D’arvan twisted his hands together beneath the table, fighting despair. Davorshan had said that the Weather-Mage was teaching him to bring forth some of his dormant powers. If it was true—and his brother never lied to him—then he, D’arvan, was now the only powerless Mage in the Academy! He shivered. How long would Miathan let him stay, if he had no powers? Where would he go if the Archmage cast him out? “Are you all right?” Aurian sounded concerned. D’arvan longed to confide in her and ask for her help—oh Gods, he needed a friend right now! But his crippling shyness kept him silent, and he didn’t want her to blame his brother. For some reason, she had never liked Davorshan. “I must be tired,” he prevaricated. “Perhaps I’ll go to bed.”
Aurian raised a skeptical eyebrow, then shrugged slightly. “Good idea—that’s where I’m going. Anyway, think about what I said. The offer is always open. And D’arvan, if you ever need someone to talk to—well, I’m available.”
After she had gone, D’arvan sat alone, waiting for his brother. Eventually, growing weary, he went to bid his twin good night. Davorshan sat beside Eliseth, his arm around her shoulders, their heads very close as they talked in soft voices. The Magewoman was stunning in a gown of shimmering ice-blue. Her long hair was intricately braided and coiled with a thin, interlacing silver chain. At D’arvan’s hesitant approach, Davorshan looked up sharply. Attuned as always to his twin’s thoughts, D’arvan sensed annoyance, a flicker of guilt—and something else. Something wrong.
Before he could identify it, Davorshan’s shields slammed down, shutting him out for the first time in their lives. D’arvan reeled as though he had been struck. He had never felt so alone —as if a part of himself had been brutally torn away. The isolation—the loss—the uncertainty—he was too overwhelmed by pain and confusion to speak.
“How dare you spy on me!” Davorshan shouted, his face flushing crimson. “I’m sick of you following me around with that pathetic expression on your face! Get away from me, do you hear? Leave me alone!”
D’arvan was stunned by the bitter hostility of his brother’s tone. As he fled, gulping back sobs, he was pursued by the sound of Eliseth’s silvery laughter.
Anvar tiptoed across the floor of the cavernous kitchen, carefully avoiding the sleeping bodies. The door opened silently to a swirl of fine, wind-driven snow. Anvar grabbed an empty flour sack to cover his head and shoulders and slipped outside, closing the door quietly behind him. The night was bitterly cold. The darkened courtyard was empty, and no lights burned in the Mages’ Tower. The two guards at the upper gate were huddled over a brazier in the gatehouse with a shared bottle, playing dice and keeping out of the icy wind that pierced Anvar’s filthy, ragged clothing as he lurked in the shadows. Every minute or so, one of the guards would look up from the game, keeping an eye on the gate. Anvar cursed. He had to escape—he had to! Butiiow? The bitter wind was rapidly sucking the heat from his body, and every minute he lingered here increased his chance of being discovered.
Voices! Anvar jumped. His heart hammering wildly, he peered round the corner of the building, to see the door of the Great Hall open, spilling golden light onto the snow. A group of figures came out, all cloaked and hooded, and bearing a variety of oddly shaped burdens, well wrapped against the cold. Of course! Anvar remembered hearing that there would be musicians at the Mage’s feast. Now they were going home. Going out!
Not daring to consider the risks, Anvar hid in the shadows of the narrow alley between the infirmary and the kitchens until they had all passed him, heading for the gates. He darted across the intervening space, keeping low, and tagged on to the end of the group, hoping his sack would pass for a hood in the dim light. The tired musicians, muffled deep in their cloaks and only concerned with getting home out of the cold, never noticed the addition to their number. Nor did the tipsy guards. “Joyous Solstice,” they called as the musicians went through. As the gate clanged shut behind him, Anvar sagged with relief.
There was a new watchman in the gatehouse at the bottom of the hill. He was younger than the one Anvar remembered from years ago. He was mulling ale at his small fireplace as the musicians approached, and was more concerned with his steaming jug than anything else. He opened the spiked iron gates with scarcely a glance, and waved them impatiently through. Free! Anvar’s heart soared^The musicians passed over the causeway and into the tree-lined avenue leading to the bridge that crossed back into the city. Anvar detached himself from the group and hid until they were well away, before crossing the slender stone span himself. Once across the river, he circled through the back streets to give the wharves a wide berth, keeping a watchful eye out for patrols from the Garrison. Avoiding groups of drunken revelers, he angled back toward the towpath and made his way upriver.
The journey seemed longer than he remembered. The snow fell thicker now, and was heaping in drifts across the path. Visibility was poor, and Anvar was forced to stay near the thickets on the bank with their clutching, thorny limbs—or run the risk of blundering into the river. The exertion of his escape had intensified the pain of his battered body, and he shook with cold and fatigue as the wind blew into his face, blinding him with its burden of snow. Stubbornly he staggered on, drawn by the thought of seeing Sara again.
The shadowy figure of a woman, cloaked and hooded against the snow, stood by the mill looking down at the speeding, glimmering waters of the millrace.
Anvar’s heart beat fast. “Sara?” he whispered.
The woman spun round with a sharp exclamation. “Anvar!” It was Verla, Sara’s mother.
“Please,” Anvar begged her, ignoring the hostility in her voice. “I’ve got to see Sara. Is she all right?”
“How can you ask? How dare you come here, after all the anguish you’ve caused us?”
“What do you mean?” He grasped her shoulders. “What has happened? Tell me!”
“All right!” Verla spat. She shook herself free from his grip. “After what happened,” she said grimly, “Jard refused to let Sara bear your child. He took her to a back-street midwife in the city.”
“No!” Anvar tried out in horror.
“Oh, yes. The woman got rid of the babe, but things went amiss, and now Sara will never bear children.”
Anvar sank to his knees on the snowy path, his head in his hands. “Oh, Gods,” he whispered. Sara! His child!
“After that,” Verla continued remorselessly, “Jard sold her in marriage to Vannor.”
“What? The Vannor?” Anvar gasped. No one crossed the most powerful merchant in the city—especially if they had heard the dark rumors about his violent past on the wharves, before he became rich and respectable.
“The same,” Verla said bitterly. “He didn’t mind that she was barren. He has children from his first wife. He wanted Sara in his bed, and he was prepared to pay. I don’t know whether she’s happy—we never see her. I hope you’re pleased with what you’ve done, Anvar. Now get away from here. I never want to set eyes on you again!”
Anvar was opening his mouth to protest, when a heavy blow cracked across the back of his head. Stunned and half blind with pain, he collapsed onto the snow. The last thing he heard was Jard’s voice. “Well done, Verla! Tie him up, while I go-for the Guards.” The miller seized his hand, examining the brand by the light of the torch he carried. “There’s sure to be a reward for a runaway bondservant.”
It was Midwinter’s Night, the longest of the year, and D’arvan, lying awake, had counted many dark hours before Davorshan returned with the dawn to the rooms that he shared with his brother. D’arvan had been left in no doubt as to the way in which his twin had passed the night. With his concentration distracted by passion, Davorshan’s shielding was fitful; his link with his brother was too strong and reflexive to be broken on a whim. D’arvan had been tortured by such thoughts, such feelings, such glimpses of Eliseth, lying naked on a white fur coverlet. The chiming silver of her laugh—the burning of her touch, imprinted on his skin as it was on his brother’s—the slippery touch of cool satin sheets—his own lone and shameful spending, which had echoed the climax of Davorshan’s frantic lust and in its passing left him drained and guilty, and sick at heart.