Dhiammara

21 Reunions

The morning was grey, with drifts of fine rain that swept across the Vale on a fitful wind that turned the surface of the lake to roughened pewter. Eilin slipped quietly out of the tower, careful not to make a sound—though the Gods only knew why, she thought wryly. There had been so many tales to tell and plans to be made the previous night, and everyone had gone to bed so late that it had scarcely been worth the trouble. Eilin was the only one who had not slept at all, and now it seemed as though she was the only one stirring in all the world.

As she crossed the exposed span of the bridge, the wind increased in strength.—Eilin tugged at the hood of her brown cloak to stop it blowing back from her face. It was not a morning for walking, but she needed the comfort of her beloved Vale this morning. She had come out to think—but really, there was little to be considered. Yazour would leave this morning with the others—even Wolf and Iscalda. He would head back to his Southlands with Aurian, and she would never see him again. Eilin would be alone once more, as she had been for most of her life. And, just as had happened with Aurian, she would have another child to bring up on her own.

Why? The Magewoman thought despairingly. Why does this keep happening to me?—After Geraint had died, she had refused to even consider the notion of another soulmate in her life. She had never wanted to experience such a loss again—and oh, how right she had been. Yet she had taken to him from the very start—from that very first day, when he had brought back Iscalda and little Wolf, there had been a spark between them—but she should never have let him charm her as he had. It had taken the young warrior a long time—almost two years—to win her over, but by Iriana, he had been persistent! In some ways he’d seemed older than his years—he was strong, capable, and dependable, and always calm in the midst of her storms and doubts—yet in other ways he’d been so young, so full of enthusiasm and joy.... He made me young again, Eilin thought. He gave me back so many of the years I had lost. And she had walked into it with her eyes wide open, had even let herself be lured by the notion of another child....—Oh, Eilin, you fool. You poor, pathetic old fool.

It was too wet and windy for walking. Eilin’s cloak was of little use for keeping out the damp and chill of the morning. She took shelter in the birch grove on the landward side of the bridge, leaning against the solid, comforting bulk of a dripping tree. For the first time she noticed that the leaves were beginning to turn yellow and bronze. Yes, summer was truly at an end.

Well, she had the courage to face her loss. The Gods only knew, she’d had enough practice. She would do nothing to hinder or hold Yazour—he must follow his own path, and go where his heart led him. She had seen his face last night as they had talked with D’arvan, Parric, and the others—seen the struggle that he was trying to hide. He wanted to help Aurian, wanted to be back among the press of events: wanted to go back out into the world, with its excitement and its lures. And who could blame him? Though they had been together for almost ten years now, he was still young enough to want these things.

At least Eilin had his son—and she would not make the same mistake with Currain as she had made with Aurian.

This child would not have a bitter and neglectful mother. And it was not as though Yazour was dead and unreachable, like Geraint. Who knows, the Magewoman thought—maybe he’ll come back one day. . . . Angrily she berated herself for clutching at such dreams. Of course he wouldn’t! He would be going home, to his own lands, his own people. . . . With a sigh, the Magewoman turned and went back to the tower, composing herself to bid Yazour farewell.

It was still raining when everyone left the tower and crossed the bridge, ready to depart. Yazour lingered behind the others, wanting to be the last to leave. He wanted to store in his memory every detail of the home that he and Eilin had built together, using his strength and her magic. This is ridiculous, he told himself. It’s only for a little while—when all this is over you’ll come back to Eilin and Currain, and everything will be as it was before. If you don’t get killed, said a little voice in his mind. If you don’t fall in love with the South again, and abandon these harsh, damp northern dimes. If a hundred and one things don’t conspire to keep you away.—The worst part of it was that Eilin had done nothing to keep him with her. If she had wept, or pleaded, he might have had an excuse to resent her. Had she given him a sign that she even cared . .. No, that wasn’t fair. The two of them had been together long enough now for him to be aware that she was deeply unhappy at the thought of his leaving—and absolutely determined that he should never know it. He admired her courage—no wonder she had spawned such a warrior of a daughter.

