Even after the storm of Davorshan’s passion had finally and mercifully spent itself, D’arvan had passed a wretched night. His thoughts, still scattered by the shock of the brutal, abrupt isolation from his twin’s mind and the maelstrom of lust that had followed, had been wavering back and forth between grief and anger and guilt—blaming his brother, blaming Eliseth, and blaming himself. Davorshan is all I have—that thought wove through and through the others in an endless litany of despair. It’s always been that way, but now he has someone else . . . What will I do without him?
Throughout their lives, the twins had been forced to depend on one another, D’arvan could barely remember his father and mother—Bavordran and Adrina had elected to pass from their lives when he had been very small, but the fact that they had chosen to bear two infants, and then abandoned them so precipitately, made no sense to the young Mage. The older Magefolk would never speak of it, but his parents had not been happy together, D’arvan was sure—as sure as he was that his mother, at least, had not wanted to leave him. He had a vague, confused memory of a savage quarrel, and Adrina’s face all streaked with tears as she rocked him to sleep. He had never seen her again. With their parents gone, the twins had been raised, in a careless fashion, by Meiriel and Finbarr and the Academy’s servants, and had very naturally compensated for the lack of parental love by their devotion to one another—a bond that had been suddenly, and savagely, severed by Eliseth.
Before Davorshan entered their room, D’arvan had sensed his return. He always knew when his brother was close. And though he dreaded seeing his twin once more, he was glad of any respite from his anguished thoughts—until the brother of his soul crept in, grinning smugly, and reeking of wine and Eliseth’s heavy perfume. He tiptoed past D’arvan’s bed without sparing him a single glance.
“It’s all right—I’m awake. You needn’t bother to creep!” The venom in his own voice surprised D’arvan—but the anger had won out, after all.
Davorshan lacked even the grace to look guilty. Not for a single moment did his complacent expression alter. Shrugging, he sat down on the bottom of D’arvan’s bed, all openness and charm, his hostile shielding seemingly banished. “You have good reason to be angry with me,” he said. “Listen, D’ar—I’m sorry about what happened earlier, at the feast. It was just that I wanted to be alone with Eliseth—you’ll see how it is, when you find someone of your own. I never meant to shut you out so suddenly, but there are some things that you just cannot share —not even with your own dear brother.”
Even a few short hours ago, D’arvan would have believed him. Would have trusted him, and rejoiced that their differences had been explained, and dismissed. Davorshan’s mind was open to him once more, in all its old comforting familiarity. Except . . . Acting on pure instinct, D’arvan swept up all the bitterness and treachery and pain that had formed the dregs of this wretched night, and fashioned them into a lancelike probe of will that stabbed searchingly into his brother’s mind.
Davorshan had no warning—no time in which to react. “Curse you!” he shrieked, recoiling and slamming up a block with which to foil the piercing attack. But it was too late. D’arvan’s probe had already encountered the hard, dark, pulsing core of secrets that his brother had so cunningly concealed behind his open guise.
Shaking, D’arvan snatched back his probe as though he had been burned. Gods—why did I do it? he thought despairingly. Why couldn’t I leave well enough alone? This second betrayal hurts even worse than the first!
“Why did you do that?” Davorshan’s sorrowful whisper echoed his thoughts. “I want this—I want her, and nothing— not even you—will keep me from her! But truly, brother, I had no wish to hurt you.”
It might have been the truth—Davorshan certainly seemed sincere—but D’arvan had had enough of lies and treachery. He could not risk a third betrayal. “Leave me alone—just leave me alone!” For the first time in his life, he closed his mind to his brother, and turned his face away, staring steadfastly at the wall through tear-blurred eyes until he heard Davorshan seek his bed. It was the hardest, most painful thing he had ever done. To distract his mind from the crushing weight of loneliness, he fueled his faltering courage with his anger against his brother, and forced himself to think of Aurian and her offer. Perhaps she was right—if he could no longer count on his brother, perhaps he ought to meet other people. After the Solstice, he would ask her to take him to the Garrison. Until then, he would simply mourn.
9
A Warrior’s Heart
The muscles in Aurian’s back and shoulders screamed in protest. The sword felt unbelievably heavy in her tired hands. She stepped back to give herself a little extra time to react, her blade lifted defensively as she watched Forral through narrowed eyes, trying to anticipate his next move. It was a quick sideways strike—low, almost taking her legs out from under her. Aurian jumped back, parrying clumsily, feeling the shock of the clashing blades run numbingly through her hands. She caught the quick white flash of Forral’s grin through his curling brown beard.
Lifting her blade again, Aurian cursed the swordsman’s tirelessness, cursed his insistence that they practice even on Solstice Morn, cursed her stupidity in drinking too much the previous night, and not going to bed sooner. Drat that D’arvan! Sweat ran down stinging into her eyes and dripped onto the sands of the Garrison’s great, barnlike practice arena. Trembling with weariness, she forced her sword up to parry Forral’s lightning thrusts. Why on earth had she nagged him to resume her sword training? She would never have believed that she could be so out of condition, so out of practice. And four months of sweaty, back-breaking torture on these sands seemed to have brought little improvement. Would she ever get her old skills back?
Forral drove in suddenly, his heavy sword a flickering swirl of light as he employed the famous circling twist of the blade— his own trademark, which neither Aurian nor anyone else could seem to master. She gasped with pain as her wrists snapped round, and her sword flew spinning from her hands to land some distance away.
Forral shook his head. “You’re dead!” he said. Before Aurian had time to react, he spun her round by the shoulder and whacked her hard across the backside with the flat of his blade. It was a trick she was all too familiar with—one that he used on all his pupils as an incentive not to repeat their errors.
“Ow!” Aurian wailed indignantly, rubbing at the sting. Tears of exhaustion and frustration sprang into her eyes.
Forral’s arms went comfortingly around her, one big hand kneading the tight, aching muscles across her shoulders and in the back of her neck. “Never mind, love,” he said softly. “I know it’s hard, but you simply can’t afford to make mistakes that will kill you. It’s coming back to you, though—I can see the improvement. You’re making up a lot of lost time, that’s all. Just stick at it, and we’ll soon have you back in fighting shape.”
Aurian leaned into his chest, smelling clean sweat and the tough, scarred leather of his fighting vest. His words of encouragement warmed her, and she was grateful for the support of his brawny arms round her weary body. “All right, Forral,” she murmured trustingly.