Sword of Flames

16 Out of Time

Zanna screamed and dropped the candle. She fell to her knees, cringing like a hare beneath the shadow of the hawk, her mind blank with terror. For what seemed an endless time she huddled with her eyes shut tight, awaiting the end. But when she felt a hand touch her shoulder, some buried instinct for survival made her fight. She leapt up with a shriek, flailing out blindly with her fists at her assailant.

“Stop that, you idiot, it’s me! Zanna!” Belatedly, Zanna recognized the voice. “Dad?” she squeaked.

“It’s all right now, love. I’m here.” Everything was still in darkness, but she felt his arms go round her. She leaned against his shoulder, shaking uncontrollably and trying to fight off the urge to burst into hysterical tears, while Vannor stroked her back with his uninjured hand, soothing her as he had done when she was a little girl awakening from childish night mares. “What happened, love?” he asked her gently. “What did you see that scared you like that?”

Zanna clutched at him, all her fears reawakened. “Dad, there was a man in the alcove. I saw him…”

“Hush, lass. There’s no one down here but us. If there had really been someone, don’t you think we’d have heard him? And if he meant to do us harm, we’d have known about it by now. I expect you saw a statue or something, that’s all. I’m not surprised it gave you a shock. Had it been me, I’d still be running…” He chuckled, and Zanna felt her fears beginning to melt away.

“Come on,” said Vannor. “Do you have the tinderbox in your pocket? You knocked my candle right out of my hand, but it should be down here on the floor somewhere. Let’s have some light, and we’ll take a look at this man of yours.”

Letting go of her, Vannor dropped down to grope for the lost candle, and Zanna delved in her pocket for the tinderbox. After a few moments of scrabbling, fumbling, and a curse or two from Vannor, they managed to get the wick to catch alight, and Zanna blinked her eyes as the scene came into focus around her in an orb of spreading golden radiance that was dazzling after all the darkness.

“Now, then. Let’s see this statue, or whatever it is.” Awkwardly and left-handed, Vannor drew the sword that he had taken from the dead guard in the Mages’ Tower. (He had raised his eyebrows at the sight of the two fallen men, and given Zanna a long and thoughtful look; but as yet, thank providence, he had forborne to ask her any awkward questions concerning how they had come to be in that state.)

“I’m sorry, love, but you’ll have to hold the candle for me,” he told her. Zanna took it reluctantly, and held it high as he turned toward the shadowy alcove. Even though she was forced to follow him closely with the light, she made sure that he was between herself and whatever might be lurking in the niche. Though her good sense had accepted her father’s explanation, the memory of her terror was still fresh enough to overcome her courage.

Unexpectedly, she ran into Vannor’s back as he halted abruptly, standing stock-still as though he had been the one who’d turned to stone. “Seven bloody demons!” he cried. “It can’t be!”

Zanna caught at the dangerously tilting candle as he staggered back against her, reeling and wide-eyed with shock.

“What is it, Dad?” she gasped. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

“I have—or bloody nearly.” In his distress, Vannor seemed to have forgotten that he was talking to his daughter. He sheathed his sword, and rubbed a shaking hand across his eyes. “I just don’t believe it!” He shook his head. “What the blazes is that bastard playing at?”

“Who?” Zanna demanded.

“The Archmage,” Vannor said angrily. Suddenly his eyes focused on Zanna, and he seemed to collect himself. “Sorry, love,” he sighed. “It was just—well, it was such a shock. I was forgetting you didn’t know…”

“Know what?” Zanna almost shrieked at him, “Dad, what’s going on? What did you see in there?”

“You’d better take a look.” Taking her hand, Vannor led her forward. “Don’t be scared, now—the poor beggar can’t hurt you…”

The rest of his words were drowned by Zanna’s cry of horror. In the niche a tall figure stood, stiff and lifeless as a statue—but unmistakably a man.

“It’s all right, lass.” The firm clasp of Vannor’s hand was a comfort, though the strained tone of his voice belied his words.

