“How dare you!” Aurian spat. “How dare you abandon me all this time, and return for less than a day, before trying to kill yourself! And what gives you the right to keep me from helping?”
Forral backed away hastily, and knew it for a retreat. By no means a stupid man, he suddenly realized that his relationship with Aurian was going to need a lot of rethinking. But Gods, she was so magnificent in her rage—so beautiful, standing proud and tall, like a spirit of the storm, with fire-ice flashing from her eyes. In that moment, Forral was lost, “I . , ,” he stammered. Whatever he had meant to say was drowned in a thunder of hooves as a company of warriors rode into the square. The troopers had arrived at last, Forral turned back to Aurian. She was still facing him, proud and uncompromising, with a challenging question in her eyes. The swordsman grinned, and clapped her hard on the shoulder—the typical comradely gesture between warriors. He chuckled as he saw her eyes widen with surprise. “Well done, lass!” he told her. “Well done, indeed! You’ve saved the day!”
An hour later, a solemn conference of leaders gathered in the private dining room of the Flee^Deer. The room was warm with lamplight, for the heavy black clouds of Aurian’s storm still hung overhead, turning the summer afternoon into twilight. Rain drummed on the streaming pavements outside, and ran in rivulets down the diamond-leaded casements.
The fawning landlord, flattered to have so many influential people beneath his roof, served them great, brimming tankards of dark ale, and platters of fruit, cold meats, and cheese, Aurian looked sourly at the food. Granted, there wasn’t a lot here, but to the hungry folk who had started the riot, it would have been a feast. For the first time, she wondered why the Magefolk rations had been singled out in the market.
As everyone settled round the table, Aurian looked at the assembled faces, searching her memory to put a name to each of the folk who had so recently been introduced to her. Seated on Forral’s right was a tough-looking, stocky man with close-cropped hair and beard: Vannor, Head of the Merchants’ Guild. To Aurian’s left sat a small, slender woman in leather fighting garb. Her tanned limbs were corded with muscle, and her dark braids, still jeweled with raindrops, were wrapped round her head, warrior-fashion. This was Lieutenant Maya, Second-in-Command of the Garrison. She was frowning and ill at ease, biting her lip and twisting her hands in her lap. Beyond her was Parric, the Cavalrymaster, a short, brown, wiry figure (were all these Garrison warriors small? Aurian wondered,) with thinning brown hair and laugh lines on his face. But he was not laughing now.
Aurian felt uneasy herself, among these grim-faced strangers. Never before had she been surrounded by so many Mortals! To ease her anxiety she picked up the huge pewter tankard, brimming with ale. She had never drunk ale before—the Magefolk, who drank wine, scorned it as common stuff and only fit for Mortals. It took both her hands to lift the tankard, and she grimaced as she took a sip of the foaming brew. Gods! How could the others sit there and quaff this bitter stuff! She took another hasty sip to stop herself choking, reluctant to lose face before these Mortals. But Vannor had noticed. He grinned at her sympathetically, and gave her a sly wink, miming that she should keep on drinking. Shyly, Aurian smiled back, and tried again. Ah, this time if-didn’t taste quite so bad! Maybe it was something you had to get used to.
Vannor cleared his throat and stood up, resting his hands on the table. “Well,” he said bluntly, “we didn’t come here to sit all afternoon drinking ale. We’d best get started—and I can’t think of a better way to start than by thanking the Lady Aurian for bringing the rain, and for releasing that Magefolk food to those in need of it. Lady, as Head of the Merchants’ Guild, I’m most grateful—as are the folk of Nexis.” Turning to her, he bowed.
Aurian felt her face grow hot with embarrassment at such a public compliment. Moreover, he’d used her honorific title as a Mage, and it was the first time she had been formally addressed that way.
“I . . .” Lost for words, she spread her hands helplessly. “What else could I have done?”
“Well said, Lady!” Vannor’s voice rang out in approval.
Aurian thought it might be a good time to broach the question that had been bothering her. “Sir,” she began.
“Vannor, please, Lady.” He smiled at her. “I’ve got no use for these fancy titles. Just call me Vannor.”
Aurian returned his smile. “Then call me Aurian—just Aurian.” She wondered why he looked surprised at her words, and why Forral was beaming with approval. “Anyway,” she went on, somewhat flustered by the exchange. “I wondered . . . Well, this place has food”—she pointed at the plates on the table—“and it can’t be the only one, I’m sure. Why wasn’t this shared among the people? And why was the wagon of the Magefolk singled out by the mob?”
Vannor seemed taken aback, and to her astonishment, he seemed unable to meet her eyes. Forral, a half smile on his face, was watching the exchange with keen interest. At last the merchant found his voice. “Lady—Aurian—in a way, you’re right. There’s injustice in Nexis. The rich look after themselves, and the poor—well, they manage as best they can. Those who can’t, must sell themselves as bondservants for a term of years, or in the case of heavy debt, for life. It’s nothing but legal slavery!” He scowled. “I do what I can on the Council—I was poor myself, once—but the trouble is, as Head of the Merchants’ Guild, I represent a lot of rich people. If they don’t like what I do, I’ll be voted out, and they’d replace me with someone who didn’t give a hang about the poor! So I walk a fine line . . .” He sighed. “Aurian, I have to tell you that I get no help on the Council from the Archmage, or from his puppet, Rioch.” He directed a piercing glance at Forral, and Aurian saw the big man suddenly stop smiling. Vannor turned his gaze back to Aurian. “Can you deny that Miathan despises all Mortals, rich or poor?”
Now it was Aurian’s turn to blush. He was right— Miathan had said so often enough, and, having known Forral, it made her uncomfortable. But the Archmage had always represented Mortals as being conniving, idle, shiftless, and downright dangerous—and Vannor the worst of the lot! The acts of today’s mob had supported his words. Yet she looked at Vannor and through his blunt, rough-and-ready manner saw a kind, caring, honest man. She looked away from him, more confused than she’d ever been in her life. Suddenly she remembered the unpleasant incident last year, when Meiriel had refused to help Vannor’s wife through a difficult childbirth. It was not necessary to intervene, the Healer had insisted—but the woman had died. Aurian’s face grew hot with shame. No wonder Vannor had little use for her people. Suddenly she began to understand why the Magefolk had been the target of the mob’s resentment. She only hoped her action in bringing the rain and releasing food to the Mortals had done something to redress the balance.
“Look here, Vannor.” Forral rose, scowling, his gruff voice betraying his irritation. “Aurian is a very young, and very minor, member of the Magefolk. You can’t go blaming her for the Archmage’s—”
“I don’t, I don’t!” Vannor held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “My apologies, Aurian, if I suggested that\ What you did today is more than good enough for me!”
“And another thing,” Forral cut in. “If you think that I’m Miathan’s puppet, just because Rioch was—”
“Well, he chose you, didn’t he?” Maya flared, her voice harsh with bitterness. “What are we supposed to think?”