“Yazour, are you coming?” Parric hailed him impatiently from the far side of the bridge, and the warrior went with a sigh. Currain was watching him—he knew, with the instinct of a child, that something was amiss. Wolf sat staring, the hackles on his neck raised and bristling. Though Yazour could not talk with the wolf in mind-speech as Eilin could, he was left in no doubt that Aurian’s son disapproved of his decision.

The three Xandim stood to one side. After spending so long as horses, they were waiting until the very last moment to undergo the transition once more.—Eilin was filling the ears of D’arvan and Iscalda with messages and advice to be passed on to Aurian. She scarcely glanced in Yazour’s direction, but Chiamh sidled up to him. “Yazour, you’re making a big mistake,” he hissed in the warrior’s ear. “There are enough of us to help Aurian—one more won’t make much difference. Your place is here. Your heart is here.”

It was time to go. Chiamh, Schiannath, and Iscalda moved aside from the others and made their transformation. Yazour noticed Currain, hanging on to his mother’s hand and watching openmouthed. Feeling as though his heart was being torn into pieces, he went to embrace his family one last time. “I’ll be back,” he told Eilin. “I’ll come back as soon as I can—I swear it.”

“Of course you will.” He could hear the lie in her voice. Take care,” she told him. “And give my love to Aurian.” Her mouth twisted in a crooked grin. “Tell her about her brother—it’ll get me out of the task.”

“I will,” Yazour assured her. “And you take care too—you and Currain.” When he left her, it felt as though he was tearing part of himself away. The boy was too young to understand—he waved at his father solemnly, as he always did when Yazour went hunting or was leaving the tower to perform some small task.—The others were waiting. D’arvan had hoisted Wolf up in front of him, holding the animal as he lay across the horse’s withers. It was clear that neither Wolf nor Chiamh was entirely happy with the situation. There was no helping it, however. Though Wolf and his grandmother were reluctant to part from one another, Eilin had decided, the previous night, that he should go to his mother, especially if there was a chance that she might be able to release him from his curse. All the same, it had taken a great deal of persuasion, and finally insistence, on her part to sway her grandson, who, when he had a mind, could be every bit as stubborn as his mother.

Parric was mounted on Schiannath as before, the two former Herdlords together.—He held the limp form of Vannor in front of him on the saddle. Eilin, like D’arvan, had been unable to help the merchant, though they were hoping that Aurian, more advanced in the skills of healing, might be able to free him from his self-imposed prison.

Yazour strode across the grass to where Iscalda stood, patiently waiting. He looked at Eilin one last time, then leapt astride the white mare’s back—and bit his tongue as Iscalda -exploded beneath him into a whirling, bucking frenzy. Good horseman though Yazour was, there was not the faintest chance that he could stay on her. Iscalda was determined. In far less than a minute, the warrior was lying on his back on the turf, cursing profusely.

“I think she’s trying to tell you something,” Parric said dryly.

“Something you know already,” D’arvan put in helpfully.

Yazour scrambled to his feet. He turned back to Iscalda, but she flattened back her ears and bared her teeth at him. Gradually, a grin compounded of relief and joy spread across his face.

“If I thought for one minute that Aurian couldn’t manage without you, I’d tell you,” Parric said. “Chathak’s britches, man—go and be happy! Do it for all of us.”

The warrior nodded. “All the time, my heart has been telling me to stay. I didn’t want to go—but I thought it was my duty.” He laughed, for sheer lightness of heart. It was as though a heavy burden had vanished from his shoulders. “For once, I will take your advice. Go well, my friends—and kiss Aurian for me.”

Yazour held out his hands to Eilin, and the Magewoman, her face glowing, stepped forward to take them. Though the valley was still beset by the moody wind and sulky drizzle, it seemed to the warrior as though the day was growing brighter.