“Who is—who was he?” Zanna whispered. She saw what shock had driven from her mind the first time she saw him: that the strange man was surrounded by a faint, thin numbus of shimmering silver-blue that could only be a spell. Strands of brighter blue, like tiny tongues of lightning, crawled in a fiery network across his body and long mane of silver-shot brown hair. Zanna looked at that face, twisted in its hideous rictus of terror, and thought that she could discern, in the finely carved bone structure and the brilliance of the glazed, blue-gray eyes, a look of the Magefolk about him.

“It’s Finbarr. Poor Finbarr. Of course—you never met him, did you? It was always a standing joke with Aurian that we could never pry him out of his archives.” Her father’s voice was choked with what sounded suspiciously like tears, though when Zanna stole a glance at him, his eyes were still dry. “He saved our lives when the Wraiths attacked, and gave us time to flee, but”—he frowned in puzzlement—“Aurian said he was killed—she felt him die. So why would Miathan waste magic to preserve his body like this? It would only make sense if Aurian was somehow wrong, and he isn’t dead—”

Abruptly, he turned to Zanna. “Well, whatever the explanation is, there’s nothing we can do about it. But the Lady Aurian should know about this, as soon as may be.”

“Do you want me to try to contact her again?” Zanna fished in her pocket for the precious crystal.

“Not now, love. We’ve delayed here long enough. I think we’d best get out of these tunnels while I still have the strength to manage it.” He groaned. “Oh, for a warm bed, a blazing fire, and a flask of good wine…”

Zanna took his arm. “You’ll have them all, Dad, I promise—once we get you out of here.”

“Supposing I ever get out of here,” Vannor muttered grimly, under his breath. The words sent a chill through Zanna, and mixed with the sinking fear she felt for him was a flash of scalding anger for frightening her so. It made her all the more determined to succeed. Damn it—she had rescued her dad against all the odds and brought him this far! Zanna gritted her teeth. I’ll find a way out of here, supposing it’s the last thing I do, she thought fiercely. But she knew he had never meant her to hear his words, and so for his sake, she pretended she had not.

Sadly, they said a last, silent farewell to Finbarr. Though she had never known him—and had no idea, even, whether the archivist was alive or dead beyond the fetters of the spell—it wrenched Zanna’s heart to leave him. It seemed wrong, somehow, to abandon the Mage to the lonely darkness once more.

Hours later, Zanna had no sympathy to spare for anyone save her father and herself. Famished, footsore and exhausted as she was, it had begun to feel as though she had spent her entire life blundering around in these cold, damp, endless catacombs—and that she would be doomed to continue until she died. As for her father, he had long ago reached the limits of his endurance and was somehow keeping himself going only through sheer stubbornness and strength of will. For a long time now she had been tortured by the painful rasp of Vannor’s ragged breathing, and the hesitant, scuffing sound of his dragging, stumbling footsteps. Zanna looked up at him, trying to hide her anxiety. How much longer would it be before Dad succumbed entirely to pain and exhaustion?

What would happen to them both if he did? At long last, Zanna’s courage began to falter.

Vannor tried to gather his failing strength, though his injured hand throbbed now in a screaming mass of agony, and the dizzy faintness from shock and loss of blood were hard to fight. Zanna had been so brave so far, but he could see now that her confidence was beginning to waver, and knew that it wasn’t only weariness and hunger that were the cause. From the determinedly cheerful expression that she turned on him time after time—an expression that was belied by the faint line, like a pen stroke, drawn down between her brows—he knew that her courage was being eaten away by worry over his own condition. Poor child, it wasn’t fair. She had gone through so much for him—had shown more courage and grit than he would have expected even from a son. From what he had seen outside his prison in the Mages’ Tower, she had even killed for him—and she little more than a child, and a cosseted girl-child at that. He had to keep going, if only to repay her bravery and loyalty.

