It seemed to take forever, but gradually, as she worked through the following spring and summer, Aurian began to improve. Now, at last, the blade went where she wanted it to. Well balanced and finely crafted, it was a delight to use. Forral taught her how to take care of it, and she kept both blade and scabbard meticulously clean and well oiled. The sword glittered as she swung it, and as it clove the air, it sang. Because of this, Aurian named it Coronach, which meant “Deathsong,” and Forral didn’t smile at her fancy. “A good blade deserves a good name,” he agreed gravely.
Disaster struck near the end of that year, when the first snow covered the ground with a thin sprinkling of white. Perhaps Forral had been too enthusiastic in giving her the sword so soon; or maybe Aurian had become overconfident. Whatever the reason, she made a deadly mistake. She and Forral were sparring in their usual place when she decided, on her own initiative, to try a new move that she had been thinking about lately. Moving back from him, she ducked and twisted, planning to bring her blade up beneath her opponent’s guard to strike at his throat. It went dreadfully wrong. As she twisted, Aurian slipped on the snow. She lost her balance and her stroke went wide, leaving her open to Forral’s lethal downswing. He cried out and tried to wrench the heavy blade aside, but the momentum was too great. The great sword sheared into Aurian’s left shoulder with a sickening crunch of shattered bone.
Eilin came thundering down the tower staircase, alerted by Forral’s frantic shouts for help. She stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs, her face ashen. Forral, tears streaming down his face, bore Aurian’s still body wrapped in his blood-soaked cloak. A trail of blood led out through the open door behind him, and pooled on the stone flags of the kitchen floor. He felt it seeping, warm and sticky, into his clothing. “Oh Gods,” he sobbed, his face twisting with anguish. “Eilin, I’ve killed her!”
Eilin was shaking as she took Aurian from him and laid her gently on the kitchen table. He heard her gasp as she revealed the dreadful extent of the injury. The Mage felt for a pulse in Aurian’s throat. “Thank the Gods, she still lives,” she murmured.
Only then did Forral dare look. His sword had bitten deep into Aurian’s shoulder, shattering her collarbone and almost severing her arm. Her face was gray from shock and loss of blood. Forral sagged. The room blurred around him as he swayed dizzily. On far too many occasions he had seen good friends maimed and killed, and had inflicted worse wounds on enemies in battle without flinching, but this was only a young girl, and one he loved more than life itself. It was more than he could bear. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I—”
“Quiet!” Eilin snapped. She lai^l her hands on the wound, her eyes narrowing in concentration’as she summoned her powers. “I wish I’d learned more about Healing,” she muttered helplessly. But as Forral watched, holding his breath, the flow of blood diminished to a trickle, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, it died away altogether. Eilin straightened up and turned on him, her eyes blazing.
Forral dropped to his knees. “Eilin, it was an accident—”
“Never mind! Ride to Nexis, Forral. Fetch the Healer from the Academy. Hurry! We may lose her yet!”
Relieved to be doing something that might help, Forral ran, his last glimpse of Aurian’s pale, stricken face blazoned on his mind’s eye. His horse plunged violently, frightened by this wild-eyed madman who flung the saddle so roughly across its back. He clouted it hard across the nose and jerked the girth tight. Springing to its back, he spurred away in a welter of snow, anxious to be out of the rough terrain of the crater before dusk fell. The journey on horseback to Nexis took five days. Forral intended to do it in two.
3
The Baker’s Son
“Gee up, there!” Anvar flipped the reins, urging the old horse along the rough, rutted track that slanted up from the mill by the riverside. Lazy tossed his head and whinnied, protesting at having to haul the heavy cartload of flour up the steep hill. “Never mind,” Anvar told the horse. “At least you’re warm., I’ll give you a good breakfast when we get home.” He blew on his hands and slapped them against his thighs, trying to thaw the stiffness out of his fingers. The icy dawn chill had seeped into his bones, and the mill’s roaring fire already seemed a million miles away. But a different sort of fire warmed young Anvar’s blood as he recalled the smile of the miller’s pretty daughter, Sara.
The wealth and power in the city of Nexis rested with the rich merchants, the high-placed warriors from the Garrison, and the lofty Mageborn. Life was much harder for the common folk: the craftsmen and dressmakers, the servants, laborers, shopkeepers, bargemen, and lamplighters who kept the city running with their menial but essential tasks, Children, perforce, learned to shoulder responsibility at an early age, and Anvar’s father, a master baker in the city, had given his eldest son the task of fetching the flour as soon as he was old enough to drive the cart. Though the journey was longer by road, and hard in winter, it saved the ruinous freight tolls charged by the river’s bargemen.
Ever since Anvar’s first visit to the mill long ago, fair-haired, elfin little Sara had been his best friend. When they were younger they would sneak away in the afternoons to play together, meeting along the narrow towpath that ran downriver to the city. Now that they had reached the grand old age of fifteen, however, their games had started to take a new and serious turn. Anvar was in love, and he had no doubt whatsoever that Sara felt the same. Both sets of parents viewed this development with tolerance. Tori, Anvar’s father, and Jard the miller both saw the advantage in combining the two businesses someday, and of course the mothers had no say in the matter.
Anvar smiled, still thinking of Sara, as he reached the top of the hill and turned the creaking cart onto the main highway. Nexis was hidden by the freezing mist that lay gray in the forested valley below. Only the shimmering white towers and dome of the Academy, high on their rocky promontory above the rest of the city, were visible above the fog. Anvar’s smile turned to a scowl at the sight. They would still be asleep up there, he thought. Snoring on swansdown mattresses while honest folk had been up and working well before daylight! His father had no time for the Magefolk, calling them arrogant parasites and an insult to proper men. This was such a common point of view in Anvar’s neighborhood that he had never questioned it, though he noticed that the men in the taprooms kept their voices low as they said it, glancing nervously over their shoulders as they spoke.
Suddenly Anvar was wrenched out of his daydreams as the old horse shied and laid its ears back at the sound of hoofbeats. Someone was coming up behind him, galloping perilously fast on the icy road. He sighed and pulled the cart well into the side. It was probably a courier, headed for the Garrison, the Academy, or the Merchants’ Quarter, and it would be more than Anvar’s hide was worth to get in the way of his betters’ business.
The horse was finished. As it thundered past, Anvar could hear the wheeze of its labored breathing above the sound of hooves. He caught a glimpse of its sweat-streaked, bloodstained flanks as it hurtled by, and heard the burly rider curse it as he lashed it with the end-of the reins. The swine! Anvar raged inwardly, furious at this cruel treatment. He urged his own horse onward gently, as if by his kindness he could somehow make amends for what he had just witnessed. Then he heard the fading hoofbeats falter. There was a sick thud as the horse went down, followed by a stream of savage curses.