Aurian opened her eyes. For a moment, she was still Between the Worlds, with Death—and Anvar. Then she recognized her surroundings, and realized that she was back in the Night-runner haven, though not in the room she had originally been given. Furthermore, she ached from head to toe, and every part of her that had not been protected by her clothes was stinging from small lacerations made by flying particles of rock. There was a solid weight upon her feet—Shia lay across the bottom of the bed, and she knew that Khanu would not be far away. As she turned her head, she saw Forral occupying the bed to the left of her, while on the other side was Grince. Some kind of infirmary, then, she thought hazily. Very well. The Mage glanced above her head, and saw the hawk she had risked her life to rescue perched on the rail at the head of the bed.—All at once, a tension she had not realized that she’d been feeling left the Mage. Drifting comfortably, she fell back into sleep.

The Mage woke again to find Zanna sitting by her bed. “At last!” she said, smiling. “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep for a century or two. Even your faithful cats have gone out to hunt for something to eat.”

Zanna settled herself more comfortably in her chair. Though she was a grown woman—older, now, in relative terms, than Aurian herself, the Mage saw a do-or-die expression on her face that reminded her of the young girl who had hero-worshipped her so long ago. “Now,” the Nightrunner said firmly, “I want to know what it is that you’re not telling me. What with everything that happened when you arrived, I know there was never a chance for explanations, but you weren’t exactly forthcoming even then. The next thing we all knew, you had dashed off to the stone. I took your word for it when you said you must go, but now you’re back, I want to know more. Why is Finbarr so silent? What’s the matter with Anvar—he’s not himself at all. And something’s wrong between the two of you, that’s for sure.” Her forehead creased in a frown. “What the bloody blazes happened up there on the mound, Aurian? As far as we know, that stone has stood there since before the Cataclysm—then you come along and in a matter of hours, there’s not only no more stone, there’s no longer any mound, even.” She fell silent and waited, an expectant look on her face.

Aurian sighed. “Gods, Zanna, I hardly know where to start....”

It took a good hour to tell the Nightrunner woman the whole tale. Zanna listened, saying nothing, though Aurian could see that she was aching to interrupt from time to time. When Aurian finally finished, she let out a long whistle. “By all the Gods—that’s incredible! Aurian . . .” She leaned forward and put her hand on the Mage’s arm, staring at her intently. “What you said about Forral and Anvar, and the Caldron of Rebirth—do you think it might have happened to my father, too?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well . . .” Zanna told Aurian about Vannor’s poisoning, and the old woman who had come and healed him in some miraculous fashion. “And after that, he changed somehow,” she said sadly. “It’s hard to explain, but he was never the same man.” She hesitated. “Aurian—do you think that old woman have been Eliseth? And if it was, then what did she do to my dad?”

Aurian frowned. “Who can say, Zanna? But it looks very to me. As to how she changed him—well, I have no idea. From what you say, there doesn’t seem to have been the kind of exchange that occurred between Forral and Anvar.—Something obviously happened though—and whatever it was, you can be sure that no good will come of it.”

“If he’s still alive,” murmured Zanna, “I’d be willing to take that risk, believe me.”

She must have been wrong about the hawk. When Aurian awakened a third time to find the bird gone, it was hard to contain her disappointment. She had been so sure . . . Well, I can’t think why, the Mage chided herself. So it was the only creature around when you came back through. So you were sure that Anvar had come with you. So the creature seemed to be dead, then you saw it move ...—But a hawk! You idiot! Is it even possible for a human spirit to occupy the form of a bird? Then she thought of Chiamh and Wolf, and Maya in the shape of an invisible unicorn. If all these things were possible, why not a bird?—Grince and Forral were already up and about, and the Nightrunner healer, Emmie, pronounced Aurian fit to do the same. “Do you know what happened to the hawk that was here?” the Mage asked her, as she clambered stiffly out of bed and began to scramble into her clothes.

The woman’s face fell. “Lady, I’m sorry,” she said. “The poor creature looked sick, so I took it down to the kitchen quarters to see if it would eat. When I was crossing the harbor cavern, it just took off on me and flew away out to sea.”

