The swordsman now bitterly regretted that he had ever come to this place. It had seemed a haven at first, for without Aurian, his life had seemed to have little purpose. For about a year after leaving the Valley, he had wandered aimlessly, picking up work here and there as he’could, mostly guarding caravans or warehouses for merchants. Dull work it had been, and sometimes degrading, but he had cared little, save that he had a dry place to sleep and food in his belly—and sometimes a few spare coins over, to spend on drink and women. The latter, in the end, had finished it for him. Sick of loneliness, and squalor, and morning-after awakenings with a throbbing head and a strange face next to him on the pillow, he had taken the post at the fort to provide himself with some purpose in life. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, he thought ruefully.
Forral picked up the flask of wine, then set it down with a grimace. Boredom and inaction were driving him to drink, and that wouldn’t solve anything. He frowned at the walls of thick gray stone that had become his prison. It was definitely time for a change. Without thinking, he poured a cup of wine and began to review his options. Mercenary work, with its danger and hardships, no longer attracted him as it had done when he was younger. There was no doubt about it—life at the fort had made him soft.
A knock on the door interrupted his gloomy thoughts, and a young soldier entered somewhat timidly. Forral was aware that his troops were giving him a wide berth nowadays. Afraid of the Old Man’s uncertain temper, he acknowledged ruefully to himself. “Yes, what is it?” he snapped.
The soldier saluted. “Sir, a courier has arrived for you. He bears an urgent message from the Archmage himself!”
The young man’s tones were hushed with awe, and Forral felt much the same. What could Miathan want with him? Aware of the young trooper’s eyes on him, he schooled his features into a semblance of unconcern. “You’d better send him in, then.”
The dust-caked messenger was stumbling with weariness. Forral suggested that he go to the mess hall to refresh himself, but the man handed him a scroll instead. “The Archmage said to be sure you read it at once, sir. He said it’s very urgent.”
“All right. Sit down then, man, before you fall over.” Forral poured him a glass of wine, then sat down and broke the seal on the crumpled scroll.
“Great Chathak!” Forral’s eyes widened in disbelief. He was actually being offered command of the Garrison, with its position on the Ruling Cdifncil of Nexis! But the import of the news was lost in the remainder of the message. Aurian needed him! “Take a day’s rest before you start back,” he told the courier. “I have to leave at once.” He overturned the chair in his haste and shot out of the door, bellowing for his second-in-command.
Aurian was lost. She was trapped within a maze whose dark walls enclosed her endlessly, keeping her mind circling in an agony of hopeless frustration. She heard voices sometimes— those of Meiriel and Finbarr, and even Miathan—but she was helpless to respond. She lost track of time and reality, slipping away into bizarre and frightening dreams, or sometimes returning to her childhood. The voices faded in and out of her consciousness, sounding hushed and worried. Aurian clung to them desperately, fearful for her sanity.
Then, out of the darkness, a new voice called to her—and an old one. A dear, familiar voice that she had despaired of ever hearing again. It shook with emotion.
“Aurian? Aurian, love, it’s me.”
It was a dream—it had to be—but her mind yearned desperately toward it. The voice grew stern. “They tell me you’ve been neglecting your sword practice. How do you expect to become the world’s best swordswoman if you lie around in bed all day?”
Ah, that was it. She had been wounded—of course! All that stuff about the Academy and the Archmage must have been fever dreams. Gods, they had seemed real. But now she must be getting better, and Forral was calling to her. Aurian opened her eyes-—and blinked in confusion. It was Forral all right, but he was different from the man she remembered. His body was heavier, and his hair and beard were beginning to gray. “Forral?” She struggled to sit up.
“Ah, love!” Forral’s voice was choked with emotion as he enfolded her in an enormous hug, crushing her tightly to his breast.
Aurian felt her heart thudding strangely. As a child she had never been so aware of his touch. Over his shoulder she glimpsed the white walls of the infirmary, and the familiar figures of Meiriel and the Archmage.^and her mind reeled, trying to slot it all into place. She pulled away, touching the swordsman’s face with tentative fingers. “Forral? You’ve come back? You’ve really come back?” He nodded, unable to speak. Aurian’s eyes brimmed over, and she threw her arms around him in a fierce hug of her own.
“I do like to see a happy ending.” Miathan’s dry voice interrupted their reunion, and Aurian wondered why he was frowning.
Forral turned to the Archmage with a scowl. “If it is a happy ending, it’s no thanks to you,” he said flatly. “How could you let this happen to her?”
Miathan’s face darkened. Aurian winced, knowing all too well the Archmage’s temper, but Forral glared back at him, unimpressed. “Now that I’m back I’ll make bloody sure it doesn’t happen again!”
“That depends on you,” Miathan said coolly. “When I put my proposition to you, you seemed far from enthusiastic. How can you help Aurian if you are elsewhere?”
“What is this?” Aurian interrupted.
Forral sighed. “The Archmage has offered me the post of Commander of the Garrison,” he said.
“That means you’ll be staying in Nexis!” Aurian could hardly contain her delight. “Oh Forral, that’s wonderful! I’ve missed you so much!”
Forral looked at her helplessly, and shook his head. “All right, Miathan, I give in. I accept. But it’ll be on my terms. And before I start, I’m taking Aurian out of here for a holiday —a long holiday—at your expense.”
Aurian and Forral left the Academy shortly thereafter unaware that they were being watched from a window high in the Mages’ Tower. “Curse her!” Bragar snarled. “Why could the arrogant bitch not have died? Why did Miathan bring that wretched swordsman here? The fewer pieces there are in this game, the better, especially where Aurian is concerned.”
Eliseth laughed, a soft, smug, silvery laugh. “I wouldn’t be too concerned, Bragar.” She laid a cool hand on his arm. “I have a feeling that before too long, Miathan’s little pet will remove herself from the game.”
“What do you mean?” Bragar was frowning.
Eliseth laughed again. “You men! So obtuse! Did you not notice the way she was looking at that oaf of a Mortal?”
“What?”
“Spare me the indignation, Bragar! You’ve had Mortals many a time, and so have I. But we had the sense to get rid of— the evidence.” Eliseth purred. “Aurian won’t, I’ll wager. And our dear Archmage will never brook a rival. He has designs upon her himself!” She shrugged. “All we need do is wait. Eventually the pieces will fall—right into our hands. And speaking of pieces, I think we ought to recruit a pawn of our own.”
“A pawn? What do you mean? What are you plotting now, Eliseth? Meiriel and Finbarr would never—”
“Not them, moron!” Eliseth’s voice dripped scorn. “I was talking about Davorshan.”