The candle in Zanna’s hand had burned down to a soft and guttering stub, scalding her fingers with hot wax. He saw her flinch, and flick the hardening drops away, but she bit her lip and said nothing. Earlier, he had been half-amused, half-shocked, by her futile attempts to curb her language, but it worried him more, now, that she was too weary to waste energy on a curse. “Just a minute, Dad.” Putting down her basket, which by this time was ominously light, she rummaged quickly inside for another candle by the waning glow of the one she held. She turned to him, her eyes wide with dismay. “We’re down to the last one…”

Suddenly Vannor was overcome by a dreadful Vision of himself and his daughter wandering lost in the smothering darkness until these accursed tunnels became their tomb. Zanna had clearly been thinking along similar lines. Her voice broke on a sob of frustration. “Oh, gods,” she wailed, “we’re never going to find our way out of here…”

“Here, Zanna, give it to me.” Quickly Vannor took the stub of candle from her unresisting fingers before it went out completely. “Now, lass—just hold the new one. I can’t manage with just one hand…” Zanna, bless her, had so far shown a toughness that amazed him, and he knew that having something to do would help her gain control of her impending hysteria. He was right. By the time Vannor had kindled a flame on the new wick she had managed to calm herself and swallow her tears, though she was still shivering with suppressed fear.

Vannor stuck the candle on a narrow projection in the rough-hewn wall of the passage and put his arms around her. “Don’t lose heart, love. Look how rough these tunnels are. We’ve been going downward for hours—we must be in the oldest part of the catacombs by now. Come on, now—let’s try to go on a little longer. Surely this must be the last lap now.”

Sighing, Zanna scrambled awkwardly to her feet, but her tired legs would barely support her and she stumbled, catching herself against a jutting spur in the tunnel wall to stop herself from falling. She paused there, just to catch her breath—and found herself coughing and gasping. From a narrow crack in the shadow of the spur came a cold and noisome draft. “Dad?” Zanna’s voice shook with excitement. “Dad—come here and look at this!” After hours of searching, they had finally found the narrow crack in the wall of the catacombs that led down into the sewers.

The discovery gave them new heart. They organized themselves quickly, abandoning the now-useless basket and taking only the candle, tinderbox, and the bottle with their dwindling supply of water. The crevice was so narrow that Zanna was forced to turn sideways to squeeze through at all, and according to her father the drain beyond was narrower still. Though she did not want to, Vannor insisted that she go first, and she knew, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he was afraid of getting stuck and blocking the way out for her. “Look, lass, be sensible,” he told her when she tried to argue. “If worst comes to worst, at least you’ll be able to go and fetch help.”

Zanna could only look at him helplessly, lost for words. If he should be trapped, how would she find her way out through the sewers—and for that matter, whom did she know in the city who could, or would, come back and help her father—even supposing she’d be able to find him again? Vannor, however, would brook no refusal, so she had no choice but to force herself through the narrow crack, holding her breath as much as possible against the stench that drifted up from the drain beyond.

The journey through the sloping conduit proved a nightmare beyond Zanna’s worst imaginings. It was such a tight fit that only the nameless slime that coated the inside of the pipe helped her to squeeze through, and she could only manage to make any headway at all by inching herself along by her fingernails and pushing with her toes. To make matters worse, it was pitch-black inside, for it was far too damp and drafty to keep a candle alight. When the narrow pipe bent to the side at an angle, Zanna simply wanted to lay her head down on her aching, outstretched arms and howl with frustration—but she gritted her teeth and reminded herself that when her dad had been hiding out there with the rebels, Parric the cavalrymaster had used this route regularly. Well, if he could do it, so could she. She gritted her teeth, bent her tortured spine until she thought it would snap—and pushed…

Suddenly she felt herself sliding, faster and faster, and shot out of the drain mouth, skinning her elbows and scraping her shins on the edge of the pipe. Zanna lay for a moment, breathless, then burst into sobs of relief—that ended just as quickly as they had begun when she remembered her father. Only now, after she had made the terrible journey herself, did she truly realize what a trial it would be for her dad. Only the fact that the stocky Vannor had lost a good deal of flesh during his imprisonment with the Magefolk might even give him the slightest chance of squeezing through, but he had only the one good hand to pull himself along… He would never do it! Her heart beating fast with fear, Zanna found the mouth of the drain by dint of feverish groping in the darkness. She put her ear to it and listened. Echoing hollowly down the pipe came the sound of muffled grunts and curses. For a time Zanna listened in wretched silence, understanding the difficulties her father was experiencing and not wanting to distract him. Eventually, though, she could bear the waiting no longer. He should be out by now. Something must have gone wrong. When even the cursing stopped, she could bear it no longer. “Dad?” she ventured hesitantly, her voice quavering with impending panic. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m bloody not!” Then Vannor seemed to collect himself. “Sorry, lass. I’m having a bit of a problem here, where the pipe bends…”

