Tori hesitated for a moment, still scowling. “Those bastards could starve before I’d sell them a crumb of my bread— and besides, you old fool, they bake their own—or get the bootlicking Mortal scum who serve them to do it!” Satisfied that he had had the last word he stamped out, slamming the door behind him. Grandpa shrugged, and put an arm around Anvar’s shoulders. “Come on, son, we’d better get started. We’re well behind this morning, and your father’s temper isn’t likely to improve with the day.”
As Anvar followed him, Grandpa’s last words to his father echoed in his head. Bern—Tori’s favorite, and he never bothered to hide it. Always BernrAnvar looked sourly at his dark-haired younger brother, who was smirking in the doorway. Why did Tori favor him so? Grandpa had been right. If Bern had been hurt, his father would move mountains to help him. If it had been himself, on the other hand . . . Anvar sighed. He knew only too well what his father thought about him. But he wished he knew why.
At nightfall Anvar dragged himself up the ladder to the cramped little attic that he shared with Bern, having finished work at last. He had been too tired to eat the special supper that his mother had prepared to placate his father’s black mood. Lacking the energy to undress, he threw himself down on his bed. Gods, what a terrible day it had been! Tori had worked them like slaves, taking Anvar’s mishap out on the whole family. His poor mother had been pale and shaking with fatigue by the end of the day, and Anvar was consumed with guilt, knowing that her exhaustion was his fault. Ria had never been strong, but she toiled without complaint, afraid that if she faltered, Tori’s wrath would fall on her son again. Anvar wondered, as he often did, how this gentle, intelligent woman had come to wed his rough and greedy father. She deserved far better. Delicate and slender, she had dark blond hair and blue eyes like her elder son, and her beauty still shone through her haggard appearance.
Ria’s past was a mystery. Unlike anyone else in their neighborhood, she could read and write and play music, and had taught these skills to Anvar. A waste of time, Tori had called it, and pointed out that Bern had more sense than to ape his betters. He was learning to follow in his father’s footsteps like a proper son. But for once Ria had defied her husband, and Anvar was glad. Ever since the day his grandpa had carved him his first little wooden flute, he had fallen in love with music and practiced every spare minute, driving his family, especially his father, to distraction. Soon he had mastered all the simple tunes he knew, and had begun to compose his own, stretching the limits of the simple flute until even Grandpa’s ingenuity was hard-pressed to construct new instruments that would give him the sounds he wanted, Anvar lived for his music. His playing and Sara were the only consolations in his hardworking life, and he blessed his mother for giving him such a priceless gift.
Anvar loved Ria. Now she w«S faded, fragile, and careworn, and too cowed to stand up to the bullying Tori. He wished he could protect her, but although he was growing up tall and broad-shouldered, his frame was still lanky and gangling. If it came to a confrontation, Tori could fell him with a single blow.
Anvar sighed. He had other troubles that night. He had arranged to meet Sara in their usual trysting place along the riverbank, but Tori’s grueling workload had put paid to that. He hoped she wouldn’t be angry. He was sad too about poor Lazy, His wind had been ruined, and Tori had callously sold him to the knacker men. Anvar mourned the loss of the old horse. Though balky and stubborn, he had had great character and intelligence—which he constantly used to avoid work.
Anvar was going to miss him. Tori, however, only thought of the generous sum that Forral had left for him at the Academy. He had not seen Anvar’s horseman, for Forral had only stopped long enough to pick up the Lady Meiriel, the Healer, and the two had set off as fast as possible for the north on fresh horses. Anvar wondered what she was like, this child whose life was in danger. At first he felt inclined to resent the mysterious dying girl who had caused all this trouble, but when he thought about it, he found himself hoping that the Healer would get there in time to save her. That way, at least some good would come out of Lazy’s death.
Some weeks later, Anvar’s own family came to be in desperate need of the Healer’s services. All winter long, Grandpa had been complaining of tiredness and aches in his bones, and after Solstice, in the bleak gray season that stretched beyond the turn of the year, the old man took to his bed. He grew weaker by the day despite Ria’s diligent nursing with the herbal brews and folk remedies that were the only recourse of the common Mortals in the city. But when Anvar, remembering Forral, begged his father to send for the Healer, Tori admonished him harshly. “I don’t know where you get your ideas from,” he said. “A family like us send for the Healer? She’d laugh in our faces. Besides, I’ll have none of those Mageborn scum over my threshold. Now get back to work, boy, before I take my belt to you!” That night, when Anvjir visited Grandpa, the old man was too weak even to speak to him. He simply lay back on the pillows, his face yellow and sunken. There was an odd transparency about the old man’s skin that Anvar had never seen before, and without knowing why, he felt a stab of fear. “Mother, help him,” he begged.
Ria shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Anvar, you have to face it,” she said softly. “Grandpa’s dying.”
“No!” Anvar gasped. “He can’t die!” He came to a sudden decision. “I’m going for the Healer, if Father won’t.”
“You can’t!” Ria went absolutely white, her eyes wide with stark terror.
Even in his extremity, Anvar was stunned by her reaction. Then he looked back at his grandpa’s face.
“Why not?” he demanded. “I’m not afraid of Father. Anyway, he’s gone to the tavern. If I’m quick he need never know.”
“It’s not that!” Ria was trembling. She caught hold of Anvar’s hands. “Anvar, you and I—we must never have any dealings with the Magefolk. I can’t tell you why, but you must believe me. Stay away from them, son, for my sake—and especially for your own.”
Anvar was dumbfounded. What had his mother to do with the Magefolk, that she should be so terrified? But she wouldn’t tell him, and there was no time to find out. He pulled away. “I’m sorry, Mother.” Quietly he slipped downstairs, hoping to avoid Bern, who was always on the lookout for opportunities to get him into trouble. When Anvar reached the street he started to run, heading downhill toward the river. From the open window behind him came the sound of his mother’s frightened weeping.
Anvar pounded along the quiet, lamplit streets. It was a long way to the river, and his breath was coming in gasps as he neared the wharves, taking a shortcut to the bridge nearest the Academy. Lamps were scarce in the warehouse district and Anvar hurried nervously through the dark alleys, his feet slipping on cobbles that were covered with filth. He was already regretting that he had chosen this route. The district had a bad reputation. As he passed the dark, stinking entrance to one of the smaller alleys there was a sudden scuffling noise, and several ragged figures burst out of the shatjews. Anvar was forced to slide to a halt as they surrounded him. They closed in on him, and he gagged on the acrid stench of unwashed bodies. In the dim light from a rag-draped window above, he saw the flash of knives in their hands, and his mouth went dry with fear,
“Hand over your money, boy,” a voice growled in an unfamiliar accent.
Anvar backed away until he was stopped by the wall. “I—I haven’t got any,” he stammered, “Please let me go. I’m going for the Healer—it’s an emergency.” Irrationally, Forral’s face flicked into his mind as he echoed the big man’s words.