Aurian’s heart ached with disappointment. She turned away from Emmie so that the woman could not see her face. So that was that, then. It couldn’t have been Anvar—or why would he have left her? Feeling incredibly stupid, Aurian fixed a bright smile on her face and turned back to the Healer. “Never mind.—He’s probably better off where he is.”

When the Mage returned to her chambers, Forral was waiting for her. She took one look at his face, and Anvar’s blue eyes glinting cold with wrath, and suddenly found herself wishing that she’d stayed where she was, in the infirmary.

“What I want to know is, what the bloody blazes did you think you were doing?”

Forral paced the floor, unable to contain his anger. “You nearly got us all killed!”

“There’s no need to point out the obvious,” Aurian retorted, eyes flashing.

“It’s your own fault that you were there in the first place. I didn’t want you to follow me. And if it’s any business of yours, I was trying to find out what Eliseth was doing.”

“By going off into some trance and lying there like a dead thing? Couldn’t you just scry for her, or whatever it is you Magefolk do?”

“There were good reasons why that wasn’t possible,” Aurian shouted. “You’re not a Mage—you don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about! Anvar would have understood. ...”

Her words lay between them like a naked sword.

“Ah, so that’s what’s rankling with you—bloody Anvar again!” Forral snarled.

“Maybe you were just trying to get yourself killed, so you could follow him ..

.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Aurian said flatly. “That’s what happened when I lost you.”

“What?” Forral stopped pacing and stared at her.

“It’s true,” Aurian flung at him. “I very nearly drowned myself the night you were killed, then in the days—the months, really, after I lost you, I was taking the most insane risks. It was Anvar who stopped me—he protected me and took care of me until I was thinking rationally again.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t resent him as much as you seem to resent me for doing the same thing.”

Aurian stared at him, openmouthed, for a long moment. Slowly, the anger drained out of her. “Damn,” she said wryly. “You’ve got me there. Actually, you’re right—more often than not I gave him an awful time.”

“Good,” the swordsman said decisively. He turned away so that she couldn’t see his face. “That’s one comfort, anyway,” he muttered.

“What?” Aurian wasn’t sure she had heard him right. “Why in the world would you say a thing like that?”

Forral swung round and glared. “Because I’m jealous of him, that’s why,” he roared. “Insanely, murderously jealous ... That bastard lay with you—you loved him. ...” In three swift steps he closed the gap between them. Seizing the Mage by the shoulders, hard enough to wring a gasp of pain from her, he covered her mouth with his own and kissed her until she fought for breath.—For a moment Aurian struggled against him—and then she didn’t care anymore.—She was done with fighting this insane situation. He was Forral, he was Anvar—both the men she’d loved and mourned. And she wanted him, them—whatever. Almost savagely, she returned his kisses, then they were tearing at each other’s clothes. Forral picked her up and hurled her down onto the bed, and with a triumphant laugh, Aurian pulled him down on top of her. That first time, they coupled with savage ferocity, blasting away the walls that had grown up between them. Then, almost before the echoes of that first, fierce passion had time to die away, they made love again, gently, this time, and with infinite tenderness.

When at last it was over, and they lay spent in one another’s arms, Forral looked at her searchingly, and the Mage was moved to see tears standing in Anvar’s intense blue eyes. “So you do still care,” he whispered.

Aurian gave a languorous sigh. “You bloody fool,” she said softly. “Of course I do.”

Someone was pounding on the door. Aurian turned over and made a small sound of complaint, unwilling to be disturbed from her happy dreams. “Go away,” she shouted.

“Wake up!” It was Zanna’s voice. “Hurry! You’ve got to come—just wait till you see who’s here! D’arvan and Parric and Chiamh, and . . .” Her voice cracked.

“Oh, Aurian, they have Dad with them!”

Aurian leapt out of bed and ran to the door. Forral almost beat her to it.—When they opened it, Zanna’s face was a picture. She looked from one to the other. “I know I said to hurry,” she told them faintly, “but I think there’s time for you to put some clothes on first.”