Though he was trying to sound optimistic, Zanna could hear the harshness of strain in his voice. Nonetheless, she found his response not entirely discouraging. As long as he still had the energy to curse, all was not lost. “Listen,” she told him. “You’ve reached the hardest part now. After that it’s easy. If you can just angle yourself round that corner—”

“If wishes were diamonds,” Vannor snapped, “you’d be the richest heiress in Nexis now. I just can’t seem to get any kind of a purchase on this blasted slime.”

Not all the diamonds in Nexis—in fact, nothing in the whole of creation would have induced Zanna to go back into that drain. Nothing—save her love for her father. “Hold on, Dad—I’m coming…” Without hesitation, Zanna wriggled back into the pipe.

“Don’t you dare, girl! Damn it—don’t be so bloody stupid! You get out of here. Save yourself!”

Zanna let him bellow. In truth, she had no breath for a reply. Getting back up the sloping part of the drain was far more difficult than sliding down it. Again and again she lost her hold through pure weariness, and slid back to the bottom. Again and again she picked herself up, swore heartily, and started the climb again. And at last the miracle happened. Her groping fingers touched the cold, clammy flesh of an outstretched hand that twitched weakly in her grasp.

Vannor’s protests had long since ceased. Zanna had been praying that he was all right, but had little breath to spare for talk. “When I say the word,” she gasped, “try to bend yourself around that corner.”

“What… what the…”

“Now!” Zanna cried. Grabbing her dad’s wrists in both hands, she deliberately relaxed the bracing pressure of her legs and feet and let herself dangle, with all her weight hanging from her father’s arm. There was a startled yell from Vannor—and suddenly Zanna found herself sliding, faster and faster, hurtling down the pipe at a far greater speed than she had previously managed. She shot out of the drain like a cork from a bottle with her father on top of her, flailing his arms and legs, yelling fit to wake the dead, and knocking all the breath from her body with his weight. Though it was still pitch-dark in the tunnels, exploding lights shot across Zanna’s vision, and for a moment she knew no more.

“Seven bloody demons, girl—don’t you ever try a trick like that again! You might have broken your neck!” These were the first words that penetrated Zanna’s inner darkness. Vannor was cradling her in his arms.

“But I didn’t, did I?” she rallied pertly, wanting nothing more than to erase that ragged note of fear from her father’s voice.

“No,” Vannor muttered, “but the next time you scare me like that, you little wretch, I’ll break it for you.” Then he laughed, and hugged her. “Are you all right, lass? By the gods, but Dulsina was right when she kept saying how much you take after me. Your methods might be a bit extreme, but you saved my life then and no mistake! I thought I would be stuck in that pipe for good…”

After a time they collected themselves, and managed to find the candle again. It was much battered and cracked from having been fallen on, but the wick was holding it together, and it was still quite usable. In the light of the burgeoning flame Vannor and his daughter scarcely recognized one another, so begrimed were they from the slimy innards of the pipe. The candle also lit up the rusting stubs of the inspection ladder that would be their next challenge. They looked at one another, sighed, and climbed painfully to their feet to start again.

Though Vannor had to climb one-handed, which presented several dangerous moments, the ladder proved far less difficult than the pipe had been. Soon they squeezed up through another drain—mercifully, a very short one this time—and found themselves in the sewers at last. The very familiarity of his old haunts seemed to restore Vannor’s energy and spirits, though, like his daughter, he was staggering with fatigue. He stood on the narrow, slippery ledge that overlooked the noisome channel, and took a deep breath—Zanna wondered how he could, the smell was so bad—looking around the dank, squalid, and rat-infested tunnel with the proprietary air of a landowner surveying his domain. For the first time during the whole of their escape, he looked genuinely cheerful. “At last,” he sighed. “A home away from home. Now we’ll be all right.”

Zanna was glad that one of them felt confident.

