The Mage spread a blanket on the couch and helped him sit, putting an arm around his shoulders—right on the bruises where Janok had beaten him with the broom. The pain made him cry out. In one swift movement, she ripped away the remnants of his tattered shirt. Anvar heard her make an inarticulate retching sound, then she swore viciously. “Who did that?” she growled, turning him to face her.
Anvar could feel her anger beating against him like a physical presence. She seemed to grow in stature, and her green eyes glowed with an icy gray light. With a sudden thrill of fear, he realized that she was not the Archmage’s protegee for nothing. He began to tremble.
“Steady, love. He’s terrified. Don’t worry, lad, she’s not angry with you,”
Portal’s gentle voice gave Anvar courage. “It was Janok,” he whispered,
“The bastard\” Aurian exploded, leaping up and striking her fist on the high marble mantelpiece with such magically impelled force that the thick stone corner broke off in a flash of light.
Anvar was awestruck but Forral simply sighed. “Aurian,” he said, in tones of mild reproof.
Guiltily the Mage retrieved the broken piece from the hearth and set it back into place. “Sorry, Forral.” As she passed her hand across it, the stone fused together without a trace of a join. She shook her head. “I can’t believe this could happen in the Academy,” she said. “Wait until Miathan gets here! In the meantime—” She returned to Anvar as she spoke. “I’ll see what I can do to help this poor soul.”
“Aurian, no!” Portal’s voice was urgent.
“Whyever not?” Aurian sounded astonished. “I’ve learned enough from Meiriel to be able to Heal—”
“It’s not that,” Forral said. “He’s a runaway, and—”
“It makes no difference!” Aurian insisted angrily.
“Look, love, I know it’s hard, but Miathan has the right to punish him. If he sees what’s been done to him, it should go easier on the poor lad. Besides, the Archmage should know what’s going on in his halls.” Forral’s voice was stern. “This has got to be stopped.”
Sara stormed into her bedroom, venting her temper on the door with a vicious slam’ that in a lesser home would have shaken the building to its very rafters. Not here, though. Van-nor’s mansion had been constructed by master craftsmen out of the best materials that gold could buy. Despite the entire weight of her body behind the shove, the heavy slab of oak swung ponderously shut on its oiled and balanced hinges, and slipped smoothly into its frame with a barely audible click. Robbed of its expression, the pressure of Sara’s rage could only increase. Screeching obscenities like a dockside fishwife, she picked up the nearest object to hand—a white porcelain vase filled with hyacinth and winter roses—and flung it at the offending door.
Sara gasped, her rage stifled for an instant by horror at the damage she had caused—the shattered vase, a gouge in the door’s silken paneling, the crushed and twisted flowers, and the water stains that dimmed the jeweled colors of the room’s rich carpet. Then her shoulders straightened in defiance. So the carpet was ruined—so what? This place was hers now, as well as Vannor’s. And she would treat it as she pleased, It would serve him right if she tore his precious hpuse apart with her bare hands!
As her anger flared up anew, Sara paced the room, heedless of the splintered porcelain and broken blooms that she was treading into the carpet’s deep pile. How dare Vannor take her to task for her rudeness in so brusquely leaving that uncouth oaf of a soldier and that hoydenish scarecrow Mage! How dare he give her such a dress ing-down—and in front of his wretched, smirking children!
But at the thought of her husband, Sara’s recalcitrance faltered a little. This had been their first real quarrel—in all the months of their marriage, Vannor had never before raised his voice to her. She’d been a fool today, she suddenly realized— careless, overconfident, too certain that she had him in her power. She would have to make it up with him, and as soon as possible. He was her security—her wonderful, newfound wealth and luxury. Her protection against her father, and what he’d done to her, against squalor and poverty and endless brutal toil, against the scandal of having been pregnant to some stinking wreck of a bondservant who was no better than an animal . . . As the vision of Anvar rose up in her mind’s eye, Sara began to tremble. Her shock at seeing him so unexpectedly after all this time, her horror when he had called her by name, had completely scattered her wits. All she could think of was flight—of putting as great a distance as possible between herself and the bruised and filthy bundle of rags who had called her with Anvar’s voice, and beseeched her with those blazing blue eyes.
With hands that shook violently, Sara unlocked the delicate lacquered cabinet that stood by her bed and pulled out a crystal decanter that shot splintered rainbow sparks into the room’s wintry light. It was her solace and her secret—her maid had been well bribed to keep it filled, and keep her mouth shut. On the nights—most nights—that Vannor visited her bed, she would lock the door when he had finished and gone, and sit through the long wakeful hours, drinking wine and piling the white counterpane with all her jewels, in little heaps that sparkled warmly in the candlelight.
Oh Gods. She splashed wine into a goblet, drank it off, and poured again. I’d give anything, she thought, if only this morning had never happened! “Xt last, she knew what had become of Anvar. Tori had simply claimed that he’d gone, and most people believed that he had run off in the aftermath of Ria’s accident, and left Nexis for good. Her parents, of course, had assumed that he was fleeing his responsibilities to his sweetheart and her unborn child. Sara too had preferred to think of his departure in that light—that way, she could accept Van-nor’s suit without any bothersome feelings of guilt— “At the wine again, stepmother?”
Sara spun round with a curse. Zanna! Vannor’s younger daughter stood in the doorway, glowering, as usual, through her unkempt fringe of thick brown hair that had defied the efforts of a battalion of maids to keep it tidy. Sara bit her lip in vexation. How had the bloody brat crept in so quietly!-
“What do you mean, again?” she mocked, trying to brazen it out. The girl detested her, as she very,well knew, and the feeling was mutual. The last thing Sara needed today was the little wretch stirring up more trouble for her with Vannor!
Antor, the merchant’s little son whose birth had cleared the way for Sara to marry Vannor, was no trouble. He was too small to really know who she was or care, and Sara simply left him to his nursemaids. Corielle, the older daughter, had been easily managed. She was of an age with Sara, and the two girls shared a similar golden beauty. She was also of an age to be extremely interested in men—and not just the scions of the rich merchant houses that her doting father had marked out as suitable suitors. A few occasions of careless chaperoning—of turning a blind eye to the odd love note, and secret tryst—and Sara had won her over. Not so with Zanna, however. Taking after her father in looks, the child was as plain as a pikestaff, but she was too clever by half, and far too knowing to be only fourteen. It simply wasn’t natural!
“Next time, you should tell Gelda to hide the bottle better when she brings it upstairs ...” Though Zanna spoke respectfully to her stepmother when Vannor was in earshot, her tone, in private, was pert and mocking.
Sara’s hands clenched tight around the fragile crystal of the goblet. Gods, how she’d like to strangle the little bitch! When she spoke, her voice was low, and shaking with fury, “Listen, brat—you mention a single word of this to your father, and I’ll make you sorry you were ever bbrnf Do you hear me?”