As she came through the common-room door, Aurian’s heart leapt to see Chiamh.—His face lit up at the sight of her. Their reunion was without tears or laughter; they simply embraced, with quiet delight and deep, deep joy. “I’m so happy to see you,” Aurian said softly. “I never thought I’d set eyes on you in human form again—and it was all my fault, for not mastering the Sword of Flame, and controlling the Phaerie.”

“No,” the Windeye told her. “You take too much blame upon yourself. It was the Forest Lord who trapped us in our equine forms—he did not ask us to choose, or to help; he never once looked on us as human. At least Hellorin’s son is far more enlightened,” he added. “It was he who bargained for our freedom.”

Chiamh glanced over the Mage’s shoulder at the inconspicuous grey shape that was hanging shyly back in a shadowy comer. “Come with me,” he told her. “I have someone here who very much wants to meet you.”

For an instant her heart stopped beating. “Wolf?” she whispered. “Wolf?”

Then the thoughts of the great grey beast in the corner came to her, clear and strong. “Mother?”

The Mage wanted to run to her son and throw her arms around him, but something—a trace of reticence or doubt in his mental tone—made her hesitate.—She was glad that mental communication, at least, gave them a certain amount of privacy in the crowded room. “Wolf, I can’t believe you’re here at last,” she told him. “I’ve waited a long time for this moment. There’s so much . ..”

“I don’t remember you.” The wolf looked at her coldly. “And I don’t want to be here. My grandmother said I had to come.”

Sick dismay clenched like a fist in Aurian’s belly. Everyone else in the room was oblivious of the exchange that had just taken place, and she fought hard to keep the hurt from showing on her face.

“Give him time, Aurian.” It was Chiamh’s voice. “This is all very strange to him. You two will have to get to know one another all over again.”

Thank the Gods for the wisdom and kindness of Chiamh—he was a true friend. And he was right, of course.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” the Mage told Wolf seriously. “It’s always a wrench to leave home—especially for the first time.”

“You seem to be good at it. You left me.”

The wolf fled the room, running into Forral with a snarl as he shot through the door, and knocking the swordsman right off his feet. “What the bloody blazes was that all about?” the swordsman demanded as he scrambled up from the floor.

“That unmannerly creature,” said Aurian, with a wry grimace, “was your son.”

Forral gaped at her, absolutely stunned. Then he cast his eyes heavenward.

“Great Chathak preserve us,” he muttered. “How do you spank a wolf?”

Chiamh stared at the familiar form of Aurian’s companion. There was something about the figure . . . Quickly he switched to his Othersight—and discovered that the refulgent aura of the man’s life force had changed completely from the one he remembered. The Windeye was too shocked for tact. “That’s not Anvar,” he gasped.

Schiannath looked at him oddly. “What are you talking about, Chiamh? You hardly give yourself time to draw breath in human form, before you’re starting with that weird Wind-eye nonsense again. Of course it’s Anvar! Anyone can see that.”

The swordsman looked Schiannath straight in the eye. “No, he’s right,” he said baldly. “I’m not Anvar. My name is Forral.”

Oh, thank you, Forral. Thanks for breaking it to them gently—you idiot! Aurian hid her face in her hands and let the storm break over her.

Gevan was weary from sailing all night, but the tides and currents had been in his favor, and a strong, steady wind had blown him fair to Easthaven in less time than he’d expected. As he sailed into the harbor, the smuggler rubbed a hand across his hot and bleary eyes, and smiled grimly to himself. It had almost seemed as though the Gods themselves had been in favor of his plan. He would show them—that serpent-tongued Mage-loving little bitch who fancied herself the true Nightrunner leader, and her man, who had pushed him around once two often—with the support of that weak-minded fool Yanis, who just let them get away with it. He was no leader—not like his dad had been!—The smuggler moored his swift little craft among the fishing boats that were being unloaded of the night’s catch, and climbed up onto the busy wharf. As he hurried along, he jingled the coins in his pocket. He had enough in here to buy himself a good meal and a swift horse—and once he reached Nexis and spoke to Lord Pendral, he would never want for wealth again.