“What in blazes do you mean, he’s gone?” the Archmage thundered. “How did this happen?” He crashed his fists down on the table, and the gems that were his eyes flared with a fiery crimson light. The very air of the chamber seemed to ignite and throb beneath the burden of his rage. The Captain of the Academy Guard, big man and experienced campaigner though he was, blanched and trembled, and the wretched little scar-faced man who’d been guarding Vannor’s chamber the night before looked nothing like a killer now. Cringing in terror, he was trying unsuccessfully to edge himself behind the impassive figure of the Weather-Mage.

Eliseth alone seemed unmoved by Miathan’s wrath—probably, the captain thought sourly, because the scheming bitch was letting the brunt of it fall on himself.

“Well, you needn’t look at me,” she was saying coolly. “I left Vannor as well guarded as always last night—and frankly, by the time I’d finished with him, he was in no condition to arrange his own escape, let alone get far. This whole business reeks of some kind of a plot.” She shot the captain of the guard a poisonous look from beneath her lowered eyelids.

“Well I had him guarded as usual, too, sir,” the captain added hastily, deciding that her example was not a bad one to follow. “Both the top and lower gates were manned, and the road up here was patrolled. How anyone could get past that lot beats me.” He turned to glare at the shrinking, scar-faced guard. “He was there. Why not ask him how those two blockheaded bastards managed to get themselves ambushed…?”

“Let us find out.” Miathan’s voice was steel wrapped in silk. He turned the sinister gaze of his dispassionate, arachnid eyes on the unfortunate guard.

Only too glad to be dismissed, the captain hurried down the tower stairs. He wasn’t fast enough, however, to escape the screams of excruciating torment that came from the room above. Clapping his hands over his ears to shut out the gut-wrenching howls, he abandoned all dignity and fled.

“It was my maid?” For once, even Eliseth’s face betrayed her shock.

“From what I wrenched out of the guard’s mind”—the Archmage glanced contemptuously at the twisted body on the floor—“there would seem to be no doubt.”

“But—she was only a kitchen menial—scarcely more than a child, and with barely wits enough about her to—”

“She had wits enough about her to plan and execute the escape of the most wanted man in Nexis—thanks to you!” Miathan snapped. Despite the crisis, he was enjoying the discomposure of the ice-cool Mage.

“And who was it that charged her with Vannor’s care?” Eliseth retorted with a sneer. “Not I! That was your idea, Archmage—and you put the little wretch in a perfect position to carry out her plans!”

Miathan’s scant pleasure in the situation vanished abruptly. A Vision of his hands squeezing Eliseth’s throat flashed briefly through his mind… Then he pulled himself together. “Enough!” he barked. “I admit, she duped us both. But the question remains—who is she? One of Vannor’s rebels? Does he have other spies within the Academy?” It was an unpleasant thought, that the Magefolk were no longer inviolate. He remembered that traitor Elewin, and clenched his fists.

“I’ll soon find out,” Eliseth promised grimly, “even if it means tearing apart the minds of every servant in the place. She had to have help, Miathan. How could a slip of a girl like that have managed to kill both Janok and a trained warrior three times her size?”

“That’s not the only mystery to concern us.” The Archmage frowned. “How did she get Vannor out of the Academy without being seen? And where are they now? If you injured Vannor as badly as you described”—he scowled at her in displeasure—“then he couldn’t have gone far.”

“Do you think they’re still hiding somewhere in the Academy?” Eliseth suggested.

“It would seem the most likely option—but if they are, the gods themselves will not be able to help them. We’ll seal the place off—no one goes in or out for any reason—and have it searched from top to bottom.”

“And what if they aren’t here?” the Weather-Mage demanded. “We can’t search the entire city—we don’t have sufficient men. And we can’t offer a reward for Vannor’s recapture, because that would mean admitting to the Mortals that he’s still alive.”

“No—but we can offer a reward for the girl.” Miathan’s eyes glittered. “We’ll say that she stole something of value from the Magefolk—which is true enough,” he added wryly. “My release of those provisions yesterday worked to our advantage—there are some in Nexis, at any rate, who are already blessing my name. We’ll offer a large reward, both food and gold, to anyone who can lead us to the girl. Either Vannor will be with her, or”—he smiled with avid cruelty—“we can soon extract from her the information that we need as to his whereabouts. I intend to get Vannor back, no matter what it takes, and when I do, I’ll make both him and that wretched girl sorry they were ever born.”

