, not in a fair fight, but from afar, by foul magic.

Aurian was huddled on the floor, her hands over her face as though to hide from her own ghastly handiwork, her breath coming in harsh, racking sobs that were more like retching than weeping. Forral looked down on her, his feelings a roiling mix of revulsion and icy rage, unable to believe or accept the change in the young girl he had known and loved.

“Damn you,” he said softly. “Damn you.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away from her.