Benziorn hurried through the streets of Nexis, losing himself among the early passersby, and congratulated himself on giving his guardians the slip once again. Though Yanis, the young Nightrunner leader, was gradually recovering under his care—and thanks to the skills that the physician had not forgotten, had lost neither his arm nor the use of it—it was becoming more and more difficult to escape the vigilance of Tarnal and Hebba, who seemed to have a totally unreasonable attitude to the idea of a man taking a little drink every once in a while. Benziorn shrugged. Well, that was just too bad. Though he welcomed the amenities of Hebba’s household—in fact, he admitted that, after all the privations he had suffered, he very much welcomed the luxury of a stout roof and a fireside again, not to mention Hebba’s cooking, when there was anything to cook—he was damned if he was going to let her dictate to him with regard to his drinking. Was there no respect for a physician in Nexis anymore?

Luckily—for Hebba would not allow so much as the sight of a bottle in her house—Benziorn had his own secret cache of spirits hidden away in the old fulling mill: payment in kind for treating a vintner’s warehouse guard, a mercenary who’d been suffering the inevitable results of spending too much time with the wharfside whores. Try as they might, Hebba and Tarnal had been unable to discover the source of his secret supply of drink.

Unfortunately, Tarnal had taken to following him in the hope of unearthing the cache… Benziorn chuckled to himself. The lad still had a lot to learn. Hebba had gone out this morning to the Academy to wait in an endless line for the rations that the Archmage, for some reason of his own, had seen fit to release, and the young smuggler, perforce, had gone with her, to guard the precious food from robbery on the way home. Yanis had been asleep—which had given his physician the perfect opportunity to escape.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith, Benziorn was feeling more than mellow—and he had the rest of the day ahead of him. Given the number of hungry folk in Nexis, the food distribution was likely to take a good long while. Spring sunlight filtered down in dusty bars through the nigh, smeared windows of the old mill, warming the air and bleaching to near invisibility the flames of the small fire he had kindled for his comfort. Seated on his folded cloak, with his back resting comfortably against one of the great dye vats and a bottle in his hand, Benziom almost felt like singing—in fact, why not? It had been a while since he’d had a respite from his responsibilities. It was almost like a holiday…

He awakened suddenly, shivering, and saw that the dusk was stretching shadowy fingers through the ruins of the old building. Benziorn groaned and rubbed his eyes. His head was beginning to throb, and his mouth felt as though someone had filled it with mud from the river bottom. The last thing he remembered was singing—he had no recollection of falling asleep—and he wondered blearily what had wakened him so abruptly. Then it came again—a tortured, grating squeal of metal on stone, loud enough to send a fresh burst of pain exploding through his pounding head.

What in the world…? Cursing under his breath, Benziorn scrambled quickly to his feet and kicked dirt over the smoldering ashes of his fire. Melting back into the shadows, he found a crumbling spot in the stonework of the wall and boosted himself up to lie flat on the broad rim of the massive dye vat—a vantage point from which he could scan most of the floor of the old mill. There came another grinding squeak, and the muffled sound of a man’s voice cursing, followed by the crash of something heavy falling. The sound seemed vaguely familiar… With a shock of belated recollection, the physician identified the noise. His mind went back to the night when Jarvas’s compound had been attacked, and the Nightrunners had come up through the grating in the floor of the fulling mill…

Could it be someone seeking Yanis? Benziom shifted his position slightly, craning his neck to try to see around one of the supporting pillars. A moment later, two figures stumbled into sight, silhouetted against the fading light of the doorway. They were reeling and tottering as though they were the ones who were drunk, supporting one another briefly before they sank down in a huddle on the mill-room floor.

Benziorn waited, rigid with suspicion and suspense, for another sign of movement, but the intruders did not stir. As the light from the doorway faded, he wondered if he could safely escape by slipping through the shadows. Yanis might need him, and Tarnal would be hunting for him now, for sure. Silent as a ghost, he slid down from the top of the vat—or at least, that had been the idea. In reality, the physician was still suffering from the effects of all the spirits he had imbibed. He missed his footing and came down hard, landing with a grunt and stumbling over one of his empty bottles, which rolled and shattered against the side of the vat with a crash that sounded deafening in the dusky silence of the abandoned mill. Cursing under his breath, Benziorn froze. He heard the soft, rustling scrape of someone stirring on the other side of the vat.

“Dad? Did you hear that?”

“Shhh…”

There came the hissing, slithering sound of a sword being quietly unsheathed—but Benziorn had already identified the first voice as that of a young girl. Coupled with the drink still in his blood, it gave him courage. The very possibility that these people seemed to be afraid and hiding too, seemed to imply that they would scarcely be an enemy.

“Who’s there?” he called. “Whoever you are, there’s no need to be frightened. I mean you no ha—” His words cut off in a choked squeak as the keen steel of a sword blade pressed an icy line across his throat.

“Move, and you die. Call out, and the first word you utter will be your last. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” the physician whispered, trembling. He was seized with a desperate urge to look around to see the face of his attacker, though he knew it would be impossible to identify the assailant in the growing darkness—and such folly would certainly mean his death. He felt that his knees must give way at any moment through sheer terror—yet if they did, the sword would slice his throat. A trickle of rank sweat ran down his spine. Benziorn held his body rigid, concentrating very hard on facing forward and staying on his feet.

“Now—who are you?” the gruff voice demanded.

“B-benziorn. A physician… well, a former physician.”

“What?”

“I don’t mean you any harm—I’m not your enemy. Look, if you want, I’ll go away and not look back. I don’t care who you are—I’m only a pitiful drunkard now—I can’t hurt anyone, and I don’t take sides. Please, good sir…” Even in the midst of his undignified babbling, Benziorn felt a flare of outraged pride. How could you sink so low? asked a small voice at the back of his mind—yet now that his life was at stake, he knew he would abase himself as much as was necessary. Since the death of his wife and children he had often sworn to himself that he did not care whether he lived or died—yet now that the time had come to make good his vow, he found, to his amazement, that he cared very much indeed. Life, which had been a burden to him for so long, had, in the space of an instant—and by the narrow margin of a sword’s edge—become a very precious gift.

“Benziorn?” mused the voice. “Gods, that name sounds familiar. Hold on—aren’t you the man who attended my wife in childbirth, when the Magefolk Healer wouldn’t come?”

Terror knotted the physician’s bowels. The owner of the sword could only be one man—the only Mortal in the city who might have expected to call upon the services of Meiriel… A frantic notion of temporizing further—of lying, even—raced through his mind and died aborning, just as Vannor’s wife had died. “At least I saved the child,” he whispered. “I would have saved his mother, too—had there been any way…”

“Damn you…”

The sword trembled against his unprotected throat, and a thin line of hot blood ran down into the collar of his tunic…

“Dad…” It was the girl’s voice again, urgent and pleading. “Don’t do this. Dulsina told me the physician did his best. It wasn’t his fault that Lady Meiriel wouldn’t come. Whatever you do, it won’t bring Mother back. And after what we’ve just been through, how can you blame him for the actions of the Magefolk? If it’s anyone’s fault that Mother didn’t survive Antor’s birth, the blame should lie with Lady Meiriel—but now she’s dead—”

“She’s dead?”

Benziorn felt the sword drop away from his throat. With a whimper, he sagged against the curving wall of the vat, too undone even to think of running away.

“I had no time to tell you,” the young girl went on, “but they knew, in the Academy…”

Vannor gasped. “But Parric was with her—and Elewin.”

He cried in anguish. “What happened to them? Are they dead too?”

At that moment, shadows leapt high into the rafters of the mill as the saffron light of a torch blazed in the doorway. The physician saw the faces of his assailants for the first time—and wondered how he could ever have been afraid. A familiar voice called: “Benziorn? Benziorn, you drunken idiot! Are you there?”

“Tarnal!” the young girl cried. “Thank the gods it’s you!” To Benziorn’s amused astonishment, she flew into the Nightrunner’s arms—and a quick, sly glance at Tarnal’s face proved that the young smuggler didn’t object at all.